Ruthless Mr. Ricco, page 19
part #1 of Brutal Billionaire Bosses Series
Ruthless Mr. Ricco
Brutal Billionaire Bosses Book 1
V.T. Bonds
Copyright © 2025 by V.T. Bonds
Cover by GetCovers.
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Run fast, little rabbit. The office is no place for prey.
Contents
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Dangerous Mr. Diamond (Preview)
Corrupt Vows (Preview)
The ULTIMATE Elites
Keep up with V.T. Bonds
Blurb
First crush. High school rival. Bitter enemy. Boss.
Eleven years ago, he broke my heart. Now he’s my last resort.
I’ll never forgive Matteo Ricco for turning his back on me, but with my mother sick and my father blacklisting me, I have no choice but to accept a job at his multi-billion-dollar company.
Even when the sinfully handsome and ruthless CEO demands I be his glorified assistant instead of the lawyer I fought so hard to become.
I don’t know why Mr. Ricco is so intent on humiliating me, but nothing will make me quit. Not his calculating, hungry eyes. Not his wicked smirk.
And certainly not the heat coursing through my veins every time he looks at me.
Ruthless Mr. Ricco (Brutal Billionaire Bosses Book 1) is a scorchin’ hot enemies to lovers workplace romance with forced proximity, a jealous/possessive hero, a strong, competent female lead, and a deliciously dirty battle of wills.
This story is intended for 18+ readers and includes mature content.
Can be read as a standalone. HEA guaranteed.
Chapter 1
Brook Simons
One week. One fucking goddamn week.
I grit my teeth and slip the last of my personal items into my briefcase as I fight the fury rising in my veins. Heat creeps up from my toes, infecting every inch of me and damning my attempts at remaining stoic as my chest and face flush. Eleven years’ worth of blood, sweat, and tears circle the drain as I fit the strap of my briefcase onto my shoulder. I turn and face the balding man standing in the doorway. He wasn’t present during my interviews or visible during any of the onboarding process, but with his tailored suit and air of importance, I don’t doubt his authority.
The signature at the bottom of my termination paperwork must be his, but I don’t waste my time looking for his name.
“Thank you for the opportunity, and I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I’ll review the documents and get back to you. Excuse me,” I manage through my clenched teeth.
He doesn’t move out of the doorway.
As if being fired barely a week after being hired isn’t mortifying enough, the man adds insult to injury when he lifts his round chin and looks down his pompous nose at me. The clerks and administrative staff lean over their desks and crane their necks around corners to watch the spectacle.
“If you had been truthful from the start, Miss Prescott, we would’ve known you weren’t a proper fit for our law firm before it came to this,” he says.
My heart leaps into my throat and a red haze settles over the world. Hearing him call me by my father’s last name fills me with rage. I take a deep breath to calm my anger, but his cologne clogs my nostrils and sours my tongue. My words emerge clipped and hard.
“You may call me Attorney Simons, as is my proper title and legal name. If you continue this discussion as you’ve begun, I’ll note it toward a wrongful termination lawsuit and sue the company. Step aside, please.”
I’d much rather slam my briefcase into his face and stomp on his protruding gut as I step over him, but violence won’t get me the justice I seek.
Eighteen-year-old me would gasp in horror if she knew the train of my thoughts. Twenty-nine-year-old me yearns to see it through.
The man’s face purples with outrage. I tighten my grip on my bag’s strap but relax my shoulders and raise my voice so it carries throughout the office.
“You gave me termination paperwork but are preventing me from leaving. False imprisonment is both a criminal offense and a civil tort. Please step out of the doorway and allow me to exit.”
High heels click on the polished floor as Attorney Riley rushes down the hall. Older than me by almost two decades, the woman wears her skirt suit a little too tight and cakes her face with makeup. Her perfume arrives several seconds before she rests her hand on the man’s shoulder.
Disgust rolls down my spine as she bats her fake lashes and simpers out an excuse.
I understand the profession of law is a hard place for a woman to survive, but I will never placate a man when he’s wrong. Life is too short to waste my time stroking some jerk’s ego.
With what’s probably meant as a threatening glare, the man scoffs and stomps down the hall. I quirk an unimpressed brow as I swallow the nasty words building in my throat and leave the room without a backward glance.
I had no plans to decorate my first official desk, but sadness tightens my chest as I realize how fleeting my time here was. Part of me knew it was too good to be true, but to have my hopes dashed so mercilessly is cruel.
Which is precisely what I should expect from my father. It isn’t the first time he’s thrown his clout around to destroy my future since he kicked my mom and me to the curb eleven years ago, but it hurts all the same.
Men are pigs. The world would be a better place without them.
I stride through the halls, ride the elevator down to the lobby, and exit the building with my head held high and my anger wrapped tightly around my heart.
The sunlight gleaming off the high rises and pounding down on the busy streets does nothing to lighten my mood.
Chad Prescott, the man who stole my mom’s inheritance, divorced her because she was sick, and kicked me out of the house so his new family could move in, knows I changed my last name. He’ll make it nearly impossible for me to get a decent job in New York City now that he’s aware. I grit my teeth and drop my stoic mask as I turn and stomp down the sidewalk.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and check the caller ID.
Dread and hope war within me. I detour into the nearest coffee shop and answer my mother’s call.
“Hi, Mama, how’d it go?”
“Oh! Brook, honey, I didn’t expect you to answer. Aren’t you at work?”
The air thins. She didn’t answer my question. I squeeze my phone so hard my fingers ache. Bile burns the back of my throat, but I swallow and shove my emotions down deep. There may be tears in her voice, but she isn’t crying. She sounds happy. I force myself to smile, ignoring the trembling of my lips.
“I’m running an errand,” I lie. “How was your appointment?”
“I’m cancer free! Complete remission. No signs at all.”
Relief spears through me. My head spins and hands shake, and for a moment, I wish I smoked just so I could lean back against the wall and exhale a visible cloud to represent the misery expelling from my lungs as I blow out my pent-up breath.
“Oh my god, Mom, that’s awesome! I knew you’d beat it. You’re amazing,” I say.
“I know! I’m so happy,” she half sobs, half giggles.
I step forward as the line moves.
“We’re celebrating my eight-year cancerversary tonight. Wear the dress I bought you last year and bring your appetite! Gary made reservations for us at that new fancy restaurant,” she says.
Bittersweet joy buoys my heart, and a genuine smile ghosts across my lips. Gary Simons, my mom’s second husband, is a godsend.
After her surgeries, my mother was frail and miserable, but Gary, a gentle and sweet newly certified physical therapist who was only four years older than me, fell in love with her at first sight and stayed by her side as she went through chemo. He mended her broken heart.
Less than eight months after they met, they got married.
I was skeptical and worried he had ulterior motives, but my mother was so happy I couldn’t argue.
It turns out I was right, but not in a way I would have ever expected.
My biological dirtbag of a father sabotaged my scholarship halfway through my first semester of college. A few weeks later, I found out he blacklisted me from studying at all the major universities.
I felt so trapped and powerless.
Gary Simons fixed it by marrying my mother in Pennsylvania at his ancestral home and secretly appealing to adopt me—a twenty-year-old woman by the time the process was complete. Since another state handled the legalities, I could change my name without alerting my biological fathe
Because of Gary, I could start fresh in a community college in New York City and hide in plain sight until today.
Now here I stand, in a coffee shop with the barista looking at me expectantly, my mom chattering happily on the phone, and my professional dreams crushed yet again. My need for vengeance burns like the coals of hell in my soul.
I want to destroy Chad Prescott. I want to watch the asshole who betrayed my mother when she was at her lowest scramble to save himself as his life crumbles around him.
At first, I only wanted to avenge my mother and retrieve the inheritance he stole from her.
Now I want to take everything from him.
I want to crush him no matter what it takes.
Maybe becoming a lawyer was a mistake, but the lure of defeating him at his own game was too much.
“Brook, are you listening?” my mom asks through the phone.
I loosen my death grip on my phone and pull my wallet out of my pocket so the barista doesn’t skip me.
“Sorry, Mama. It’s my turn to order coffee. I’ll be there tonight,” I say.
“Promise you’ll wear the dress I bought you,” she demands.
My thoughts flash to the ridiculous swath of fabric she gifted me when she returned from her trip last year. I put it on so she could ooh and ahh at her ‘gorgeous daughter’, but I’ve never worn it out of the house.
Fuck it. My pride means nothing compared to her happiness.
“Of course, Mama. See you soon,” I promise.
With a gleeful chirp, she says goodbye and ends the call.
I order my usual—a large cold brew with an added espresso shot—and hand the barista the last ten from my wallet. Besides the five remaining in the billfold, a few coins in the zipper pouch, and the emergency twenty at the bottom of my briefcase, I’m out of cash.
Refusing to let my father’s betrayal outshine my mother’s health, I push aside my anger and the feeling of defeat and plop down at a corner table. After pulling out my laptop, I update my resume, browse a few job listing sites, submit to several smaller law firms with online application forms, and network with the group of people I graduated law school with before packing up and joining the grind of the city streets.
When I push open the door of the building where I rent a studio apartment, the smells of bleach, old sweat, and rubber invade my nose. Weights clink together from the back room and music pulses out from under one of the small studios, but I smile as an old man’s voice echoes clearly from the office.
The old building may not have a fancy security system, but I’ve never felt safer than I do living above the gym. My landlord and part-time employer rules his space with an iron fist and is an excellent judge of character. Some people may look at him and scoff, but the scruffy old man is way stronger than he looks.
“It’s just me, Mr. Carter. I’m heading upstairs,” I call back to him.
He rounds the corner and gestures toward the boxes built into the wall.
“You got mail,” he grunts.
My gut twists and I regret having coffee on an empty stomach.
Most of my mail goes to my parents’ apartment since they live in a much nicer, albeit still modest, area. Only things I don’t want them to worry about land in the box on the wall.
I offer Mr. Carter a smile and a thanks and unhook my keys from the ring hidden inside my briefcase. After pinching the tiny metal key between my fingers, I unlock my mailbox and pull the single envelope from the darkness. Mr. Carter grunts again, nods, and turns back toward the office.
I shut and lock my mailbox before striding past the out-of-order sign stretched across the elevator doors and starting up the stairs. Although windowless and narrow, the staircase is brightly lit all the way up to the third floor. I fit my apartment key into my fist and step into the hall. With four doors on the left, an exposed brick wall on the right, and skylights in the roof, the hallway has its own worn-out charm. My feet drag as I open my door and lock it behind me.
I drop my keys into my briefcase and hang it on the hook by the door as I kick off my shoes. Tired and sweaty from walking all day, I strip as I cross the studio apartment and drop my underthings in the pile by the futon before taking a hanger from the thrifted clothing rack. With rote motions, I hang my suit and reach for the pins holding my bun at the back of my head, but the shimmery fabric peeking out from all the gray, black, and dark blues of my barebones wardrobe catches my eye. With a sigh, I abandon my hair and lift the dress from the rack.
It’s pretty, even if it isn’t my style.
I glance between the hem and my naked legs.
Biting back a groan, I shove the hanger back on the rack, grab my only pair of matching bra and panties—a lacy white monstrosity—out of the plastic drawers, and stomp into the bathroom. I hate shaving, but with every pass of the razor, I replay my mother’s excited words.
She beat cancer. She’s a survivor.
She won.
She fell in love again and has nothing but happiness on the horizon.
I can neither forgive nor forget my biological father’s betrayal, but I’ll never drag my mom back into the trenches with me. She’s free.
Tonight is all about her.
I finish my shower, doll myself up, pull on the lingerie, and step into the dress.
It’s a little tight across the chest and hips, but I expected it to be. When my mom gifted it to me a year ago, I was stick-thin from stress, depression, and overworking myself. I’m proud of what little curves I have now, so long as the seams of the dress hold.
I transfer my phone, keys, and wallet into my purse before carrying the strappy sandals to the futon—my only place to sit besides the toilet—and secure them to my feet.
My head spins when I rise, but I slip on my thin shawl just in case of wardrobe snafus, swing my purse onto my shoulder, and text my mom before exiting my apartment.
After exchanging hearty hugs with my mom and stepdad, we follow the waiter into the ritzy building and settle at a table covered with a fabric cloth. Dinner is amazing. I eat more than I have in weeks. My stomach hurts, but I smile and laugh with my parents. I give my all to them as we sit in the candlelight and chat about their plans for the next few years. Bittersweet and surreal, I lose myself in the discussion, my heart threatening to burst as I study my mom.
She’s gorgeous. After fighting so hard for so long, she deserves every ounce of joy in the world.
When Gary orders a glass of wine to share with my mom and offers me one as well, I accept. As casual as though I’ve done it a million times, I sip my first taste of alcohol and enjoy the warmth slowly spreading through my veins.
Between studying, working, and caring for my mother, I never had the time or the interest to drink, but in this laid-back setting, I like it. It’s nothing like the parties my college classmates bragged about.
Gary normally whisks my mom away at the first sign she’s tired, but with both of us watching her closely, we stay at the table a few more minutes, savoring our time together. By the time we rise, the wine buzzes in my veins, highlighting my fatigue and dulling my senses. My brain throbs. All I want is to drop onto my futon and sleep for days.
I hug my mom and pass her to Gary after he opens their cab door. He settles her into the seat before turning, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, and tugging me tight against his side. I return the half-hug and fight unexpected tears.
He’s done so much to help, but his protection ended today. I’m on my own now.
After a quick but heartfelt goodbye, I shoo him away and blow kisses to my mom through her window as the cab pulls away.
I stand on the sidewalk staring after them long after they disappear into traffic, warring with emotions too big to label. When my shawl slips to the crook of my elbows, I fill my lungs with city smog and prepare to walk home.
A hand lands on my shoulder. Terror ices my spine. I turn my head, and for a moment, my heart leaps into my throat with instinctual joy. Every nerve ending in my body lights with delight, but then I realize the familiar features don’t belong to the boy I had a crush on in high school.
