HIS BROTHER
1535 Words
Selene’s POV
Calling this a family dinner is generous—it’s more like being a well-dressed hostage with your mouth too dry for the expensive wine.
No one’s actually smiling.
Nobody sits back in their chair.
And every single person watches Dante before they talk, like they’re checking if it’s safe to inhale.
That tells you pretty much everything about the De Lucas.
I’m tucked beside Dante at the long, glossy table. Servants ghost by, balancing platters and glassware that’s probably worth more than the car I drove back home.
Not that “home” means much anymore. That realization sits heavy and mean in my chest.
Just yesterday, I was engaged to Matteo Vescovi. Now I’m locked up in Dante De Luca’s estate pretending the armed goons at the door are some kind of weird interior decor.
Life doesn’t just come at you fast. It can flatten you.
There’s a woman across from me—elegant, dark-haired, picking up her wine with a coolness I’ll never have.
“Elena De Luca.” She gives me a measured smile. “Dante’s cousin.”
I think: beautiful, scarily calm, eyes that look like they already know all your secrets. Absolutely mafia.
“Selene Bianchi,” I say, bone-dry. “Current national disaster.”
A handful of people shift uncomfortably.
Elena just laughs under her breath. “I like her.”
Dante doesn’t react—except for one little tap of his finger on the table near my hand.
It’s nearly nothing, but I feel it anyway. Possessive, in a subtle, irritating way.
From farther down the table, an older man gives me a polite once-over. “This situation with the Vescovis complicates negotiations.”
No small talk. No Are you holding up okay? No Welcome to the family.
Just business. Of course.
I almost laugh out loud.
Dante takes a long sip of whiskey, calm as a lake. “Then renegotiate.”
The older man frowns. “Matteo won’t back down quietly.”
Dante’s lips barely move. “He won’t.”
There’s something dark underneath that, and everyone at the table feels it.
The mood shifts quick. People start talking about other things—ports, shipments, alliances, political figures. Words that mean criminal deals, if you’re not stupid.
Nobody spells it out. But the De Lucas haven’t built their fortune with savvy real estate bets.
Someone comes to refill Dante’s glass. His hand’s shaking.
Dante notices, of course. “So nervous tonight, Marco?”
The guy almost jumps. “No, sir.”
Dante stares a half-second too long. Marco nearly spills the whiskey.
“Relax before you embarrass yourself.”
Marco scurries away.
I lean toward Dante. “You terrify your staff.”
He doesn’t look up. “I pay them well.”
“That’s not really the point.”
His gaze finally meets mine. “I know.”
Even the smallest conversation with Dante feels loaded, like there’s always something dangerous behind it.
Elena’s watching us, clearly entertained. “You two are strange together.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“I meant that as a compliment.”
“Not sure if that helps.”
A couple people crack smiles. Dante doesn’t. But his hand brushes my chair, light as a secret. Just enough to remind me he notices.
I glare. He ignores it. Of course.
Dinner keeps rolling—dry, coded talk about things I’m pretty sure would make headlines for all the wrong reasons.
About halfway through, a man enters quietly. Tall, broad, scar by his eyebrow.
The energy shifts. Not loud—just sharper around the edges.
A servant glances down, another makes the sign of the cross.
The man leans toward Dante. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Dante’s whole face locks down. “What?”
His gaze flicks toward me, then back. “We found another message.”
Every sound vanishes.
Dante sets his glass down, slow and careful. “Where?”
“The east gate.”
Dante stands up. Every muscle in the room tightens.
“I’ll handle it,” he says.
The man nods, but before he leaves he glances at me, uneasy. He mutters to another guard, “Don’t mention him near the staff again.”
Him.
That sticks in my mind. Not what or who—just, him.
I watch the man go, searching faces around the table, but nobody’s talking.
I finally look at Elena. “So… that was weird.”
She takes a sip of wine like this is just Tuesday. “You get used to it.”
“That’s not making me feel any better.”
She almost smiles. “Not supposed to.”
Dante comes back after a few minutes, colder than before. Not mad. Focused, all sharp lines.
He retakes his seat. I ask, “What happened?”
He says, “Nothing important.”
I give him a look. “That’s your most suspicious answer yet.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation for everything.”
“Guess you prefer stalking people for years?”
Someone chokes. Dante turns, ice-calm, but there’s a warning under it.
“You like provoking dangerous people.”
“And you like being one.”
His eyes hold mine—long enough that the rest of the table dissolves. The tension is back. Not flirty. Just sharp, like standing on the cliff edge of something that wants to break you.
Elena coughs. “Should we maybe leave you two alone?”
I lean back, burning with annoyance. Dante’s unmoved. Typical.
Dinner drags after that. I leave the instant I can, desperate for space—from him, from this family, from the constant pressure.
He watches me like he already knows every thought I’m about to have. I want to escape that look most of all.
My room’s huge and overdecorated, but it still feels like a fancy prison cell. I yank on a silk sleep shirt—left for me, probably by someone who expects me to be here forever. It makes me want to throw something.
Rain taps at the windows. Rome sprawls out there somewhere, hidden by clouds. I try to sleep, but my brain’s on repeat—the photos, the headlines, Dante muttering that Matteo didn’t deserve me…and I hate that a part of me almost trusts him.
Sometime after midnight, pure exhaustion starts to win. I crawl into bed, lights off, the room silvered by moonlight.
Then I hear something. Just a soft sound near the door.
I sit upright, heart going wild.
“Dante?”
No answer.
A man slips inside. Tall, broad, dressed in black.
For one second, I almost relax. Then I see the way he moves.
Not Dante. Not right.
There’s something off about his walk—all coiled menace, but with a kind of casual chaos that’s worse. Dancing on the edge because he likes it.
He steps into the moonlight, and my breath catches.
Same face as Dante. Identical, down to the jawline, the eyes.
But where Dante’s cold—
This man feels unstable, fire instead of ice.
And his smile—it’s slow, crooked, almost cruel.
My whole body goes rigid. What is happening?
He shuts the door, so casual it’s chilling. “You look disappointed,” he says—and his voice is eerily close to Dante’s. Just rougher. Wilder.
I grab the lamp on my bedside table. “Who the hell are you?”
His smile deepens. The room feels dangerous in an instant.
“You really don’t remember me?”
It lands like a punch—remember him? No. No way.
He comes closer. I tighten my grip. “Stay back.”
He lets out a soft laugh. Not mocking. Just…amused. “That’s cute.”
Every alarm in my body is blaring. He looks like Dante, sure, but the energy coming off him is something else—sharper, more lethal.
His eyes search my face. Then, quietly: “Lucien.”
The name jolts something half-remembered—maybe a whisper or a rumor I heard once.
Lucien smiles when he sees my reaction. “There it is.”
My mouth’s dry. “You’re Dante’s brother.”
“Twin brother.” He says it softly—almost tender.
Twin. Oh god.
Now the resemblance makes sense, but it doesn’t explain the rest. Because standing near Lucien is like being next to a bomb with a live fuse.
I steady my breathing and get stubborn. “Dante didn’t mention a brother.”
“That’s not surprising,” Lucien says.
He closes the distance in a heartbeat. He’s right next to the bed—so close I spot the scar by his mouth, the wildness in his eyes.
I clutch the lamp even harder.
Lucien lifts his hand. I want to back away, but I can’t move. His fingers graze my cheek—soft, careful even, and somehow it chills me more than a knife at my throat.
His thumb stays there, his gaze holding me in place. He leans closer, and when he whispers, it snakes through the air, curling right into my ear.
“Tell me, sweetheart…” His smile twists, dangerous and bright. “Did my brother enjoy stealing what was mine?”
- Writer
