SINS OF MY BROTHER'S BROTHER

THE FIRST NIGHT

Kon walks me to my room in silence.

The hallway feels longer than it did this morning — stretched by everything that's happened since. The kiss in the gym. Lysander's confession. Victor's call. Roman's warning.

Twenty-four hours ago, I was on a plane from London, thinking about jet lag and consulting assignments and whether Dante would still treat me like a child.

Now I'm at the center of a psychological war with a sociopathic surgeon who's been stalking me for eighteen months.

How quickly things change.

At my door, Kon stops. He positions himself against the opposite wall — far enough to give me space, close enough to intervene if needed. His massive frame fills the hallway like a sentinel.

"You don't have to stand there all night," I say.

"Yes, I do."

"Kon—"

"Dante said rotating shifts. I have first shift. I'm not leaving." His jaw is set. Determined. "Not after what I did this morning."

There it is. The shame he's been carrying since the gym.

"What you did this morning," I say carefully, "was kiss me."

He flinches. Actually flinches, like I've struck him.

"I broke the pact. I shouldn't have—"

"The pact is already broken. Kieran made his intentions clear on the rooftop. Ezra touched me in the library. And you—" I step closer to him. "You kissed me like I was oxygen and you were drowning."

His breathing changes. Faster. Shallower.

"I lost control," he says. "I never lose control. Not anymore. I spent years learning to contain it, to channel it, to make sure I never hurt anyone the way my father—" He stops. Swallows. "I scared you."

"No."

"I must have. I'm too big, too rough, too—"

"Kon." I reach up and touch his face.

He freezes. Every muscle in his body goes rigid, like he's bracing for impact.

"You didn't scare me," I say softly. "You surprised me. There's a difference. And the surprise wasn't bad. It was..."

I search for the right word. Overwhelming. Intense. Exactly what I didn't know I needed.

"It was honest," I finish. "Raw and honest and real. Do you know how rare that is? How many people spend their whole lives hiding what they want?"

His eyes are bright. Not tears — he's too controlled for tears — but something close. Something desperate and hopeful and terrified all at once.

"I don't know how to do this," he whispers. "The others — they have words. Strategies. They know how to make you feel things without breaking anything. I just... I only know how to break."

"Then break."

He stares at me.

"Break," I repeat. "With me. I'm not fragile, Kon. I sit with serial killers for a living. I've been stalked, threatened, underestimated. I've built my entire career on understanding violence. Do you really think your intensity is going to frighten me?"

"It should."

"Maybe." I trace my thumb along his cheekbone. Feel the tension vibrating through him. "But it doesn't. And I'd rather have your honesty — your rawness — than a hundred pretty words from someone who's performing."

He closes his eyes. Leans into my touch like a man who hasn't been touched kindly in years.

Maybe he hasn't, I realize. Maybe tenderness is as foreign to him as violence is to others.

"I don't deserve this," he says.

"You don't get to decide that." I let my hand drop. Step back. "I do. And I've decided that whatever this is — whatever's building between us — I'm not running from it. So stop punishing yourself for a kiss I didn't ask you to apologize for."

Silence.

Then, slowly, something shifts in his expression. The shame doesn't disappear — it's too deeply rooted for that — but it... eases. Makes room for something else.

Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.

"You should sleep," he says finally. His voice is rough. Wrecked. "You've had a long day."

"So have you."

"I don't sleep much. Already told you that."

"Then what will you do? Stand in this hallway for eight hours?"

"If that's what it takes to keep you safe, yes."

The simple certainty of it undoes something in my chest.

"At least sit down," I say. "There's a chair in my room. You can guard me from inside."

His eyes widen. "Inside your room?"

"It's not an invitation to anything except comfort. You've been standing at attention since this morning. Your body needs rest even if your mind won't cooperate."

He hesitates. The internal war is visible on his face — duty versus propriety, protection versus the fear of overstepping.

"I won't touch you," he says finally. "I promise. I'll sit in the chair and I won't—"

"Kon. I trust you."

Three words. Simple, honest.

They hit him like a physical blow.

For a moment, I think he might actually cry. His eyes glisten, his jaw works, and his massive hands clench and unclench at his sides.

Then he nods. Once. Decisive.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

He sits in the chair by the window.

I change in the bathroom — not out of modesty, but because I need a moment alone to process what I'm doing. What I'm becoming.

Three days ago, I was Dr. Irene Morretti, criminal psychologist, emotionally controlled and professionally detached. Now I'm standing in a bathroom in my brother's penthouse, preparing to sleep while a cage fighter stands guard in my bedroom, while a crime lord waits for me to surrender, while a ghost soldier processes my touch, while a surgeon offers me partnership, while a senator warns me of his own danger.

What am I doing?

The face in the mirror doesn't have an answer. She looks tired. Overwhelmed. And beneath it all, alive in a way she hasn't felt in years.

Maybe that's the answer, I think. Maybe I'm done being controlled — by Dante, by fear, by my own professional detachment. Maybe I'm finally letting myself feel.

I emerge in sleep clothes — soft pants, a loose shirt, nothing revealing. Kon is exactly where I left him, sitting rigidly in the chair, eyes tracking the windows with military precision.

"The windows are reinforced," I say, climbing into bed. "Dante mentioned it when I arrived. Bulletproof glass, security sensors."

"I know. I'm checking anyway."

"Why?"

"Because sensors can be hacked. Glass can be broken if you hit it right." His eyes finally move to me. "And because you're in this room. Nothing is secure enough."

The protectiveness should feel suffocating. Instead, it feels... warm.

"Thank you," I say softly.

"For what?"

"For being honest. For not pretending you're something you're not." I settle against the pillows. "The others — they're complex. Layered. They hide things, even when they're confessing. But you just... are. It's refreshing."

He's quiet for a long moment.

"I don't know how to be anything else," he admits finally. "I tried, when I was younger. Tried to be smooth like Roman, controlled like Kieran. It didn't work. The mask kept slipping."

"Maybe you don't need a mask."

"Everyone needs a mask."

"Do they?" I turn on my side, facing him. "Or is that just what we tell ourselves because vulnerability feels too dangerous?"

His eyes find mine through the darkness. The city lights from the window catch the pale blue, making them almost silver.

"You're not like anyone I've ever met," he says.

"Neither are you."

Silence. Comfortable now. The tension of the day finally beginning to ease.

"Sleep," he says. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I close my eyes.

And despite everything — the stalker, the threat, the impossible situation unfolding around me — I sleep.

I wake to sunlight and an empty chair.

Panic spikes through me for half a second before I hear voices in the hallway. Kon's low rumble, then Ezra's quieter tones. The shift change.

I sit up just as the door opens.

Ezra steps inside. He's dressed in tactical black — the same outfit from yesterday, or maybe he just owns multiples. His hazel eyes sweep the room with professional efficiency before settling on me.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning." I push hair out of my face. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Six hours. Kon didn't want to wake you. Said you needed rest."

Six hours. I haven't slept six uninterrupted hours in months.

"What time is it?"

"Seven AM. The others are already working. Kieran's been up all night tracking Victor's financial records. Roman got the prison files at 4 AM. And Lysander—" Ezra pauses. "Lysander is writing down everything he remembers about his father. He's been at it for hours."

My chest tightens. The cost of this fight is already mounting.

"I should help him."

"You should eat first." Ezra moves to the door. "Dante's orders. Breakfast, then work. He said if I let you skip a meal, he'd reassign me to Antarctica."

Despite everything, I almost smile. "He's being dramatic."

"He's being your brother." A pause. Something shifts in Ezra's expression — softer, more vulnerable than his usual military blankness. "He loves you, Irene. Clumsily, controlling-ly, but genuinely. Don't forget that when he drives you crazy."

"I won't."

He nods. Holds the door open.

"Breakfast," he repeats. "Then we go to war."

The kitchen is chaos.

Controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Kieran has commandeered one end of the island, spreading financial documents across the counter like a general planning a campaign. Roman is on his phone in the corner, speaking in low, urgent tones. Lysander sits at the table, head bent over a notebook, writing with a surgeon's precision.

And Dante stands at the stove.

Cooking.

I stop in the doorway, genuinely shocked.

"You cook?"

He glances over his shoulder. "Don't look so surprised. Someone had to feed you when you were young."

"I assumed that was staff."

"It was me. At least for the first few years, before I could afford staff." He flips something in a pan — eggs, by the smell of it. "Sit. Eat. Then we'll talk about Victor."

I sit.

Lysander looks up from his notebook. The dark circles under his eyes have deepened, and his usual humor is nowhere to be found. But when our eyes meet, he manages a small, tired smile.

"Morning, Dr. Morretti."

"Morning, Dr. Ashworth." I nod at his notebook. "How's it going?"

"Horrifyingly productive." He slides the notebook toward me. "Thirty-seven pages of memories I've spent twelve years trying to forget. He loved control, hated surprises, and had a ritual for everything. Also, he never raised his voice. Not once. The angrier he got, the quieter he became."

I scan the pages. Detailed, clinical observations written in a surgeon's neat hand. This isn't therapy — it's intelligence. Raw data for a psychological profile.

"This is incredibly useful," I say.

"I know. That's the only reason I wrote it." He pulls the notebook back. "But I'm going to need several stiff drinks when this is over. And possibly therapy."

"I can recommend someone."

"Darling, I think you might be the someone." He stands. "I need coffee. More coffee. All the coffee."

He moves to the counter, and Dante takes his place, sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of me.

"Eat," he orders.

I eat.

Around me, the war room continues. Kieran mutters something about offshore accounts. Roman ends his call with a grim expression. Ezra enters, reports something quietly to Dante, and leaves again.

And I sit at the center of it all, eating eggs, cataloging information, preparing to do what I've trained my entire career to do:

Understand a monster.

Predict his moves.

Destroy him.

End of Chapter Twelve