His Brother's Bride To Be

••Luciana••

As I gazed out the windows, the stunning views of New York City captured my attention. I had just spent an entire day with Andrian, and we decided to take a drive under the stars. I cranked down the window of the Aston Martin DB11, inviting the soft night breeze to envelop us.

"When all this wedding madness settles down," he said, his voice calm and steady, "I'm going to take you somewhere peaceful-no phone calls, no guards, just us without anyone looking over our shoulders."

I turned to face him, a playful smile on my lips. "You keep saying that as if you can negotiate with fate." I chuckled at the thought.

"Maybe I already have," he said with a cheeky grin that made my heart flutter.

I couldn't help but smile back; he looked so dashing from the side. I could really picture him walking me down the aisle in just two weeks. Yet, I noticed his focus was fixed on the rearview mirror, and there was a seriousness etched on his face.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, a hint of concern creeping in.

"Nothing I can't handle," he replied, glancing at me, attempting to maintain that charming smile.

I followed his gaze to the mirror, then I stole another look outside, spotting nothing unusual except for a sleek black Mercedes that had been trailing us for quite some time. The playful warmth in my chest faded slightly, curiosity stirred within me.

"Is that car..." I began to voice my concern, but he interrupted sharply,

"The car isn't speeding up... I can't steer it any longer."

His heart thundered against his chest as the vehicle lurched violently to the side. The steering wheel quaked in his grasp, refusing to respond to his frantic maneuvers. A wave of panic washed over him-the dashboard flickered ominously, the engine howled fiercely, and no matter how he pressed the brake, the car only sped up.

He slammed his foot down on the pedal, desperate yet ineffective. The tires screamed against the pavement, and plumes of smoke billowed as he fought for control. Gritting his teeth, he strained against the wheel, his knuckles turning white-but this car had slipped from his command. It was being guided by an unseen force.

As he extended his hands to grab his phone from the dashboard, it slipped from his grip when the car suddenly veered again. I swiftly snatched it up.

"What should I do?" I pleaded, my mind racing.

"Call Roman!" he shouted, still wrestling with the steering.

I was overwhelmed, struggling to comprehend the chaos unfolding around us.

The phone rang twice without any answer.

"Oh no! Not today," he muttered quietly, but I caught his words.

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words eluded me. Growing up in the Sicilian Mafia for 24 years has taught me to be ready for the worst, but now that I'm facing reality, I realize that all those lessons are easier said than done.

"The black car is still tailing us, Andrian. Are we being pursued? What's wrong with it? Has it been hacked?" I blurted out in one breath.

"Yes, I've lost control of the vehicle; that black Mercedes behind us has taken over. Just stay calm, Luci." He said, though his face was etched with worry, he still managed to force a smile.

How can he find the strength to smile in a moment like this?

He wrestled with the steering wheel, his arms straining until they ached, his foot pounding on the brakes repeatedly, but the car wouldn't obey.

Every warning light on the dashboard flickered like a mocking taunt. The engine screamed under the hood, as if possessed, racing down the road faster than his mind could keep pace.

"Hold on!" he yelled, his words drowned out by the deafening roar of the tires. Gripping my seatbelt, I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a scream, though I knew it was lost amidst the chaos. The headlights ahead transformed into glittering streaks, and suddenly -the road twisted sharply.

Time splintered.

The car began to spin. Metal shrieked in protest. Outside, the world dissolved into a whirlpool of light, rain, and noise. I caught a glimpse of Andrian, who was desperately pressing the brake and yanking the wheel in a last attempt to steer us to safety, but it was too late. The collision hit like a thunderclap. The sound of shattering glass pierced the air, quickly swallowed by an oppressive silence.

When the chaos ceased, everything fell into stillness. Smoke curled up from the hood; the heavy stench of fuel and burnt rubber enveloped us. I stirred, pain stabbing through my body as I struggled to draw in breath. Weakly, I turned to look at him-his head lolled against the seat, blood trickling down his cheek in a thin line.

"Hey..." My voice trembled, a gentle break escaping my lips. I reached out to him, my fingers grazing his cold, unyielding arm.

"Rian..."

"Andrian..."

I gently shook his arm, urging him to respond. "Hey... wake up," I murmured. There was no reaction. A sob lodged itself in my throat, and I shook him once more, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through my side. "Please... don't leave me like this."

Tears cascaded down my cheeks, burning and unstoppable. The night was unnaturally quiet, except for the faint crackle of the damaged engine and my uneven breaths.

"No... no, no, no," I whispered, pressing my forehead against his arm. My body trembled, each part of me screaming from the force of the crash, but the pain in my chest was deeper than any physical injury.

Suddenly, footsteps emerged from outside the wreckage, slow and purposeful. I lifted my head, blinking through the haze as the driver's door abruptly swung open. A tall figure appeared, shadowed against the blinding glare of the headlights.

"Roman?" I gasped, disbelief flickering in my tear-soaked eyes.

There he stood, his gaze steely yet oddly composed.

He stood there, eyes hard but strangely calm as he surveyed the wreckage. His gaze lingered on his brother-just for a heartbeat, and something flickered there. Pain. Regret. But just as quickly, it was gone.

Without a word, he reached for me, pulling me gently but firmly from the twisted car. I stumbled, my legs barely holding my weight.

"He's..." I tried to speak, but my voice broke.

"I know," Roman said quietly, his jaw tightening. He looked back once, the night wind tugging at his coat. Then his voice dropped, urgent now.

"We have to go. Now."

I stared at him, dazed. "What? Roman, he's-"

"There's no time," he cut in, his tone low and sharp, eyes scanning the darkness beyond. "They'll be here soon. If they find you, everything he died for will mean nothing."

My breath caught. I looked one last time at the car, at the lifeless figure inside, and then Roman's hand closed around mine.

"Run," he said.

••Luciana••

There are definitely worse situations than being the daughter of a mafia don. For example, being the daughter of a mafia don who thinks diplomacy is a high art.

Three months earlier...

I find myself in front of my mirror, examining the woman reflecting back at me. The gown? Absolutely stunning, of course. Crafted from Sicilian silk, as black as midnight, it fits so snugly it feels more like a protective shell than an outfit. My hair catches the light with gold pins glimmering like potential weapons. Father insists that appearances wield power.

Mother used to whisper that appearances are weapons.

Tonight, both sentiments hold weight.

It's yet another meeting, another lineup of men discussing peace while harboring bloodshed in the dark. My role? To sit, smile, and memorize names that won't matter to me. The ideal Sicilian princess-demure, courteous, untouchable.

"Luciana?"

I pivot to see Antonio leaning casually in the doorway, looking like a storm in a suit that's far too formal for his carefree demeanor. His tie is askew, while his grin is unabashed.

"You look like a funeral in human form," he quips.

"That's the idea, fratellino. Maybe if I look lifeless enough, they'll leave me alone." He lets out a snort. (Younger brother)

"You can't possibly be lifeless, young lady," Matteo interjects, leaning into the narrow space by the door, where Antonio's body doesn't quite reach.

Antonio is my younger brother, my only ally in the Moretti family. He's still coming to grips with the complexities of the Mafia world. Until he turned 18, Father kept him out of our family's affairs, but now he's undergoing training with the Family Aide, Vikoz.

Matteo, my best friend, is the son of Don Moretti's consigliere-the family's trusted legal and strategic advisor long before I was born. Matteo and I were born around the same time, so we've been friends since we were little.

"You're lucky. I'd switch places with you in an instant." Antonio said.

I raise an eyebrow.

"You? Enduring endless hours of tactics and the smell of cigars?"

"No, I mean being showcased as Father's prized possession. At least you get noticed."

I chuckle softly, a hollow sound. Antonio doesn't quite understand. In our world, being seen isn't a compliment-it's a danger. The moment you stand out, someone starts plotting how to bring you down.

I pull on my gloves, each movement deliberate and smooth. My reflection stares back, just as it should: polished, expensive, and impossible to read.

"Where's Father?" I ask.

"He's already in the car. The Russians aren't fond of waiting," Antonio remarks.

"The Russians don't like anyone," I mutter under my breath.

He flashes a grin. "Maybe the heir isn't as terrible as they say. Some folks call him the prayer of half of Moscow."

"Some also say the devil has charm." I said, rolling my eyes at him.

He laughs, stepping away from the doorway.

"Just be cautious, Luci. They say Andrian Orlov doesn't just play the game-he wins it." Matteo finally butts in.

Andrian Orlov is the heir and future leader of the Orlov family. I've spotted him from afar at some of the several galas I've attended as the Sicilian princess. He boasts a solid build and a striking appearance, but I'm certainly not one to judge solely based on looks.

"None of my business, folks." I grab my coat, its weight familiar across my shoulders, and step into the cold corridor.

The walls of our estate hum with old power and older ghosts. Outside, the evening sky looks bruised, clouds sagging with the promise of snow.

The car ride is quiet. Father sits beside me, expression unreadable, eyes fixed ahead. Power makes people still, I've learned. Still like predators before they strike.

"You remember what I told you?" he says without looking my way.

"Smile. Speak only when necessary. Don't challenge the host." I answered.

"Good girl."

I bite back the sigh. Twenty-four years old, fluent in four languages, trained to negotiate and kill if needed, yet somehow still a "good girl." I rest my gloved hands on my lap, pretending not to feel the tremor underneath.

When we reach the Orlov estate, it feels less like a home and more like a fortress carved out of winter. Marble walls gleam under torchlight, tall and cold. Every window watches, like it knows our secrets before we even enter.

"Welcome to Russia," Father murmurs.

"Feels more like the underworld," I whisper back.

He doesn't argue.

The air outside bites through my coat as I step from the car.

My father strode through the magnificent doors, heading towards the meeting room, accompanied by his loyal aide, Vikoz.

I trailed behind, the sound of my heels gently tapping against the marble floor. The Sicilian within me bristled at the oppressive silence of this place, which consumed warmth and left only hollow echoes. I had grown up by the sea, where the air was infused with salt and a spirit of defiance; here, it reeked of power that had never basked in sunlight.

Father turned and spoke in a low voice, "Keep your eyes open, figlia mia. These men speak with smiles, but their teeth are sharp." (my daughter)

I nodded, still taking in my surroundings. Once they passed through the heavy oak doors, I lingered in the foyer, inexplicably drawn to the cold corridor that beckoned me deeper into the mansion.

The corridor culminated in a stunning glass atrium, beyond which lay a snow-covered courtyard, where half-buried statues resembled the phantoms of fallen warriors. I craved fresh air-anything that wasn't tainted by the noxious fumes of political turmoil.

And that was when I heard it.

A deep, amused voice resonated from somewhere behind me.

"Curious little dove, aren't you?"

I whipped around.

A man loomed partially in the shadows, the ember of a cigarette glowing tantalizingly between his fingers. He was tall and broad-shouldered, possessing a kind of dark handsomeness that seemed to embody sin rather than sunlight. He exuded a casual stance that radiated an almost arrogant confidence. As I scrutinized him, I realized he was not the family heir I recognized.

So, who might he be?

"You really shouldn't be here," he remarked, casually flicking ash into a marble tray.

"And you shouldn't either, if you value manners," I shot back.

He let out a low chuckle as he stepped closer, the smoke trailing behind him like an ethereal specter.

"Typically, guests don't roam the house. But I suppose most guests aren't quite as... captivating."

"Compliments don't really suit you, signore. Give it another shot." (Sir).

"Compliments? No, just keen observation." He smirked.

The ensuing silence crackled with tension. His gaze was intense and scrutinizing, as if he were weighing whether to antagonize or commend me.

"You must be one of the Sicilians," he remarked lazily. "You stride as if the floor belongs to you."

"Of course. Only Sicilians bring storms in their wake, and Russians misinterpret frost as resilience."

That response elicited a grin from him, predatory and full of delight. He moved closer, allowing me to notice the thin scar along his jaw, delicate yet pronounced.

"Watch it, princess. You might find Russian bites more formidable than those from Sicily."

"Then I'll bite back."

For a heartbeat, we both stood still. The atmosphere tightened, thick with an unnamed tension-part danger, part charm. Suddenly, a door slammed somewhere down the hall, shattering the spell we had woven.

He straightened up, flicking the last spark of his cigarette away.

"Return to your father before someone views you as a problem that needs fixing."

I lifted my chin defiantly.

"If there's a problem here, it's definitely you."

His low, dark laugh echoed in response.

"You have no idea who I am."

"No," I retorted, brushing past him. "And honestly, I don't think it matters..." My shoulder grazed him as I walked away-my warmth contrasting sharply with the coldness of his presence.

He watched me depart, a dangerous glimmer flickering behind his calm exterior.

"Oh, it will matter, princess. It always does."

--

As I stepped into the grand hall, I took a moment to survey the spacious room. At the far end of the long table sat Lorenzo Orlov, the imposing Russian patriarch, the boss of the Russian Mafia-a mountain of a man with silver hair and icy blue eyes locked onto me. I offered a slight bow, signaling my respect.

And beside him, as if fate were playing a cruel joke, sat Roman Orlov.

Now impeccably groomed, his suit tailored to perfection, the cigarette was gone, but the trademark smirk still lingered, like a secret meant solely for us.

"Luciana, my daughter, allow me to introduce you to Don Lorenzo Orlov and his younger son, Roman. They are our hosts. I was informed that his elder son, Andrian, is not here at the moment."

"We've crossed paths before," Roman remarked, his tone steady, courteous, and tinged with a hint of wicked amusement.

I met his gaze.

••Roman••

Power never looks the same from the front row as it does from the shadows.

I have always preferred the shadows.

They give a man room to breathe, to think, to calculate. Andrian handles the spotlight, the speeches, and the diplomacy. I handle the problems no one wants mentioned in boardrooms lined with marble.

Yet tonight, I sat in his stead. Not by my choice.

The heir's chair never fits me right, but Father doesn't care; to him, duty is duty, and I serve where I'm placed.

Still... I would have rather remained behind the scenes, exactly where I belong. Maneuvering numbers. Erasing threats. Moving pieces the world never sees.

That is my kingdom.

Not this long conference I just engaged in, filled with Sicilian perfume.

My gaze drifts from the balcony down to Father and Don Moretti. They are engaged in a hushed conversation beside the car. I couldn't quite catch what they were saying, but it was likely about the alliance.

Don Moretti is the boss of the Sicilian Mafia and the father of that formidable princess, Luciana.

The Valerio family still clings to the Las Vegas port like a dying wolf with one functioning fang.

Something I was far from convinced about is if we could take the time to strategize effectively, perhaps we could seize control of the Las Vegas port ourselves.

Just as I turned to head inside, my eyes fell upon her, the formidable Sicilian princess. I could only imagine how she perceives herself.

She stands near the marble fountain, coat draped across her shoulders like aristocracy itself bowed to her. The wind brushes her hair to one side.

Beautiful, yes.

She possesses an enchanting beauty, yet her utterances are quite the opposite.

Most people don't dare speak to me that way. Not under my father's roof. Not with that tone. But Luciana Moretti had looked me square in the eye-chin lifted, pulse steady, spirit blazing, and hurled those words at me like a dagger.

I don't know what irritated me more, the fact that she challenged me...

Or the fact that I found it interesting.

"Rian will arrive tomorrow, Roman. He just called me," Mildred's voice broke my reverie.

My thoughts flick instantly toward my sister. The softness in her voice stands out in a house built of iron.

"Oh, I see he prefers to call you first," I reply, not turning. My eyes narrow at the guards changing shifts below. "Unlike someone whose calls he should be returning."

Mildred's hand slips onto my shoulder, warm and annoyingly amused.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, brother."

Her tone dances between teasing and warning.

Typical.

Mildred Orlov, just 18 years old. Our family's cherished princess... and our greatest headache.

People think Andrian and I are cold kings of different thrones. They aren't wrong. But Mildred?

She's the only one who makes our hearts race for reasons beyond mere calculations.

I finally turned my attention to her. Her grin is self-satisfied, and her eyes sparkle with mischief. If she weren't an Orlov, she'd have found herself in serious danger a dozen times by now, given the chaos she stirs up.

"You really should be in your room, considering you're still grounded," I tell her.

She merely tilts her head, unconvinced.

"She says that each time," I think to myself. "Just before she slips away unnoticed."

My jaw tightens as memories slice through the still air.

There was that one time she snuck out to a club with friends while we all believed she was sound asleep. She got wrapped up with some mysterious man; I can still picture that jerk's hand gripping her wrist. If it weren't for the maid who checked on her and discovered her absence, I'd not have arrived just in time to save her from becoming someone's trophy.

I shake off the disturbing thought.

"I don't need babysitters," she responds lightly.

"You and Andrian suffocate me."

"You call it suffocation."

I step past her. "I call it keeping you alive."

Her sigh follows me, dramatic enough to echo.

I ignore it, walking away.

--

The ride back from the Orlov estate is silent, except for the rhythmic hum of the tires and Father's slow, measured breaths beside me.

By the time we arrive home, my mind won't let go of the meeting...or of him.

Roman Orlov.

His voice, his stare, and every sharp-edged word he threw at me keep circling like an irritation I can't scratch away.

If arrogance had an embodiment, it would surely take his form.

As soon as I step into my room, I kick off my heels, trying to shake off the tension, and almost fall into the nearest chair. I've barely begun to free my hair from its constraints when the door bursts open.

"Back so soon from the wolves?" Antonio leans casually against the doorframe, a grin plastered on his face that's just annoying enough. My little brother is four years my junior, yet he already seems to take pride in being my own personal nuisance.

"Let's not call them wolves," I mutter. "Wolves have charm."

He pushes off the frame and strolls in as if summoned. Matteo trails behind him, quieter, sharper-his eyes always observing before his mouth follows.

"You assholes never ask for permission before storming into my room," I shoot back.

"It's my father's house, sister," Antonio replies with a smirk that needs to be punched on a spiritual level.

This piece of junk.

"So." He tosses the apple he just stole from my desk into the air. "How did it go? Did Father finally come to terms with the Russians, or did you have to brave the cold just to keep the peace?" Antonio asked.

"It was... productive," I reply, which is code for unbearable.

"Ah. So that's a no." He takes a dramatic bite of the apple, the crunch echoing like mock applause.

"Did you at least get to meet him?" Matteo asks. His voice is low and deliberate.

"Who?"

"The heir. Adrian Orlov. Everyone refers to him as the Gentleman Devil. I've heard he actually has the courtesy to say "please" and "thank you" before sending people to ruin."

I snort. "No. He didn't show up."

"A pity," Matteo says. "Because if he did, you would've remembered. He leaves an impression... and a trail."

Before I can reply, Antonio perks up like a squirrel spotting chaos. "Hold up. If it wasn't him, then who kept you looking like you swallowed a lemon?"

A slow heat crawls up my neck. Matteo catches it instantly.

"You met someone," he says.

Of course he notices.

"Not met," I corrected sharply. "More like collided with, verbally."

Antonio's grin widens. "Oh, this is getting good."

I ignore the asshole and turn to Matteo. "Roman Orlov."

Both brothers blink. Antonio drops the apple.

Matteo whistles under his breath. "The weapons strategist. The one they call the Silent Prince.

Antonio snaps his fingers. "Right, right. The emotionless one who looks like he was carved from an iceberg nobody asked for."

"That's the one," I mutter.

"What happened?" Matteo presses.

"He challenged me." The memory prickles again. His eyes. His voice. The way he dissected my words like he had every right. "I said something, he said something, and then it became... competitive."

Antonio gasps in fake shock. "You? Competitive? No. Couldn't be."

I throw a pillow at his head.

Matteo leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Luci... Roman Orlov doesn't argue for sport. If he engaged you, he was measuring you."

"I'm not a piece of artillery," I snapped.

"No," Matteo replies. "You're far more dangerous. Which is exactly why he noticed you."

Silence presses in for a heartbeat.

Antonio wiggles his brows. "So you pissed off a man who can end a small country. Proud of you, sister. Truly."

"I didn't piss him off," I say, "though I'm not entirely sure. Maybe he just doesn't like me."

Matteo chuckles quietly. "Roman Orlov doesn't like anything. So that already puts you at the top of his list."

"What list?" I ask suspiciously.

"The list of people who'll either become his enemy," Matteo says, "or his problem."

Terrific. My life needed more categories.

Antonio claps his hands dramatically. "Well! This is shaping up to be far more entertaining than I thought."

"Get out," I deadpan.

He salutes. "With pleasure."

They exit together, Antonio munching loudly while Matteo throws one last knowing look over his shoulder, a look that says I should brace myself.

Once the door clicks shut, I collapse backward into the chair, realizing the truth I've been trying to ignore.

Roman Orlov wasn't supposed to matter.

Yet he does.

-----

The Next Morning

Before I've even stepped into the dining room, the rich aroma of espresso and toasted bread envelops me. My father is already at the table, his newspaper neatly folded beside his coffee cup. His mood is unreadable-which is usually the worst sign of all.

Antonio is there too, devouring his breakfast like someone preparing for a marathon.

"Good morning," I say with caution.

"Luciana," my father acknowledges without raising his gaze. "Take a seat."

That tone-the one that signals impending change, and not in a good way-immediately puts me on edge. I sit down as Antonio glances between us, clearly suppressing a grin.

"The meeting with the Orlovs went smoothly," my father starts. "They are... agreeable. We've outlined the terms of the alliance."

"I figured as much," I replied. "Considering we're not currently engaged in war."

His gaze sharpens, piercing as glass. "Don't be flippant."

I lower my head slightly. "I apologize."

He places his cup down, interlocking his fingers.

"To strengthen this alliance, the Orlovs and I have arranged an engagement."

My heart sinks. "An engagement?"

"Yes, between you and Adrian Orlov, their heir."

The news feels heavy, like stones tumbling down my throat.

"You can't be serious." The words hung in the air as my stomach twisted. The meal that had smelled so inviting a moment ago suddenly turned heavy and unappealing.

"Absolutely. This union will fortify both families against the Las Vegas syndicate. You realize how crucial this is."

I fixate on him, speechless. "You're offering me up like I'm a diploma."

"You are the diploma," he responds calmly. "You've always known this day would come."

I lean back, my heart racing. I did know, certainly. But knowing and hearing it are worlds apart.

Antonio, bless his unbothered soul, finally clears his throat.

"Sis, it might not be so bad," he says. "Adrian's supposed to be... decent. For a mafia heir."

I shoot him a critical look. "What does 'decent' even mean in our world?"

He shrugs. "He doesn't kill unnecessarily. He's polite. He helps his men. I don't know; maybe he rescues stray dogs too."

"Wonderful. I'll be sure to thank him for his humanity on our wedding night."

Father lets out a sharp breath, clearly over my sarcastic remarks.

"You'll meet him at the Winter Gala next week. Be prepared."

I give a stiff nod, my throat feeling tight.

Once Father leaves, Antonio leans in with a playful smile.

"At least you're marrying someone famous."

"So is the devil," I replied under my breath.