My Biker Step-brother For Christmas

It's Dante Moretti

Brielle's POV

If they grabbed the wrong man… then where was Marcus? My stomach cramped. I immediately called Finn. It rang too long.

“Come on, Finn,” I hissed. “Pick up.”

“Brielle!” Finn finally answered, shouting over loud music. “Oh my God, how did it go? Did Marcus love it? Did he—”

“Finn.” My voice cracked. “What room did you tell me?”

“547,” he said, confused. “Bri, what’s going on? You sound—”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m—Brielle, what happened?”

I stared at the text he’d sent earlier.

547.

“Finn… that wasn’t Marcus.” There was still silence from his end except the loud music from the background.

“What?” he finally found the words. “What do you mean—”

“I mean the man tied to the bed was not my boyfriend!”

“No. No, Bri. That’s…. that’s definitely…. That’s not possible!” He exclaimed and I could tell he was confused as well.

“Well, then explain to me why I just peeled off the bag and stared into the face of a complete stranger!”

Cassandra’s voice appeared suddenly. “What happened? What’s going on?” They were obviously in a really lousy club.

“I’m sending a picture now,” I said, my voice shaking. My hand was still trembling when I forwarded them the photo. And I only had to wait for a few seconds to hear Cassandra’s gasp.

“Oh-my-God” Finn exclaimed and my breath hitched. “Was..was this…was this the man you saw?” He asked and somehow I knew his obvious panic wasn’t just because I had slept with another man.

“You know him?” I had to ask.

“Brielle,” Finn said, sounding like his soul had left his body. “That’s Dante Moretti.” He exclaimed, like he was someone I was supposed to recognize but I failed to.

“Am I supposed to know him?” I just had to ask again.

“You should,” Cassandra breathed. “Everyone knows who the Morettis are.”

“Can someone just tell me what is happening?! Who are the f*****g Morettis?”

“They’re mafia,” Finn whispered, not even bothering to hide his panic. “They run half the damn city, Bri.” My blood turned to ice that instant. What the heck have I gotten myself into?

“Mafia?”

“Dante Moretti owns hotels, construction companies, shipping lines,” Cassandra said quickly. “But behind the scenes? People say he’s dangerous. That whole family is dangerous.”

I felt my world tilting in my eyes. With my own hands, I have wrecked my life.

“This can’t be real,” I said. “This can’t be what happened.”

“What did you do?” Cassandra asked cautiously. “In the room?”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even find it in me to speak.

“Bri?” Finn pushed.

“I thought it was Marcus,” I whispered, tears whelming up in my eyes. “I did everything I planned to do with him. I did it with— with Dante Moretti.”

“Oh God…” Cassandra whispered.

“This is bad,” Finn muttered. “This is very, very bad.” Panic clawed at my throat, and I swallowed.

“I need to call Marcus and how the hell did you kidnap the wrong person?”

“You said he was coming out of the building as we were on the phone and he was the one who came out next. I gave the guys the go-ahead.”

“Shit." I said and hung up immediately.

Marcus actually lied? No, he wouldn't do that. Something probably came up.

I tried calling Marcus. But it went straight to voicemail. I tried again because I refused to wonder what would have happened. But again, voicemail. My entire body felt cold. I called my friends back who were already anticipating my call.

“Why isn’t he answering?” I cried. “It’s his birthday. He should be calling me!”

“Maybe his phone died,” Finn said weakly.

“No. No, something is wrong. Something is really wrong.”

“Try again,” Cassandra urged. I put them on hold again and called my man. But then again, voicemail.

“Where the hell is he?” I cried out as I returned to the call with my friends. I kept sobbing over the call, while they just remained quiet, not knowing what to do.

“Brielle,” Cassandra said softly. “Go home. Please. Lock your doors. Don’t do anything else tonight.”

“What if Dante comes after me?” I whispered. “He saw my face.”

“Just go home,” Finn said. “Please.”

I hung up and stared at the picture again. Those dark eyes. That aggravating smirk. And that awful warning: “Looks like you just started something you’re not ready for, little cat.” I shivered at the thought, and deleted the photo like it might erase what happened. But the thought lingered, and my panic worsened each second.

I put the car in drive and headed home. Tonight had destroyed everything. I couldn’t tell what had happened with Marcus. Dante Moretti was tied to my bed an hour ago. And I — stupid, impulsive, wild me — had just detonated my own life.

And the worst part? I could feel it deep in my bones. This… was only the beginning.