The Library Of Lies 

The Moretti estate was a sea of black ties and silk gowns, but to me, it felt like a graveyard. Every camera flash was a reminder that we were on display. We weren't a family tonight; we were a product launch.

I stood by the grand staircase, a glass of scotch in my hand that I hadn’t touched. I was watching the performance of the century.

Nikolai was across the room, and he was being "perfect." He had his arm draped heavily around Bianca’s waist, pulling her flush against his side. Every few minutes, he would lean down and whisper something into her ear, making her let out a startled, fragile laugh for the photographers.

He was being too loud. He was being too charming. He was overacting so hard I wanted to vomit.

He’s using her, I thought, my grip tightening on my glass. He’s using my sister to wash the taste of me out of his mouth.

"Look at them," my father said, appearing at my elbow. He sounded satisfied. "The press is eating it up. 'The Captain and the Contessa.' It’s a fairy tale."

"It’s a lie, Father," I muttered.

"Everything is a lie, Alessandro. Success is just a lie that people believe in long enough for it to become true." He patted my back. "Go stand closer to them. The 'Best Man' needs to be in the background of the main shot."

I walked toward them, every step feeling like I was moving through deep water. As I got closer, I could hear the reporter from a major sports network asking questions.

"So, Nikolai," the reporter cooed, thrusting a microphone toward his face. "The world wants to know. When did you realize Bianca was the one? Was it love at first sight?"

Nikolai’s smile was blinding and completely fake. "In Russia, we say you don't find love, it finds you. When I saw Bianca, I knew my life as a lone wolf was over. She’s... she’s everything a man dreams of."

He squeezed Bianca’s shoulder, his fingers digging into her skin. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a desperate need for him to mean it.

I couldn't help it. I stepped into his line of sight. I didn't hide my face. I didn't hide the pure, raw disgust I felt. I looked him dead in the eye, my gaze saying everything I couldn't shout: You liar. You coward.

Nikolai caught my stare. His words died in his throat.

"She’s... she..." he stammered, his confident posture wavering. The "Russian Steel" cracked. He looked away from me, his face flushing a dark, angry red. "She is my future."

"Is everything alright, Nikolai?" the reporter asked, sensing the sudden lapse.

"Fine," he snapped, his voice turning cold. "Excuse us. I need a drink."

He practically dragged Bianca away from the cameras. I didn't wait to see where they went. I turned and headed for the one place in this house where people rarely went—the library.

I needed silence. I needed to breathe. I pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped into the dim room. The smell of old paper and leather usually calmed me, but tonight, the air felt charged with electricity.

I didn't even have time to turn on the light.

A massive hand grabbed the front of my shirt and slammed me backward. My spine hit the edge of a bookshelf, knocking the wind out of me. The glass of scotch fell from my hand, shattering on the floor.

Nikolai was there, looming over me like a shadow. He didn't turn on the lights, but the moonlight from the high windows caught the rage in his eyes.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed, his face inches from mine.

"What was what, Nikolai?" I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"That look! You’re trying to ruin this? You’re trying to burn everything down because of one night?" He pressed his forearm against my throat, not enough to choke me, but enough to remind me how much stronger he was. "That night was a mistake. It was a disgusting lapse in judgment. I was drunk. I didn't know who you were."

"You knew enough to take me upstairs," I said, my voice shaking but sharp.

"It was filth!" he growled, his voice vibrating with self-hatred. "I am a captain. I am a man. What happened in that room... it wasn't real."

He leaned closer, his body heat pouring off him. 

"You’re going to stay away from me," he warned. "You’re going to be the 'Best Man,' you’re going to stand at that altar, and you’re going to keep your mouth shut. If you even look at me like that again, I’ll make sure your father knows exactly what kind of 'son' he has."

I looked down at his hand. He was still gripping my shirt, but his fingers weren't steady. His whole arm was vibrating.

I realized then that he wasn't just angry at me. He was terrified. He was terrified because he still wanted me.

"Are you done?" I asked quietly.

"I'm done when I say I'm done," he spat.

I reached up, slowly, and wrapped my hand around his wrist. I could feel his pulse—it was wild, fast, and completely out of control.

"If it was so disgusting, Nikolai," I whispered, leaning my head forward until our foreheads almost touched, "why are your hands shaking, Captain?"

He froze. The silence in the library was deafening.

"You can call it filth all you want," I continued, my voice growing stronger. "You can use my sister as a shield and lie to the world. But we both know that when the lights go out, you’re still the man who couldn't get enough of me. You’re the one who’s shaking. Not me."

Nikolai recoiled like I’d burned him. He let go of my shirt and stumbled back a step, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and fury. He looked like he wanted to hit me, and for a second, I thought he would.

Instead, he turned and bolted. He slammed the library doors behind him, leaving me alone in the dark.

I sank to the floor, my legs finally giving out. My chest was heaving, and my hand was stinging from where I’d held his wrist.

 I looked at the closed doors. Bianca was out there.

My sister—the only person in this world who actually loved me. I felt like a traitor.

I’m sorry, B, I thought, my throat tight. I’m so sorry.

 She deserved a life that wasn't a performance. Instead, she got a fiancé who was terrified of himself and a brother who was keeping a secret that would burn her world to the ground.

If I spoke, I wouldn't just be hurting Bianca. I would be signing my own death warrant. My father didn't believe in "phases" or "mistakes." He believed in the bloodline.

I looked at the portrait of my great-grandfather on the wall, and my mind went straight to Uncle Marco. I was only ten when it happened, but I remembered the silence that followed. Marco had been my father’s favorite brother until a photographer caught him leaving a flat in London with another man.

My father didn't just fire him. He erased him. Within forty-eight hours, Marco’s name was stripped from every hotel ledger. His trust fund was seized. His photos were removed from the walls. When Marco showed up at the estate to beg for a chance to explain, my father didn't even open the gates. He told the security guards that a "stranger" was trespassing.

Marco died in a small apartment in Marseille three years later. My father didn't even attend the funeral. He told us that Marco had died the day he brought shame to the Moretti name.

"I don't like erasing people, but I will," my father’s voice echoed in my head from earlier tonight.

I reached up and touched my throat, where Nikolai’s arm had been. If Dante Moretti found out about that night in the club—or the shaking of the Captain's hands—I wouldn't just be disowned. I would cease to exist. I would be a ghost in a suit, wandering a world that wasn't allowed to see me.

I was trapped between a brother’s love and a son’s survival.

The fire was already started. All I could do now was wait to see who it burned first.