Bred By The Caruso Twins

“You think you can just take what’s mine and walk away smiling, sorellina?”

Lucia’s voice wraps around the words like velvet ribbon around a blade. She presses the champagne flute into my palm with the same careful tenderness she used when she braided my hair for my first communion, the same tenderness that always came right before something sharp.

I stare at the rising bubbles then back to her.

“I didn’t take anything from you,” I say quietly.

Her laugh is soft, musical, the sound she makes when she knows she has already won. “Oh, Valentina. You never take. You just… receive. And the world loves giving to the quiet one, doesn’t it? The sad-eyed spare who never asks for more. Until suddenly everyone is looking at her.”

My fingers tighten on the crystal stem so hard I half expect it to crack. The memory floods in without permission, vivid as if it happened yesterday instead of two years ago.

The Sorrento academy charity gala. Lucia had rehearsed Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major for months. She told everyone it was her moment. Vogue Italia photographers were coming. Matteo Devergo, who was her high-school crush, the boy who used to lean against her locker and ignore me completely, he had promised to sit in the front row just for her. She even chose my dress: pale lavender, high-necked, sleeves to the elbow. It was one of my most beautiful dresses safe which my late mother left behind for me.

Then the fever hit. Twenty-four hours of shaking hands and hoarse voice. She still planned to play. I offered to help her run through it one last time in the music room. She snapped at me to leave, slammed the door, and disappeared upstairs.

I stayed.

My fingers found the keys the way they always did when the house felt too big and too empty. I played slowly at first, then let the melody breathe. The nocturne poured out of me like something I had carried in silence my whole life. I didn’t know the housekeeper was listening. I didn’t know she recorded the last thirty seconds on her phone and showed it to the event coordinator.

By morning they were at our door. Lucia was still in bed. “Valentina can step in,” the coordinator said brightly. “The program is printed. The donors expect music. She’s a Rossi.”

I begged them not to make me. I told them it was Lucia’s piece, that I wasn’t ready, that I would ruin everything. They smiled the way adults smile when the decision is already made. “You’ll be perfect,” she said. “Just play like you did last night.”

I wore the lavender dress under lights that felt too bright. My hands shook for the first three notes, then steadied. I closed my eyes and let the music carry me. When the final chord faded the room held its breath. Then applause, the kind that starts slow and builds until it crashes over you like a wave. Phones lit up. Videos uploaded before I even stood. By the time I reached the wings my I*******m was exploding. Strangers called me angelic. Fashion accounts reposted stills of me at the piano, captioning them “the quiet Rossi sister who just stole the night.”

And Matteo slid into my DMs that same evening: “Didn’t know you had that in you. Dinner sometime?”

I stared at the message until my eyes burned. I felt guilty. Like I had stolen something I never wanted.

Lucia was waiting in the hallway when I got home. She didn’t scream. She didn’t throw things. She just looked at me with eyes so cold they scorched.

“You couldn’t let me have one thing,” she said quietly.

I tried to explain. “I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t want…”

She smiled then, small and sharp. “You never want anything, do you? And yet you always end up with it.”

I braced for revenge. Lucia never let slights go unanswered. When I accidentally spilled red wine on her white couture gown at sixteen she deleted every digital photo we had of Mamma from the family cloud.

When I won the school poetry prize she thought should be hers she whispered to half the class that I had plagiarized it word for word; I had to stand in front of everyone and withdraw publicly. When I wore one of her old dresses to a cousin’s wedding and someone complimented the way it looked on me she “accidentally” ruined it in the wash and replaced it with a cheap polyester knockoff so thin it itched for days.

But after the nocturne… nothing.

Two years of nothing.

She smiled at breakfast. Asked about my day with honey-sweet concern. Complimented my hair once. Every silent day felt heavier, like she was letting the debt grow interest. I kept waiting for the knife. When nothing came I almost convinced myself she had moved on.

Now, she raised her own flute in a mock toast. “To sisters,” she says sweetly. “And to debts finally coming due.”

We clink. I brought the rim to my lips because refusing would only make her smile wider.

The first sip is cold and crisp. The second tastes… wrong.

Warmth blooms low in my belly, slow at first, then spreading like spilled ink through water. My pulse quickens. My skin prickles. The midnight silk of my gown suddenly feels too tight. My nipples tighten against the bodice with every breath. Between my thighs a slow, insistent throb begins to build.

I glance at Lucia. She watches me with polite interest, the way she used to watch the koi in the courtyard before she fed them just enough to keep them hungry.

“Something wrong?” she asks, voice light as air.

I shake my head. The motion sends a faint dizziness through me. “Just the bubbles.”

She smiles wider. “They do go straight to certain places, don’t they?”

I set the glass down too quickly. Champagne sloshes over the rim onto my fingers. I lick it away without thinking.

Heat coils tighter. My breathing turns shallow. Slickness gathers between my legs, making me press my thighs together hard enough to hurt. Every small shift of fabric against skin sends fresh sparks racing through me.

I stand abruptly. The room tilts for a heartbeat before righting itself.

Lucia raises an eyebrow. “Steady there.”

“I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter.

“Of course you are.” She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her crimson gown. “The car’s waiting. Shall we?”

I nod once. I pick up the flute again and drain the rest in one long swallow.

The heat surges in answer. My nipples ache. My clit throbs in time with my heartbeat. I cross my arms over my chest as I follow her down the grand staircase, each step jolting fresh sensation through my core.

At the bottom Victor, Lucia's brother waits, He wore a black tuxedo, his eyes slide over me once with a cold face.

“Valentina.”

“Brother.”

He turns to Lucia, face softening. “You look stunning.”

She preens. “Thank you, caro.”

The familiar twist in my stomach returns. Not jealousy but recognition. I will never be the one he looks at that way. I will never be the one anyone chooses first.

The driver opens the Bentley door. Lucia slides in gracefully. I follow, careful not to let my thighs brush together too much. The leather seat is cold against fevered skin. The contrast makes me bite my lip.

As the car pulls away from the villa, Naples streaks past the tinted windows.

The warmth keeps building, relentless, whispering promises of surrender I’m terrified I won’t refuse.

My body is no longer entirely mine. It hums with a hunger I didn’t ask for, a need that makes every breath feel like begging.

I close my eyes for one heartbeat. When I open them again, the city lights look different and the heat within me grows stronger…fuck, what's happening to me?