Twisted Stepbrothers

12 years Ago

I was seven years old, sitting on the cold floor of my bedroom, starving, pulling my knees tight against my chest and shivering from the cold.

Outside my door, the screaming was always the same between my mom and dad.

"Where were you until three in the morning, Dahlia?" my father roared, his voice thick with cheap gin. "Who were you with?"

"Don't touch me, Arthur!" my mother screamed back. A glass shattered against the wall. "You're just a driver! A dirt-poor driver who can't even keep the lights on!"

Our flat was a dark, dry box. Neither of them cared that I was sitting in the dark just five feet away. They didn't ask if I had eaten. To them, I was just extra noise in a house they both hated.

My father drove for the Don-the billionaire who owned half the city. My mother spent her days staring at her reflection, buying cheap perfume, and complaining about her life.

Then came the night everything fell apart.

My father came home late, pale as a ghost, holding a thick envelope.

"I saw her with him," Arthur whispered, his eyes wide with wild rage. "The Don. You've been sleeping with my boss, Dahlia!"

My mother didn't even deny it. She just sneered. "And what are you going to do about it, Arthur?"

"I'm going to make him pay," Arthur laughed. "I'm going to blackmail him."

My mother cackled loudly; "You fool! Do you want to die?! Do you know what the Don does to people who blackmail him? They disappear just like that. You'd better swallow it up and accept your fate."

"You b*tch. Well, the Don's reputation is also important to him right? If his wife or the press finds out hes cheating on his wife with a married woman he's done. Ah! I'm going to make so much money from that b*st*rd!"

He ran out the door to confront the Don.

Even at that age I knew that was a foolish thing to do. At school even I had heard of Don and how ruthless he was. I sat quietly outside, my belly growling from hunger. I thought of this so called Don, a name I heard in this house even more than my own name. This stranger who was inserted in every area of our lives. I hated him, yet I also felt jealous of him.

If my parents paid as much attention on me like they did the Don and....

My father came back three hours later, terrified and bleeding. He tumbled through the front door, his jacket torn, clutching his bruised head.

"Dad what happened?"

"I'm in big trouble. We are in big trouble!"

"Huh? What happened?" My mom said, coming out.

"He took the papers," Arthur sobbed on the kitchen floor. "He told me if I ever say his name again, he'll kill me. He's going to kill us all. I shouldnt have gone there. I'm doomed!"

The next morning, the police kicked our door in.

They dragged my father away in handcuffs. The Don's lawyers had framed him for stealing millions from the company. Arthur was sentenced to twenty years in prison.

The next five years were a living nightmare.

My mother completely gave up. She didn't work. She just bought cheap liquor with whatever cash was left and drowned herself in bitter despair.

The Don had dumped her and threatened;

"If you ever speak a word of what happened between us, I will make sure to get rid of you too."

The flat turned filthy and uncomfortable .

Every time Mom looked at me, her eyes burned with pure hatred.

"Get out of my face, you dirty little leech!" she would scream, shoving me hard into the wall. She slapped me across the cheek, her heavy rings scratching my skin. "Look at you! You have his miserable eyes! You have his stupid face! Every time I look at you, I see that useless driver who ruined my life!"

"Stop it, Mom," I whispered, keeping my eyes on the floor.

"Don't call me that!" she yelled, throwing a half-empty gin bottle at my feet. It smashed, spraying glass and sour liquor over my bare ankles. "Clean that up! You're just as useless as your father. I wish you were never born!"

She beat me whenever she was drunk, leaving bruises on my arms and back, taking out all her hatred for Arthur on me. I learned to stop crying. I learned to keep quiet and wait.

Then came the afternoon Arthur came back.

He had gotten early parole. He looked thin, dark, and insane. He kicked the door open, saw my mother passed out on the couch with a bottle, and lost his mind.

He dragged her by her hair, slamming her onto the coffee table.

"Where is it?!" Arthur screamed, his fists flying. "Where's the money he gave you while I was in a cell?!"

"He didn't give me anything!" my mother shrieked, bleeding from her mouth. "He kicked me out!"

"Liar!" Arthur screamed.

He hit her again. And again. He dragged her across the floor, kicking her ribs, screaming for money that wasn't there. My mother sobbed, her fingers clawing at the dirty floorboards.

"Aria!" she choked out, looking right at me through the cracked bedroom door. "Help me!"

I stood in the dark hallway. I didn't move. I didn't call for help.

Arthur grabbed a heavy brass lamp from the corner and brought it down hard on her head.

Once. Twice.

Then, total silence.

Arthur dropped the lamp, took one look at her body, panicked, and ran out into the rain.

I stepped out from the hallway and walked over to her.

My mother lay still on the dirty rug, blood pooling under her head. Her eyes were blank, staring at the ceiling.

I waited for the tears. I waited to feel sad or scared for the woman who had spent five years beating me just for looking like my father.

Funnily enough, I felt nothing like that. The only thing in my chest was a deep, quiet relief.

She was finally dead.

I stepped right over her blood, walked to the sink, and washed my hands. My real life was just beginning.

Two officers dragged my father out of our apartment building, forcing his head down into the back of a squad car. His clothes were soaked in my mother's blood. He didn't scream or fight anymore. He just stared through the dirty glass with hollow, dead eyes as the car sped away, leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk.

Within hours, the whole neighborhood knew.

"Her father beat her mother to death with a lamp!" Mrs. Gable cackled from her front porch as I walked past the next morning, her sharp eyes burning into me. "Stay away from that girl. The blood in that family is rotten."

At school, it was worse. Whispers followed me down every hallway, sticking to my skin like dirt.

"Look, it's the murderer's daughter," a girl in my class hissed, pulling her chair away from mine. "Don't touch her stuff. She's cursed."

"Her dad killed her mom for chump change," a boy laughed, deliberately knocking my worn backpack onto the filthy floor. "She'll probably grow up and do the same thing."

I didn't answer them. I kept my chin up, stared straight ahead, and let my belly burn with quiet, icy rage. I was an orphan now. Social services shoved me into a cold, overcrowded group home where the food tasted like cardboard and the blankets smelled like damp mildew. Every night, I lay awake on my squeaky cot, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, listening to my own stomach growl in the dark.

Then came the afternoon that changed everything.

The group home ran an errand to the high-end shopping district downtown to drop off donation boxes. While the supervisor wasn't looking, I stepped away from the van and walked down the pristine, marble-paved avenue.

That was where I saw them.

A sleek, black limousine sat parked outside a five-star hotel. The doors swung open, and three boys stepped out onto the red carpet, dressed in tailored suits that cost more than my entire life.

It was the Don's sons.

Darius, the oldest, walked with cold, effortless authority, ignoring the photographers snapping photos. Little Nico laughed beside him, holding a golden toy in his small hands.

Then there was Marco.

He stood near the side of the car, adjusting his silver wrist watch. I stopped on the sidewalk, my torn shoes just inches from his polished leather boots, staring at him. He felt my eyes on him and turned.

Marco sneered, his mouth curling in pure disgust as his brown eyes swept over my frayed coat and dirty skin.

"Get out of my way, you filthy rat," Marco snapped, his voice loud enough for the guards to hear. He shoved his hands in his pockets and scoffed. "You're disgusting. Go beg somewhere else."

A guard stepped up and roughly pushed me back onto the curb. "Move along, kid."

I didn't flinch. I just stared at Marco's arrogant face as he walked into the luxury hotel without looking back.

A second car pulled up, a gleaming Bentley. The Don stepped out, looking powerful and untouchable, wearing a tailored navy suit. Next to him was his wife, Contessa. She draped a white mink coat over her shoulders, a triple-strand pearl necklace gleaming brightly against her neck in the sun. She looked down at the street like she owned the air we breathed.

Watching them, something inside me snapped forever.

My mother had died begging in a filthy, dry apartment. My father was rotting in a cell. I was starving in a group home, getting mocked by children every single day. And here was the man who had ordered my father framed, living like a king, surrounded by wealth, while his wife wore pearls that cost a fortune and his son called me dirty.

The fury built inside my chest, hot and absolute.

*I am going to destroy you,* I swore in the silence of my mind, watching Contessa's pearls catch the light. *I am going to take those pearls off your neck. I am going to take your money, your company, and your arrogant sons. I will leave you with nothing.*

I began watching them.

Two weeks later, I heard the supervisor at the group home talking on the phone. The Don was planning a massive public charity event at a local church orphanage, a photo op to boost his reputation before the upcoming city elections. He wanted to look like a benevolent saint who cared about the poor.

It was my only chance.

On the day of the event, the orphanage was packed with reporters, cameras, and local politicians. The Don walked through the grand hall in a sharp grey suit, flashing practiced, fake smiles for the flashing lenses while handing out small boxes of toys to smiling children.

I didn't smile. I didn't line up for toys.

When the Don stepped away from his security detail to speak privately with the archbishop near the marble fountain, I walked straight up to him. I didn't rush. I didn't look desperate.

"You look bored, sir," I said, my voice quiet, clear, and perfectly calm.

The Don paused, turning his head down to look at me. His sharp gray eyes narrowed slightly, surprised by a twelve-year-old girl standing before him with absolute stillness.

"What did you say?" he asked, his baritone voice low.

"You're smiling for the cameras, but your eyes are dead," I said, looking right into his face without blinking. "You don't care about any of these kids. You just want the paper in the morning to say you're a good man."

The Don's guards immediately stepped forward to grab my arm, but the Don raised a single hand, stopping them. He leaned down slightly, studying my face with sudden, intense curiosity.

"You have a very sharp tongue for an orphan," the Don said, a cold, dangerous smile touching the corner of his lips. "Who are you?"

"I'm someone who knows what a real monster looks like," I whispered, keeping my green eyes locked onto his. "And you aren't very good at hiding yours."

Silence stretched between us. The Don didn't get angry. Instead, a dark, amused glint appeared in his eyes. He saw something in me that he didn't see in any of the crying, grateful children in the room, he saw coldness. He saw steel.

"What is your name, little girl?" he asked softly.

I was about to say Aria but I stoped myself;

"My name is Dahlia," I lied.

That was my mother's name but she never used that name when she was with him after all so he definitely didn't know.

I was going to get adopted into this man's house under a completely new identity.

The Don stood up to his full height, smoothing the front of his jacket. He stared at me for a long moment, nodding slowly to himself as if he had just made a quiet decision.

"Get the paperwork ready," the Don commanded his assistant standing behind him, his eyes never leaving my face. "I'm adopting this one."

I stood still under the bright lights of the orphanage, listening to the cameras click around us. He thought he was taking home a clever little charity project. He had no idea he had just opened his front door to his own executioner.

The Don's mansion was a palace built on blood, but to the world, it was the pinnacle of high society.

The day he brought me through the massive wrought-iron gates, Contessa the Don's wife and the three sons mother, was waiting in the marble foyer. She wore a tailored silk dress, her triple-strand pearl necklace gleaming against her skin. Her face twisted in pure disgust the second her eyes landed on my worn shoes and frayed jacket.

"What is this, Richard?" Contessa snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You brought a street rat into my home?"

"She's an orphan, Contessa. A charity project," the Don said smoothly, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. "The press will love it. Treat her like family."

"Family?" Contessa sneered, stepping close to me. She smelled like expensive rose perfume and bitter vanity. "She looks dirty. She looks like low-class trash. Get her out of my sight before she ruins the furniture."

I didn't cry. I didn't cower. The moment the Don turned his back to take a phone call, I looked Contessa straight in the eyes, tilted my head, and let out a soft, unhinged giggle that made her freeze.

"You have pretty pearls, Mother," I whispered, stepping uncomfortably close to her, my green eyes wide and totally unblinking. "It would be a shame if someone snapped the string while you were sleeping."

Contessa gasped, taking a sharp step back, her chest heaving in shock. "You little psycho..."

Before she could finish, the Don walked back into the hall. Instantly, I dropped my gaze, squeezed my hands together, and let my lower lip tremble like a terrified, sweet little girl.

"I'll be very good, sir," I whimpered softly to the Don, looking up at him with glossy eyes. "I'll do all my chores. I just want to make you proud."

The Don patted my head, thoroughly pleased with my docility. "Good girl, Dahlia. You see, Contessa? Perfect manners."

Contessa glared at me with pure venom, but she couldn't say a word.

Living in the house was a war of nerves. Marco, the second born, made it his personal mission to bully me. He tripped me in the grand hallways, knocked my books into the dirt, and called me a filthy charity case every chance he got. Darius, the eldest, remained cold and distant. He treated me like a strange house pet, indulgent when I was quiet, but always watching me with heavy, sharp blue eyes as if trying to figure out what was wrong with my head.

Only Nico was different.

Nico was two years younger than me. He had soft blond hair, sweet brown eyes, and a heart far too fragile for a family of monsters. While Marco threw insults, Nico would secretly leave sweet chocolates on my desk. While Contessa tried to have the servants starve me out, Nico would sneak extra fruit and warm bread to my bedroom after midnight.

He developed a crush on me almost immediately. It was innocent, soft, and utterly pathetic.

I decided right then that Nico would be my first target.

---

Ten years passed in that gilded cage.

Now, I was twenty-two, and Nico was twenty. Contessa had grown more vicious over the years, escalating her cruelty, publicly humiliating me at family dinners and spreading rumors that I was nothing more than a glorified servant. But while she wasted her energy glaring at me from across the table, I was quietly sharpening my blade.

It was time to ruin her favorite son.

Nico was innocent, easily manipulated, and completely mesmerized by me. Seducing him didn't require force; it required a slow, poison drip of temptation.

It started on a humid Tuesday evening. I knew Nico always passed by the third-floor master bathroom after his late-night boxing lessons. I left the carved oak door propped open just two inches, allowing the warm, vanilla-scented steam from my bath to billow out into the dark hallway.

I sat in the deep porcelain tub, the milky water coming up just below my breasts. I didn't hide. I waited until I heard his steady footsteps stop outside the door.

"Dahlia?" Nico's voice carried through the crack, hesitant and soft. "Are you in there? I brought the books you asked for..."

"Nico?" I called out, my voice dripping with honeyed distress. "Oh, goodness... could you hand me the towel from the rack near the door? I forgot it, and the floor is freezing."

"I, I shouldn't," he stammered, his shadow blocking the strip of light. "You're... you're bathing, Dahlia."

"Please, Nico?" I purred, letting a small, wet splash echo through the room. "It's just you. I trust you more than anyone in this house."

The door creaked open. Nico stepped inside, holding a plush white towel, his eyes glued firmly to the marble tiles on the floor. His cheeks were burning a dark, furious red. He reached his hand out blindly, offering the towel without looking up.

I didn't take it. Instead, I leaned over the edge of the tub, letting the wet hair fall over my bare shoulders, ensuring he could see the curve of my neck and the damp skin of my chest.

"Nico," I whispered softly. "Look at me."

He couldn't help himself. He raised his brown eyes, and the moment he saw me sitting in the water, his breath hitched hard in his throat. His knuckles turned white around the towel.

"You're... you're so beautiful, Dahlia," he swallowed hard, his voice trembling like a child caught stealing candy.

"Do you really think so?" I asked, reaching out with a wet hand to touch his wrist. He flinched, but he didn't pull away. I dragged my damp fingertips slowly up his forearm, feeling his pulse skyrocket under his skin. "You're the only one who is ever nice to me in this awful house. Marco is so mean. Contessa hates me. But you... you always protect me."

"I will," Nico blurted out, stepping closer to the tub, entirely entranced. "I won't let anyone hurt you. I swear it."

"Then stay with me for a minute," I whispered, tilting my head back, letting a drop of water trail down my throat. "Just stand there and talk to me. I feel so lonely."

That night, he stayed. He sat on the edge of the bath stool, completely captive, watching me dry myself behind a thin silk robe, his eyes tracking every move I made like a starving dog waiting for scraps.

Over the next three weeks, I tightened the leash.

I would "accidentally" brush my thigh against his under the dinner table while Contessa was screaming at the staff. I would walk into his private study late at night wearing thin cotton nightgowns, leaning over his shoulder to read his accounting homework, letting my breasts graze his back until he couldn't concentrate on a single line of text.