42. Brotherly Love
Chapter forty-two
Brotherly Love
(Dante)
The brush strokes flow like meditation, each one bringing the brown horse on my canvas closer to life. Classical music swells around me—a new addition to my studio, another step away from the man I used to be. Who would have thought Don Fera would find peace in Beethoven and watercolors?
I'm so lost in the details of the horse's mane that I don't hear the doorbell. Don't hear anything but strings and piano and the quiet voice in my head guiding each stroke. For three days, I've worked on this piece, finding healing in the patience it demands.
A soft knock breaks my concentration. "Enter!" I call, gesturing to dim the music.
Danica appears in the doorway, powerful and beautiful in her navy suit. My Queen turned Managing Director—the transformation still takes my breath away.
"I thought you went to work?" I move to kiss her, careful to keep my paint-stained hands away from her clothes.
"I popped out for a second." Something in her voice makes my spine stiffen. Her fingers twist together—a tell she never shows unless genuinely nervous. "I have a surprise for you, but you have to promise not to be mad."
A cold weight settles in my stomach. We both know I hate surprises. “What did you do, Danica?"
"He kept messaging me, and I felt bad, I…” The words tumble out. "Just hear him out. He seems better now. Four years is a long time. People can change, you know..."
For a moment, I don't understand. Then, the realization hits like a bullet to the chest. The paintbrush trembles in my hand. "Danica...I've told you before, don't interfere—" My tone climbs despite my efforts at control, years of buried rage threatening to surface.
"Don't be mad at your wife."
That voice. My blood turns to ice.
Luca steps into my studio, into this peaceful space I've carved for myself. My brother. My betrayer. The last person I ever wanted to see again.
"What are you doing here?" The words come out like broken glass. The zen of painting evaporates, replaced by a tidal wave of emotions I've spent four years burying.
My fists clench, the muscle memory of violence rising.
"Please don't hurt him, darling." Danica's kiss lands soft against my rigid jaw.
I don't respond, can't respond.
She touches Luca's shoulder as she leaves—the casual gesture feels like another betrayal. "Good luck," she tells him, and then we're alone with the years of unspoken pain between us.
I turn back to my easel, unable to look at him. The paintbrush snaps in my grip, brown paint splattering like old blood, fucking up the horse (and the carpet).
"Look at me, fra." He stays by the door, smart enough to keep his distance. We both know what these hands are capable of.
I stare at my ruined painting, the horse whose peaceful expression now seems to mock me. "Leave, Luca. I have nothing to say to you."
"Dante. You're my only family. Please."
"You are dead to me." My voice sounds foreign, harsh. "You should've been dead, full stop, but you have Danica to thank for that."
"I know,” Luca answers softly. “I’m grateful.”
"Don't say you're sorry," I snap before he can try.
"Dante..."
"I could've died, Luca. What the fuck?" I whirl to face him, and the sight hits harder than expected.
He's older, his hair longer, something different in his eyes.
But he's still Luca. Still my baby brother.
Still the one who had me tied to a metal chair, waiting to die, all because of his goddamn gambling debts.
The rage I've kept locked away rises like a tide, threatening to drown all the peace I've found. All the progress I've made. Years of healing threatening to unravel in a single moment.
Luca's shoulders cave inward, making him look smaller. Younger. "Never in a million years could I have predicted shit would turn out like that." His eyes find mine, holding steady. "I was an idiot. That's the short version."
"You betrayed me." The words taste like trash. My hands itch for something more substantial than paintbrushes, though these fingers have killed with less.
"I got caught up trying to fill the unfillable void." Something different in his voice now. Steadier. "Rehab has been good for me,” he adds.
"Lovely. Now leave." I turn back to my messed-up canvas, pretending to focus on the ruined horse while every nerve in my body remains attuned to my brother's presence.
"I want to make it right, Dante."
"You can’t.” The words snap like bones.
"Let me at least try. You don't have to forgive me."
"Good, because I have no intention of forgiving you."
"You sound just like our father now."
The comparison hits like a gut punch. "Don't you dare! I'm nothing like him!" The painting crashes to the floor, brown paint bleeding onto the expensive carpet like spilled red wine.
"You sure are acting like him. Always so violent, so unforgiving, so unavailable." Luca’s accusations are soft-spoken but bitter.
"Our father was an asshole,” I spit out, voice like thunder.
"Our father was a cunt, Dante."
"On that, we can agree." My laugh holds no humor. "But you can't keep blaming him for your lifetime of fuck ups."
"Can't I?" Something breaks in Luca's voice. "I was only a child when Ma died, Dante. You were all I had, and now I don't even have you."
The words pierce deeper than they should. “I can't always keep bailing you out, Luca. I have my own life now, a wife..."
"I don't need you to bail me out. I just need you to be my brother again." His voice cracks. "Jesus, Dante. We used to be thick as thieves. You were the first person I told when I kissed a boy, remember? You took a fucking black eye for me to keep Father from ending my life right there and then."
The memory hits unexpectedly—Luca trembling behind me, our father's rage like a living thing, my body the only shield between them. "He was such a bigot."
It happened a few months before Don Fera Snr. died. While I was wrestling with my feelings for Alessio, hiding who I was, Luca's beating that day made the choice for me. Made it clear what happened to sons who loved wrong.
"I'm not a bad person, Dante. Two years in therapy has finally made me realize that."
There's something different about him—a steadiness where chaos used to reign. The desperate edge is gone from his eyes.
Leopards don't change their spots.
But even as I think it, I know it's a lie. Look at me—Don Fera, the monster who painted in red, now finding peace in watercolors and cake batter. Look at Danica, the scared girl who became Queen. Alessio’s transformation from reckless Playboy to Don…
My mind feels like a battlefield, old loyalty warring with fresh betrayal.
"I think you should leave."
"Please, Dante. I missed you, fratello mio."
Part of me wants to say it back—wants to admit how many times I've picked up the phone, almost called. But the memory of rope burns and metal chairs holds my tongue. Some deceptions cut too deep.
"Just go, Luca."
"Can I come back?" Hope makes him sound youthful again.
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to hold back the tide of confusion. "I don't know; I need time to think."
"That's not a no. I'll take it. Thank you, brother."
I return to my ruined painting, dismissal clear in every line of my body.
The conversation is done.
Luca leaves quietly, knowing my limits as well as I know his. Emotions were never my strong suit—too messy, too complicated.
I pick up the canvas that is now just a brown smear, like the line between love and betrayal, between family and enemy. I stand frozen, staring at the ruin, unsure which hurts more—seeing Luca again or realizing part of me is glad he came.
"You okay, baby?" Danica's voice is soft at the door.
"Fine," I growl, but we both know it's a lie.
She moves to hold me, but I step away, shaking her off.
Danica’s voice is gentle, kind…cautious. “He's your brother, darling. He wants to make amends."
"It wasn't for you to interfere." My voice comes out harder than intended, edged with the kind of darkness I've been trying to leave behind.
"It was bothering you. I know Luca was an asshole, but I believe him when he says he's changed."
"What? Like your brothers have changed?" The words escape like bullets, and I regret them instantly when I see her flinch. But rage makes me reckless, makes me cruel.
Danica goes still, hurt flooding those wild eyes I love. "Don't bring them into this. It's different."
"How? They almost got you killed, same as Luca did to me. Except you were a helpless child.”
"Dante—"
"But it's fine; they got what they had coming." The satisfaction in my voice betrays me. Fucking idiot, Dante.
Danica goes perfectly still, the way she does before unleashing her Domme voice. "What do you mean?"
I stay silent, watching her Managing Director mask slide into place. The transformation is subtle but complete—spine straightening, shoulders squaring, chin lifting slightly.
"Dante…what have you done?" She moves into my space with that quiet authority that still weakens my knees, even now.
Her hands catch my face, forcing me to meet her gaze.
Those fiery eyes search mine, looking for the evil she knows still lives there.
"Nothing. Just taught them a bit of a lesson." But we both hear the old Don in my voice, the one who solved problems with blood and pain.
My wife takes a step back, arms crossing over her chest—defensive, protective. "You promised you wouldn't harm them."
"I didn’t—at least not physically. But they deserved to be humbled." The truth tastes like victory and shame mixed together.
"An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." Danica’s voice wavers slightly—the only indication that we're talking about her flesh and blood, not some business transaction.
"Those fuckers can be glad it was just their careers I ruined." Something dark unfurls in my chest, that old satisfaction of revenge. "You won't believe the dirt I found."
Her hands clench at her sides, knuckles white against navy silk. The muscle in her jaw jumps—fighting back words, fighting back tears, maybe. "I don't want to know."
"Let's just say they didn't magically turn into better people."
Danica turns away, staring out the window. I watch her reflection swallow hard, compose herself. When she faces me again, she's fully Donna Fera. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Dante. I'm a big girl now."
"Right back at you. Except for the big girl part."
Finally, a smile breaks through her storm clouds. "You silly man." She sighs, and some of the tension bleeds away. "I have to get back to the office, but this conversation isn't over."
"Yes, Ma'am." Making us even doesn't make us right, but it's something.
"Don't you Ma'am me, I’ll smack that cock of yours so hard, you’ll need a month to recover,” she threatens, and said cock instantly jumps in my pants.
I let her pull me down, let her kiss anchor me back to who I'm trying to be. Her embrace feels like forgiveness I'm not sure I deserve.
"I love you so much, Madame Fera," I whisper into her hair that smells of soap and safety and home.
"More and more each day." Her lips brush my nose before she leaves me with my ruined art, churning thoughts, and a semi-erection. “I’ll see you tonight. Be good.”
My cock hurts with need. But at least it’s not painful anymore to get an erection. That inevitable pain. I hated it, but I also loved it. Loved how aware I was of it at all times. But mostly, I liked how Danica licked and teased it, cared for it.
The endless edging is enough to drive anyone mad, though, but the mere thought of one day finally being able to scrape her insides with the piercing, giving her maximum pleasure if the internet is to be believed—that’s enough to keep me going.
I just wish she wasn’t so insistent about sticking to the piercing artist’s three-month ‘no-hanky-panky’ rule.
One more month…
I throw the painting away, its broken horse beyond saving.
Setting up a fresh canvas, I turn the music up until it drowns out the voices in my head—my father's rage, Luca's pain, my own darkness still lurking beneath this peaceful surface I've built.
The blank canvas stares back like a challenge, like redemption, like a chance to create something new from the ashes of what was destroyed.
Maybe it's time to paint something other than horses…