His Savior Was Never My Sister

I found a sliver of space at the end of the polished mahogany bar and ordered a neat bourbon. The burn as it went down was the first real sensation I’d felt in hours. I was trying to numb the hollow ache when the atmosphere around me shifted.

He smelled of cheap cigars before I saw him. Marco, a mid-level enforcer for the rival Scarpetta syndicate, all bulk and swagger. He slid onto the stool far too close to me, his elbow jabbing into my ribs.

“Well, well. The Castellano ice princess, melting all alone,” he slurred, his breath foul. “Heard your daddy’s selling you off to that vegetable Moretti. Guess no one wants used goods, huh?”

I stiffened, keeping my eyes on my glass. “Walk away, Marco.”

He leaned in closer, his voice a wet, threatening whisper. “Or what? Your pretty-boy guard dog ain’t here. Saw him cozy with your sister upstairs in the VIP lounge. Seems he’s got a new mistress to heel for.”

His hand, thick and calloused, landed on my thigh, squeezing through the silk of my dress. “Maybe I can keep you warm ‘til the wedding. Bet you’re desperate for a real man.”

Revulsion, sharp and clean, cut through the numbness. I was about to drive my stiletto heel into his instep when a cool, familiar voice cut through the jazz.

“Remove your hand.”

Nicholas. He stood a few feet away, having descended from the VIP level. His expression was devoid of anger, just a cold, professional detachment that was somehow worse.

Marco, drunk but not stupid, jerked his hand back, raising both in mock surrender. “Easy, Rossi. Just having a chat with the lady.”

“The lady,” Nicholas said, his tone flat, “is leaving. You’re leaving. Now.”

It was efficient. It was effective. And it was utterly devoid of any personal stake in me. He wasn’t here out of jealousy or protectiveness. This was a maintenance issue, like removing a stain from the family’s property.

As Marco slunk away, grumbling, Nicholas’s eyes finally met mine. There was nothing in them. No apology for his absence at the auction, no concern for the harassment that never should have happened. Just the blank, polished surface of a hired tool. “You should return to the estate, Miss Castellano. It’s getting late.”

Before I could muster a scathing reply, hell broke loose.

It started with the shattering of glass—a bullet tore through the window, killing a business tycoon instantly. Then a scream, raw and terrified. The music died with a screech of feedback.

From a service entrance near the dance floor, three massive, muscle-corded Rottweilers burst into the room. Maybe they had been sent for someone. It didn’t matter anymore. Chaos erupted. Tables overturned. People screamed, scrambling, a panicked herd.

My brain short-circuited. Time fractured.

I saw Isabella, frozen near the grand staircase, her hands flying to her mouth, a perfect statue of fear.

I saw Nicholas’s head snap toward her. He was a blur of black. He crossed the distance in three long strides, his body a shield as he threw himself in front of Isabella, pinning her back against the wall, his arms caging her in, his own back presented to the threat. He was her human bunker.

He chose.

In that split second, one of the dogs, diverted from its original target or simply choosing the nearest obstacle, slammed into my side. I crashed to the sticky floor, the world tilting.

A hot, agonizing pressure clamped onto my left forearm, just below the elbow. Teeth sank through silk, through skin, meeting bone with a crunch I felt more than heard.

A soundless gasp ripped from my throat. The dog shook its head, a terrifying, powerful motion, and I was dragged across the floor, my shoulder screaming in its socket. Sequins from my dress scattered like tears.

Through the blur of pain and terror, my eyes, stubbornly, found him. Nicholas. Still braced against the wall, Isabella sobbing into his chest. His head was turned, his profile tense, but his position never wavered. He held his ground, protecting his heart’s choice.

The snarls of the dog, the distant screams, the coppery taste of blood in my mouth—it all faded into a roaring static.

The last, brittle shard of hope I didn’t know I’d still been clinging to—the hope that somewhere, beneath the duty and the deception, there was a fragment of something real for me—shattered.