Page 14 of Brutal Heir

I needed her begging.

What I didn’t need was a whip-smart spitfire with full lips and brilliant blue eyes.

I didn’t need to like the sound of her voice.

I didn’t need to notice the scent she left on my coat.

We sat in silence for a beat.

Rafaello drummed his fingers on the leather seat. “So what’s Plan B?”

“Plan B?”

“Obviously, your Diamanti charm didn’t work. Do we skip straight to kidnapping? Or should I take a crack at her?” He winked.

Air hissed through my teeth.

I loved my brother, but the idea of his hands on Sabrina made me want to snap his neck. “Basta.”

Enough.

I slammed my fist against the partition. “Stop the fucking car!”

Rafaello jerked upright. “What are you doing?”

I shoved the door open and stepped into the rain. Then I turned back, locking eyes with him. “Executing Plan B.”

If seductive charm didn’t work…fear would.

CHAPTER 6

SABRINA

“You expect me to eat this garbage?”

Édouard threw the crumpled, wet pastry bag at my face. It bounced off my chest and fell to the floor, scattering greasy croissant crumbs over my gold heels. If the rain hadn’t already ruined them, they definitely were now.

My cheeks burned with humiliation as the weight of everyone’s shocked stares settled over me.

He flicked a hand in my face. “And look at you. My show is not your American Les Miz. You look like a gutter rat.”

My hand trembled as I pulled on the wrinkled silk of my vest.

After glimpsing my reflection in one of the hundred thousand mirrors that seemed to cover the walls backstage, I had to agree with the odious man.

The black ostrich-feathered collar which surrounded his head in a macabre halo quivered in indignation. Even in his pointed-toe boots of crocodile skin, dyed a deep, iridescent shade of midnight purple, he barely stood at eye level with me.

The selection of small, planet-sized rings encircling each finger glinted under the vanity mirror lights when he raised his hand.

My shoulders rolled forward in a flinch, my body already bracing for the pain of his strike, especially from those heavy rings.

Before I could even react, Yelena Ivanova called across the room, “Édouard. The iridescent blue is ready for Sabrina.”

His pink, ChapStick’d lips turned down at the corners.

With another flick of his wrist and a disdainful once-over, he said, “Get out of my sight.”

I’d watched him bitch-slap a male intern two days earlier for accidentally stepping on a silk dress train, ruining it with a muddy boot print.