His Savior Was Never My Sister

The first thing I felt was the cold. It was the cold of polished steel instruments, of silent monitoring machines, of solitude. My left arm was a solid block of throbbing pain, wrapped in layers of white bandage that stood out starkly against the slate-gray room.

I was in the Castellano family’s private medical suite, a place that looked more like a luxury hotel than a hospital, reserved for discreetly treating bullet wounds and stab injuries. My own dog bite felt grotesquely mundane.

Then I heard his voice. A low, steady murmur from the hallway. A nurse had objected. I’d silenced her with a look.

“…shhh, Bella. It’s alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Nicholas. The timbre was soft, sanded down to a velvety roughness I’d never heard directed at me. Not even in my most desperate fantasies.

Isabella’s reply was a watery sniffle, perfectly pitched. “I was so scared, Nico. Those beasts… I thought they’d kill you.”

A faint, hushed laugh. “Nothing could keep me from you. You know that.”

The words were a physical blow, landing squarely on my bruised ribs. I closed my eyes, but it only made the audio clearer. I could picture it. Him standing close, his tall frame angled protectively toward her, one hand perhaps brushing a tear from her cheek.

My lawyer, a grim-faced man named Silas who handled the family’s most sensitive affairs, arrived with the discharge papers. His eyes, magnified by thick glasses, scanned my face. “The disciplinary clause, Miss Castellano. Do you wish to invoke it?”

The Castellano family code was an archaic, brutal thing. Among its many statutes was Article VII, regarding the failure of a sworn protector. The principal had the right to demand physical restitution. It was seldom used, a relic of a more savage time, but it remained on the books. A symbol.

“Yes,” I said, my voice flat. “I do.”

The armory was in the east wing of the mansion, a long, narrow room paneled in dark walnut. Racks of antique rifles, crossed sabers, and glass cases holding dueling pistols lined the walls. It was a room for theatrics of violence. My father stood near the fireplace, his expression unreadable. Isabella hovered near the door, her eyes wide and red-rimmed.

Nicholas stood in the center of the Persian rug, facing me. He’d changed into a simple black shirt and trousers. His posture was correct, but his eyes were dark pools of simmering resentment.

Silas read the charge in a dry, legal monotone. “…failure to maintain proximate defense, resulting in grave bodily harm to the principal. The principal claims the right of discipline under Article VII, Section Three.”

I walked to the wrought-iron stand where the implements were displayed. My fingers closed around the cinta, its handle worn smooth by generations of Castellano hands.

“Kneel,” I said, not looking at him.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. The tension in the room spiked. Then, with a stiffness that betrayed his fury, he went down on one knee, his head bowed slightly.

I raised the cinta. This was for the teeth in my arm, for the terror on the club floor, for the sound of his gentle voice in the hall promising another woman safety.

The leather whistled as I brought it down.

Isabella’s shriek cut through the air a fraction of a second before she moved. She launched herself across the space, throwing her body over Nicholas’s back, arms spread wide. “No! Please, Victoria, don’t! It was my fault! I distracted him!”

The cinta halted mid-air, my muscles locking. Nicholas’s head snapped up. His arms came around Isabella, cradling her protectively against him. His gaze lifted past her trembling shoulders and found mine.

There was no hesitation in his eyes. No doubt. Only a clear warning.

If I hurt her, he would stop me.

The power of the whip in my hand evaporated. He had chosen his side with an absolute clarity that left no room for doubt. The weapon was mine, but the true power had already flowed to him, through her.

I lowered the cinta. The leather felt inert, silly.

“Get out,” I said, my voice hollow. “Both of you.”

He rose, Isabella clinging to him, and guided her from the room without a backward glance.