The Bride, the Brother, & the Bad Idea

Lake Como had its own way of making a person feel beautiful and like they were about to be punished at the same time.

Maybe it was because the water was too calm. Maybe it was because the Bandini family estate stood at the edge of the lake in pale stone, with tall windows, black iron balconies, and gardens trimmed so precisely that the hedges looked more ready to get married than I did.

Or maybe it was because I’d been smiling for two hours and forty minutes, and my face was starting to lose its connection to my soul.

“Aubrey,” Mama hissed beside me, though she didn’t really hiss because Catalina Moguel never did anything halfway. “Your back.”

I immediately straightened my shoulders.

“Not like that, either. Now you look like you’re about to sue someone.”

“I do want to sue these shoes,” I muttered.

She looked me over from the top of my head to the hem of my ivory-white dress. Her black hair was swept into a low bun, her diamond earrings shifting as she drew a long breath, the breath of a Latina mother who had raised four children and still couldn’t believe God had given her me as His first experiment.

“You’re getting married tomorrow,” she said. “Try to look happy.”

“I do look happy.”

“You look like you’re deciding who to kill first.”

“Then I look focused.”

Adam laughed to my left. My twin, technically the second-born because he came out seven minutes after me and had never accepted the loss gracefully. He leaned against a cocktail table, his black suit immaculate, his expression as obnoxious as ever.

“You look ugly when you’re being scolded,” he said.

I turned toward him slowly. “Go fuck yourself.”

Behind him, Danzel, the thrid brother, was stealing prosciutto from a serving platter as though the Bandinis would go bankrupt if he didn’t rescue the meat immediately. Bianna, the youngest, seventeen and already capable of judging people with a sharp-eyed precision, was whispering with our cousin while watching the Bandinis like they were a rare species in an aristocratic zoo.

The Moguel family had never been able to enter a room without changing its temperature. Papa was laughing too loudly near the terrace, one arm slung around the shoulders of a Bandini uncle who didn’t seem sure whether he was being welcomed or taken hostage. Mama corrected my posture, Adam annoyed me, Danzel ate, Bianna judged, and in the middle of it all, I stood at the center of my pre-wedding evening in a perfect dress with a pulse beating behind my ribs.

Nervous, obviously.

Normal.

A twenty-two-year-old woman who was marrying a man from one of the wealthiest families in Italy tomorrow was allowed to be nervous. In fact, I thought that if she wasn’t nervous, someone should check whether she’d been replaced by a socialite robot powered by a lithium battery and premium teenager trauma.

I looked toward Lorenzo.

He stood near the marble fountain, speaking to two older men whose faces had spent too much time in boardrooms. His brown hair was neatly combed, his suit dark, his smile gentle. Safe. That was the word that always came to mind whenever I looked at him.

For the past two years, he had always been safe.

During my first semester of college, when a strange man started appearing too often outside my classroom building, at the café where I studied, along the walk back to my apartment, Lorenzo had been the one standing beside me, saying, “I’ll drive you.”

He didn’t make me feel stupid for being afraid. He didn’t laugh at the way I checked my reflection in store windows to make sure no one was following me. He learned my routine, drove me everywhere, introduced me to his security people, and stayed with me at the library until late at night when I was too embarrassed to admit I was afraid to go home alone.

Some men made the world feel bigger. Lorenzo made the world feel like you could close the door on it.

Maybe that was love. Or maybe I was only twenty-two and had grown too fond of things that didn’t chase me through parking lots.

“Aubrey.”

I turned as Lorenzo appeared in front of me, his smile soft, one hand immediately settling on my waist. I was supposed to feel calmer. And part of me did. The other part still wanted to sit down, take off my shoes, and drink ice water straight out of a flower vase.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’ve talked to sixty people, and every single one of them told me I’m glowing. So maybe I’m dying.”

“You’re beautiful.” He lowered his head and kissed my temple. “It’s almost over. But there’s someone you need to meet first.”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

I blinked. “Zachary Bandini?”

Lorenzo rolled his eyes before he even answered, which was honestly very Lorenzo whenever that name came up. “Yeah. He finally decided to grace us with his presence.”

I tried not to look too curious. I failed. “You said he was in New York.”

“He was supposed to be.” He glanced toward the west garden, his mouth tightening. “But apparently the future President of Bandini International still has five minutes to spare for a family event before he goes back to conquering oil, investors, or whoever else is next.”

Zachary Fransesco Bandini had existed in my life more often as a complaint than as a person. For two years, Lorenzo had rarely said his name without looking like he wanted to overturn a chair.

Zach was an asshole. Zach was arrogant. Zach couldn’t be controlled. Zach’s mind was too sharp and his morals too flexible. Zach had graduated from Harvard with degrees in economics and international politics, then earned a master’s in energy and finance, followed by some short program at Oxford, because of course there were men in the world who treated higher education like a watch collection.

At twenty-five, his life sounded like an overly confident business article: oil negotiations in Abu Dhabi, investor meetings in New York, a minor scandal in Monaco, trouble in Dubai, a Spanish princess who had supposedly thrown a glass at him during a private party.

Lorenzo had told me that last part with disgust.

And I, a respectable woman, had never asked whether the glass hit him.

Lorenzo took my hand. “Come on. Before he leaves again and everyone pretends to be disappointed.”

We walked past clusters of guests who smelled like expensive perfume and financial decisions. Above us, garden lights hung like stars employed exclusively by the Bandini family.

Then I saw him.

Zachary Bandini stood beside a half-naked marble statue of Bacchus and, incredibly annoyingly, somehow managed to make the god of wine look less committed.

He was taller than Lorenzo. His black suit fell perfectly over broad shoulders, his white shirt open one button farther than could reasonably be called accidental, and his thick black hair was slightly tousled over his forehead, as though the Lake Como wind had a personal agenda. His jaw was clean-shaven but hard, his mouth calm, his eyes a dark blue beneath a gaze that neither welcomed nor rejected.

His gaze simply stopped on me.

Beside him stood a tall woman in a liquid-silver gown, with sharp cheekbones and blonde hair slicked back in a wet look. It took me two seconds to recognize her. Celeste Varga. The model whose face showed up constantly in perfume ads, magazines, and YouTube videos made by people explaining skincare routines that cost as much as apartment rent.

“Zach,” Lorenzo said, his voice stiff.

Zach didn’t answer right away. He looked at his brother first, then lowered his gaze to my hand, still held by Lorenzo, before returning to my face.

His smile appeared slowly. “Lorenzo,” he said. His voice was low, relaxed. “You’re right on time. I was starting to worry you’d run away from your own party.”

Lorenzo gave a short laugh. “Funny.”

“I wasn’t trying.”

Lorenzo tightened his hand around my waist. “This is Aubrey.”

I stepped forward half a pace because if there was one thing Mama had taught me, besides how to cut steak properly and insult someone without leaving evidence, it was never to let a handsome man make you forget your manners.

“Aubrey Moguel,” I said, holding out my hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Zach looked at my hand for a moment, then took it. His fingers were warm, large, strong, and commanding.

He bent and kissed the back of my hand.

I had seen plenty of older European men perform the gesture tonight. Usually it was polite, dry, slightly museum-like. But Zach did it while looking up at me from beneath his dark lashes, and suddenly the back of my hand felt like a body part that should have legal representation.

“Zachary Bandini,” he said, as though I didn’t already know. “And I have to admit, Lorenzo finally chose someone far too interesting for his standards.”

Lorenzo laughed without humor.

I slowly pulled my hand away. “Are his standards low, or am I too far above them?”

“Both could be true,” Zach said, his smile widening.

“I almost like you.”

“Almost is my favorite territory.”

Lorenzo cleared his throat. “Zach just got in from New York.”

“And he’s already insulting the bride-to-be.” I looked at Lorenzo. “Efficient.”

“I’m only expressing concern.” He picked up a glass from the small table beside him, his movements lazy, though his eyes stayed on me.

“About what?”

“Your life.” He took a sip of his drink. “Twenty-two is too young, and life is too long, to end up at the altar with Lorenzo.”