My Brother's Dangerous Best Friend

13 | Because what was left for me?

I woke up with the faint taste of whiskey still on my lips, my body sore in places I couldn't quite remember. The room was quiet. Too quiet, really.

I stretched my arms and winced at the dull ache in my muscles, something that was beginning to feel like the norm lately.

I was in a hotel. I knew that much. The sheets were clean but impersonal. A quick glance around revealed a stark, modern room: sleek furniture, muted colors, and large windows with a view over central park.

As I shifted slightly on the bed, the headache hit, reminding me that my decision-making the night before had been reckless, to say the least.

New York had a way of swallowing you whole, tempting you with distractions and oblivion. I had been all too eager to take the bait.

But now... I had no fucking clue how I'd gotten here after my last night's outburst.

I sat up, looking at the hotel room in growing confusion.

The last thing I remembered was being at some nightclub, the pulse of the music in my veins, the heat of bodies pressing together, a blur of faces.

But this was different. I didn't know how long I'd been out, or who had brought me here, or worse, why.

The thing that bothered me the most was that I didn't remember checking in. Who the hell had done that? Who had paid for this place? Because staying in New York wasn't cheap.

I rubbed my face, my mind still foggy, trying to piece things together, but nothing clicked.

My heart rate picked up, and for a moment, I was on edge until I heard the door open.

Franco.

He stepped in, his broad frame filling the doorway. His face was familiar, but it felt like a dream, distant and hazy. He was dressed in a button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair was slightly tousled, as though he'd just gotten up, too.

"Morning," he said with a lazy smile.

"Where the hell are we?" I muttered, my voice rough from the alcohol and sleep.

"Hotel," Franco replied, his eyes scanning the room. "I booked it last night."

"Last night?" I repeated, feeling the irritation rise in my chest. "Why the hell did you book a hotel for me? And... who paid for this? Did we do something last night? No offense but you're like a good friend..."

Franco chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "Chill out, Aurelia. We didn't do anything. Luciano called me. Told me to find you at the club, book you a room, and take you here. You were out of it. So I did what I was told."

I exhaled a breath of relief. So, nothing had happened. Thank god.

Franco leaned toward the desk near the window, where a tray of food sat, the aroma of freshly made coffee hitting my senses almost immediately.

"I brought breakfast," he said, almost as if he were trying to distract me from whatever was going on in my head.

"Thanks," I murmured, my voice quieter now.

I pushed myself off the bed, the ache in my legs reminding me of the night before. I shuffled into the bathroom, desperate for a quick shower to wake up completely, to clear the remnants of confusion and discomfort from my system.

The water was hot, and I let it pour over me for longer than I should have, letting the steam and heat erase the tension from my muscles. When I finally stepped out, the fog in my brain had lifted a little, though my thoughts were still swirling.

I dressed quickly and went back to the room.

Franco was sitting at the small table, a mug of coffee in his hand, the news channel playing on the television.

I joined him at the table, not really in the mood to talk but needing some kind of normalcy.

I picked at the food absentmindedly as the news anchor's voice droned on, but then something caught my attention.

"Breaking news," the anchor said, and I froze mid-bite.

"Ciara Nash, Supermodel, involved in a fatal car accident in Milano, Italy. Details are still scarce, but authorities have confirmed her death at the scene."

The room went silent.

I stared at the screen, the words swirling in front of my eyes.

Ciara Nash. My older sister. Dead.

My mind went blank for a moment, and then the reality hit me, but I didn't know how to react. Ciara had always been cold to me. A cruel, distant figure in my life.

She had always looked at me with disdain, like I was some inconvenience to her perfect, flawless world.

I wasn't exactly broken up about it.

"I don't know what to feel," I muttered, setting my fork down. "She was a bitch."

Franco was watching me, his eyes narrowing as he took in my words.

I stared at the screen again, my heart strangely calm.

"I wish I had hit her with the car," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Franco laughed, a sharp, unexpected sound.

"That's fucked up, Aurelia," he said, still chuckling. "But I get it. She was a piece of work."

"Yeah," I replied quietly. "I don't know what Luciano's gonna think. Is he gonna care? Or is he just gonna... not care?"

Franco shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. "Luciano's complicated. He doesn't show much. Maybe he'll be indifferent. Maybe he'll be pissed. Who knows?"

I couldn't help but wonder. If Ciara was gone, would Luciano even care? Or would it just be another piece of his fucked-up world that didn't need to be mourned?

But the thought of him—cold, calculating Luciano—made me feel even more lost.

────??────

A few hours later, I stood by the large window, my fingers lightly pressing against the cool glass as I stared out at Central Park.

It was the kind of view most people would envy, with the city sprawling below like a patchwork quilt of glass and concrete.

The park's quiet serenity was almost funny in contrast to the chaos I felt inside.

The hotel room felt suffocating, even with its pristine, minimalist décor. But I didn't need luxury. I needed clarity. I needed something to make sense of the whirlwind in my mind, but all I had was more noise—noise that came from the television.

Franco was sitting a few feet away, his eyes still glued to the screen. The news anchor's voice kept droning on about the death of Ciara, my sister, the woman who had, for as long as I could remember, treated me like an afterthought, a nuisance.

But now she was gone.

Gone in a car accident in Milan, and I was supposed to feel something. Anything. But I didn't.

I found myself thinking about everything except her.

I couldn't help but wonder how Luciano was handling this.

How was he processing her death, if he was even feeling anything at all?

Was he pissed? Was he indifferent? He was supposed to marry her, or at least that was the plan, before the whole ugly truth about her being an illegitimate daughter came to light.

But maybe he was relieved? He didn't need the mess that Ciara would've brought into his life. He had always been good at hiding whatever was inside.

Hell, he might've never loved her in the first place. Luciano loved nothing but control, and if something, or someone, didn't fit into his perfect little world, he discarded it.

That's how it had always been with him. And with me.

I shifted my gaze to the streets below, wondering what kind of mess was waiting for me when I went back home.

"...Ciara Nash's car was found overturned on the side of the highway, authorities saying it happened late last night. Witnesses report seeing her speeding..."

The reporter's voice cut through my thoughts, bringing me back to the television. More details about the crash, more of a story I didn't care about.

"Who gives a shit about the details?" I muttered under my breath, though I knew Franco could hear me.

I didn't look at him, not wanting to acknowledge the uncomfortable tension that still hung in the air.

I wasn't sure if it was because of the strange, silent weight between us, or if it was because I had no idea where I even stood anymore, but I just wanted the noise to stop.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Franco's voice broke through again, this time with a touch more concern.

He was still watching the TV, but I could hear the underlying worry in his tone, like he was second-guessing his earlier assumptions about me.

I turned away from the window then, not bothering to hide the frustration in my eyes.

"I'm fine," I assured him.

But the words didn't feel real. They didn't feel like they fit.

I wasn't fine.

I never had been.

I hadn't even realized I was biting my nails until I tasted blood. My fingers were torn, ragged, the skin so raw it stung, but I didn't care. It wasn't anything compared to the mess inside my head.

I needed to feel something, even if it was just pain. The more I bit into my fingers, the more real it became, the sharper the sting. The blood dripped down my palm, mixing with the invisible ache in my chest.

I pressed my palm against my lips, tasting the metallic tang of it, grounding myself. And that was when I felt Franco's presence at my side.

"Shit, Aurelia," he muttered under his breath, a hand reaching out to stop me, but not before he saw the blood staining my fingers.

He grabbed my wrist gently, pulling my hand away from my mouth. "You're bleeding. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I didn't look at him. Instead, I pulled my hand free, wiping it hastily against my jeans, but it didn't stop.

The blood kept coming. I could still feel it staining my skin.

"I'm fine," I snapped again, but even to my own ears, I sounded hollow. "I've never felt better." The words felt foreign on my tongue, like I was lying to both him and myself.

Franco didn't let go, though. He was faster than me, grabbing a towel from the bathroom and rushing back to my side. His fingers were gentle, surprisingly so, as he wrapped the towel around my wrist, applying pressure to stop the bleeding.

"You're not fine, Aurelia. You're fucking bleeding," he said again, quieter this time, but there was an edge of frustration in his voice.

I shook my head, my chest tight.

"I don't know how to feel about this." I motioned toward the television, where they were still talking about Ciara's accident.

I didn't know if it was her death that was fucking me up or if it was the realization that I was stuck in this mess with the people who could've cared less about me.

Luciano. Chase. My entire family.

What did they feel right now? Was Chase torn apart by her death?

He had been close with her, always trying to play the part of the doting older brother.

Was he grieving? Or was he numb? I wouldn't put it past him to shove his emotions down deep inside, just like Luciano.

Both of them always knew how to hide what they really felt.

But I could see Luciano, cold and calculating, probably sitting in his office, listening to the news with nothing but indifference. Maybe he didn't care that she was gone, or maybe he was just waiting to figure out how to clean up the mess she left behind.

But I couldn't stop wondering... would Luciano mourn her? Was he capable of mourning anyone? Or would he use this as another chance to bury the truth, the lies, the pain?

Franco didn't say anything. He just looked at me with that same, steady gaze. Like he was waiting for me to break. Maybe he thought I was on the edge, that any moment now, I'd collapse under the weight of it all. But I wasn't going to.

I pulled my hand from the towel Franco had pressed against me, and wiped my face, pretending to breathe through it all.

"I'll be fine," I repeated.

But even as I said the words, the ache in my chest only deepened.

Because what was left for me?