CHAPTER 4: THE OTHER BROTHER

MIA'S POV

"Don't touch me," I said, backing away from Luca's extended hand.

His smile didn't falter.

"Smart girl. Dante warned you about me, didn't he?"

"He said you'd try to trick me. Pretend to be him."

"And yet here I am, no scar, introducing myself honestly." He lowered his hand.

"Doesn't that tell you something?"

"That you're arrogant enough to walk into your brother's house?"

"Or that I have nothing to hide." He leaned against the wall, casual. Relaxed. Everything Dante wasn't.

"Tell me, Mia. What has my brother told you about our family? About the inheritance? About why he really married you?"

"Enough."

"Did he tell you about our father's real will? The one buried in his lawyer's safe?" Luca's eyes—identical to Dante's but somehow warmer—searched my face.

"Or did he just tell you about the heir clause and call it done?"

I hesitated. And he saw it.

"He didn't tell you everything." Luca pushed off the wall.

"Of course he didn't. Control through ignorance. That's always been Dante's way."

"Why are you here?"

"Because you deserve the truth. Because someone should tell you what you're really caught in the middle of."

He gestured down the hallway.

"Walk with me. Just to the library. In view of cameras. In view of guards. I'm not asking you to trust me. Just to listen."

Every instinct screamed at me to run. To call for Dante. To follow his rules.

But another part of me—the part that hated being controlled, being kept in the dark—wanted to know.

"Five minutes," I said. "That's all."

"That's all I need."

We walked to the library. Luca was right—cameras everywhere. Guards watching from the end of the hallway.

He couldn't hurt me here. Couldn't take me.

Could he?

Inside the library, floor-to-ceiling books surrounded us. Luca went to a specific shelf. Pulled out a leather-bound book.

"Our father's journal," he said. "Dante doesn't know I have a copy. Doesn't know I found it before he did."

He opened it. Showed me pages of handwriting.

"See this entry? Three years before he died. He was already planning the will. Already setting us against each other." Luca's voice hardened.

"But not because he wanted to choose the best heir. Because he wanted to see which of us was ruthless enough to destroy the other."

I looked at the journal. The handwriting was shaky, like whoever wrote it was ill.

"'My sons must be tested,'" Luca read aloud.

"'Only through competition will the strongest emerge. I will force them to choose: brotherhood or empire. Love or power. The one who chooses power deserves everything.'"

My stomach churned. "That's sick."

"That's our father." Luca closed the journal.

"He pitted us against each other our entire lives. Dante was the 'heir.' I was the 'spare.'

He gave Dante everything—training, respect, responsibility. He gave me scraps and told me to be grateful."

"So you hate Dante."

"No." The word came out raw. Honest.

"I hate what our father made us. I hate that my brother thinks he has to be cold and cruel to be strong. I hate that he'll destroy you—destroy both of us—to win a game our father started from his grave."

He moved closer. Not threatening. Just... tired.

"I didn't crash your wedding to steal you, Mia. I crashed it to show you that you have a choice. That not everything Dante tells you is truth. That maybe—maybe—the brother who's supposedly the villain is actually trying to save you."

"By doing what? Taking the inheritance for yourself?"

"By breaking the cycle." His eyes locked on mine.

"The will has a clause Dante didn't tell you about. If both heirs agree to share the empire equally, the competition ends. No pregnancy timeline. No forced intimacy. No destruction."

My breath caught. "What?"

"Our father built in an escape. A way for us to choose each other over power. But it requires both brothers to agree. To sign documents. To put family before ambition." Luca's jaw tightened.

"I've been trying to get Dante to agree for months. He refuses. He'd rather force a stranger into his bed and race against a clock than share power with his own brother."

"Why would he refuse if there's an option—"

"Because Dante doesn't share. Doesn't trust. Doesn't believe in anything but control." Luca stepped back.

"But you could convince him. You're his wife. He'll listen to you."

"He barely speaks to me."

"Then make him listen. Show him there's another way." He pulled out a business card. Set it on the table.

"That's my number. When you're ready to talk—really talk—call me. I'll tell you everything Dante's hiding."

"Like what?"

"Like why Vanessa really ran. Like what our father's lawyer knows that we don't. Like who benefits if both of us destroy each other." He moved to the door. Paused.

"And Mia? Be careful. My brother might not hurt you physically. But emotionally? He'll destroy you without even trying."

He left.

And I stood there, holding a journal that might be real or might be a fake, with a business card burning in my hand.

Was Luca telling the truth?

Or was this exactly what Dante warned me about—manipulation disguised as honesty?

DANTE'S POV

"Sir, we have a problem."

Marco burst into my office without knocking. His face was pale.

"What?" I was already standing, reaching for my gun.

"Luca was here. In the house. Talking to your wife."

Everything went cold. "When?"

"Five minutes ago. Library. The guards watched them but didn't intervene because he wasn't threatening her."

I was moving before he finished speaking. Down the stairs. Through hallways. To the library.

Empty.

But a book lay open on the table. And next to it, a business card.

Luca's card.

I picked it up. Crushed it in my fist.

"Where is she now?" I growled.

"Her room. Maria just took her there."

I took the stairs two at a time. Reached her door. Shoved it open.

Mia stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself. She turned when I entered.

Guilt flashed across her face.

"What did he say to you?" I demanded.

"That you're lying to me. That there's another option. That—"

"And you believed him?" I crossed the room in three strides. Grabbed her shoulders. Not rough. But firm.

"You believed the man who tried to steal my inheritance at our wedding?"

"He said you don't have to be enemies! That you could share the empire if you both agreed—"

"Is that what he told you?" I laughed. It was bitter. Cold.

"And you think that's real? You think my brother—who's hated me since birth—suddenly wants to share?"

"He showed me your father's journal—"

"He showed you a forgery. Or a copy with pages removed. Or whatever story served his purpose." I released her. Stepped back before I did something I'd regret.

"This is exactly what I warned you about. Manipulation. Lies disguised as truth."

"Then tell me your truth!" Her voice cracked.

"Tell me everything. Stop treating me like a pawn and start treating me like a person who deserves to know what's happening to her!"

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because she was right.

I had been treating her like a game piece. A means to an end.

Because that was safer than seeing her as human.

"You want the truth?" I asked quietly.

"Yes."

I pulled out my phone. Opened a file. Handed it to her.

"That's the real will. Unedited. Unchanged. Read the section about 'alternative arrangements.'"

She took the phone. Read. Her face went pale.

"'If both heirs agree to share power, this clause is void and the estate passes to Celeste Moretti in full,'" she read aloud. She looked up at me.

"Your mother gets everything if you agree to share?"

"Now you understand. Luca didn't tell you that part, did he? That his 'peaceful solution' means our mother—who already controls too much—takes full control of the empire our father built." I took the phone back. "So when my brother offers you a way out, ask yourself: who really benefits?"

She sank onto the bed. "This family is insane."

"Yes."

"Everyone's lying to everyone."

"Yes."

"And I'm stuck in the middle of it all."

"Yes." I crouched in front of her, making her meet my eyes.

"Which is why rule one is: Don't trust anyone. Including me. Including Luca. Including every word we say."

"Then how do I survive?"

"By being smarter than all of us. By watching. Learning. Staying three steps ahead." I stood.

"And by never, ever taking anything at face value."

She looked up at me. Really looked at me. Like she was seeing past the cold exterior for the first time.

"Why are you telling me this? Why warn me not to trust you?"

Good question.

Why was I?

"Because," I said slowly, "if you're going to be my wife—if you're going to carry my heir—you need to be strong enough to survive this world. And ignorance won't keep you alive. Intelligence will."

"So you're... helping me?"

"I'm protecting my investment." The lie came out smooth. Practiced.

But something in her eyes said she didn't believe me.

Smart girl.

"Dinner is at seven," I said, moving to the door.

"Wear the red dress. The one in the back of the closet. And Mia?"

"Yes?"

"If Luca approaches you again, you tell me immediately. Or I'll assume you're working with him. And then we'll have a very different conversation."

I left before she could respond.

Before I could acknowledge the truth that was starting to claw at me.

I had told her not to trust me. And that was wise.

Because I was starting to care what happened to her.

Starting to see her as more than a womb for my heir.

Starting to feel things I'd locked away for years.

And in my world, feelings got you killed.

MIA'S POV

That evening, I stood in front of the mirror in the red dress.

It was stunning. Elegant. The kind of dress that screamed power and money.

I looked like someone who belonged in this world.

But inside, I was the same terrified girl who'd been dragged to an altar yesterday.

Was it really only yesterday?

It felt like years.

A knock on the door.

"Come in," I called.

Maria entered. "You look beautiful, Mrs. Moretti."

"I look like a fraud."

"You look like exactly what Mr. Moretti needs you to look like. That's what matters." She walked over, adjusting my necklace.

"The dinner guests are arriving. Very important people. You must be perfect."

"What if I'm not?"

"Then you'll learn to be. Quickly." She stepped back. "One more thing. Mr. Luca sent this for you."

She held out a small envelope.

My heart hammered. "What is it?"

"I don't know. I was told to deliver it."

She set it on the vanity. "But Mrs. Moretti? Be careful. In this house, even gifts are weapons."

She left.

I stared at the envelope.

Opened it.

Inside, a note in elegant handwriting:

"Check his left wrist tonight. If there's a birthmark, it's me, not him. Just in case you need to know who's really sitting beside you at dinner. –L"

My blood ran cold.

A birthmark. Another way to tell them apart.

But why would Luca tell me this?

Was it real? Or another manipulation?

I crumpled the note. Threw it in the trash.

Then pulled it back out. Smoothed it. Tucked it in my clutch.

Just in case.

Because in this house, I trusted no one.

Not even myself.

Downstairs, Dante was waiting.He looked devastating in a black suit. Every inch the powerful crime lord.

His eyes swept over me. Something flickered in them—appreciation? hunger?—before the cold mask returned.

"You'll do," he said.

"Such a romantic," I muttered.

His lip twitched. Almost a smile.

"Romance isn't in my job description."

"What is?"

"Winning." He offered his arm.

"Shall we?"

I took it. His arm was solid. Warm. Real.

"The guests will ask questions," he said as we walked.

"Keep your answers vague. Smile. Look happy. Let me do most of the talking."

"Yes, sir," I said sarcastically.

He stopped. Looked down at me. "Are you always this difficult?"

"Are you always this controlling?" I asked

We stared at each other. Some strange tension crackling between us.

Then his hand came up. Cupped my jaw. His thumb brushed my cheek.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly,

"you're doing better than I expected. Most people would have broken by now."

"Maybe I'm already broken. You just can't tell."