Chapter 3 — My Brothers Name in the Wrong Mouth
POV: Elena
The black silk of my dress felt fused to my skin—a second layer of epidermis, toxic and suffocating.
In the back seat of a taxi that reeked of synthetic pine and stale cigarettes, I hugged myself, digging my nails into my bare arms, trying to stop the trembling.
It wasn't the cold. The car's heating was on full blast, blowing dry, dusty air in my face.
The tremor came from within—a vibration in my bones that had started the moment Gabriel Moretti released my chin in his penthouse.
I could still feel the pressure of his fingers on my jaw.
It wasn't a touch of affection. It was a branding.
Like a rancher checking a horse's teeth before purchase, or a predator testing the give of its prey's throat.
There was heat, yes—a searing heat that climbed my neck and lodged in my belly, a biological betrayal that left me sick with guilt—but above all, there was possession.
I looked out the rain-streaked window. Ashford slid past in blurs of neon and wet concrete.
The city seemed different now. Before, it had just been a hostile place where I struggled to pay rent.
Now, it felt like an open-air prison, where every tall building could belong to a Moretti & Hale client, and every shadow could hide someone documenting my every move.
Be here tomorrow at eight. We have a trip.
The order echoed in my head, layered over the noise of tires on wet asphalt.
Trip. Displacement. Isolation. He was removing me from my environment, stripping away the few variables I still controlled—my apartment, my routine, the illusion of safety—and taking me somewhere the only law would be his word.
The driver braked hard in front of my building, a block of exposed brick in a neighborhood city hall kindly called “under revitalization” and residents called “God-forsaken.”
I paid the fare with trembling hands, leaving a tip I couldn't afford, just to get out of that car faster.
The rain had tapered to a fine, icy drizzle. I ran for the entrance, dodging puddles of oil and water on the cracked sidewalk. The lobby smelled of mold and old mail. The elevator was broken, as it had been last week and the week before.
I climbed the four flights of stairs, my expensive heels—the only luxury left from a previous life—clicking on the concrete. Each step was an effort. The physical exhaustion from hours of tension, translating financial crimes and deflecting psychological games, was taking its toll.
When I reached the door to 402, I stopped.
The light was on.
A yellowish sliver of light leaked from under the door, illuminating the dust in the hallway. My heart, which had just started to slow, raced again. I lived alone. No one had the key.
Except one person.
I turned the handle and pushed the door open, already knowing what I would find, but praying I was wrong.
I wasn't.
Thomas was sprawled on my secondhand beige sofa, his feet—clad in brand-name sneakers (how did he pay for those?)—propped on the coffee table. The television blared a basketball game. There was an open pizza box on the floor, greasy, with two empty beer bottles beside it.
He turned his head when I entered, an easy, carefree smile lighting up a face so similar to mine, but without the shadows I carried.
“Hey, El!” he called, as if he hadn't disappeared for two weeks without a word. “You took a while. The pizza got cold, but I left you two slices of pepperoni.”
I closed the door behind me and locked it. The sound of the lock turning felt like a gunshot in the silence of my mind.
I looked at him. Really looked.
Thomas was twenty-three, but in that bad light, he looked seventeen.
Disheveled brown hair, the bright eyes of someone who still thinks the world owes him something.
He had no idea. He had no clue that his name was in a black dossier locked in the mahogany drawer of one of the most dangerous men in the city.
He didn't know that his freedom, his ability to be there, lying on my sofa eating pizza, had cost me my soul.
“What are you doing here, Thomas?” I asked. My voice came out hoarse, devoid of any sisterly warmth.
He frowned, the smile faltering.
“Wow. Warm reception.” He sat up, taking his feet off the table. “I got evicted. That landlord is a fascist. Said I was three months behind, can you believe it? Like I wasn't going to pay as soon as the crypto investment turned around.”
“Crypto,” I repeated, feeling a sharp pain behind my eyes. “You spent the rent money on cryptocurrency, Thomas?”
“It's not spending, it's investing!” He stood up, gesturing with that manic energy that always preceded a request for money. “You don't understand the market, Elena. It's the future. I just need a little more capital to cover the margin and…”
“No.”
The word fell between us like a stone.
Thomas stopped. He looked me up and down, noticing for the first time what I was wearing. The black backless dress. The smudged makeup. The hair falling from the bun.
His eyes narrowed, and a malicious, almost cruel smile curved his lips.
“Well, well. Look at you.” He whistled low. “Expensive dress. You smell like... good whiskey? Where were you, little sis? Don’t tell me Saint Elena finally got herself a sugar daddy to pay the bills?”
Nausea rose in my throat, acidic and violent.
I walked toward him. For the first time in my life, the urge to hit my brother was almost uncontrollable. He thought this was a joke. He thought my degradation was funny.
“I was working,” I said, each word sharp as glass. “Working to clean up the mess you make.”
“Working dressed like that?” He laughed, grabbing the last slice of cold pizza. “What kind of translation job needs a backless dress? Translating between the sheets?”
“Shut up, Thomas.”
“Relax, no need to get worked up. If the guy pays well, who am I to judge? Actually, speaking of paying well... I need five hundred dollars. Just to get my stuff out of the old apartment. I swear I’ll pay you back Monday.”
Five hundred dollars.
The price of his freedom was incalculable, but he was asking me for five hundred dollars to rescue clothes and a PlayStation.
I went to the tiny kitchen, which was just a counter separating the living room from the refrigerator, and opened my purse. My hands were shaking so badly I had trouble finding my wallet.
“I don’t have five hundred,” I said, pulling out three hundred-dollar bills I’d withdrawn for emergencies. “I have three hundred. That’s everything in the house.”
I came back and held out the money to him.
“Take it. And leave.”
Thomas took the money, counting the bills quickly. He looked disappointed but stuffed them in his jeans pocket.
“Three hundred won’t go far, but it helps.” He looked at me, and for a second, I saw a shadow of real concern there—or maybe it was just a reflection of my own exhaustion. “You’re pale, El. This guy... did he hurt you?”
The irony was so bitter I almost choked.
“No, Thomas. He didn’t hurt me.” Yet. “He just gave me a job.”
“What kind of job?”
“Translation. For a law firm.”
Thomas’s eyes lit up.
“Which one? That big one downtown? Sterling Plaza?”
“Yes.” I couldn’t say the name. I couldn’t put Gabriel’s name and Thomas’s in the same sentence without feeling like I was inviting disaster.
“Moretti & Hale?” Thomas insisted, his excitement growing. “They say those guys are legends. Monsters. They say Moretti got that Russian mobster off last year without even going to trial.”
The enthusiasm in his voice made me want to scream. He admired the monster about to devour him. He spoke Gabriel’s name with reverence, not knowing that Gabriel spoke his with disgust.
“Yeah, Thomas. Legends.” I hugged myself, feeling the apartment’s cold seep through the thin silk. “Now, please. I need to sleep. I have to travel early tomorrow morning. For work.”
“Travel?” He raised an eyebrow. “With the boss? On the weekend?”
“It’s work,” I repeated, closing my eyes. “Just work. Get out of here.”
He shrugged, grabbed his jacket from the couch, and walked to the door.
“All right. Thanks for the cash. You’re the best, El.” He paused in the doorway and looked back. “Oh, if you see Moretti... tell him I’m a fan. Maybe he needs a finance intern? I’m good with numbers, you know.”
The door slammed.
I stood in the middle of the empty room, the smell of pizza and cheap beer hanging in the air.
I’m good with numbers.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat and escaped as a sob. He was good with numbers. So good he’d embezzled funds from a multinational and left a digital trail a child could follow. So good that now I belonged to Gabriel Moretti.
I walked to the bathroom and started to take off the dress. The fabric slid down my body, pooling on the cold tile floor like black ink. I looked at myself in the stained mirror.
There were red marks on my chin. The imprint of Gabriel’s thumb, faint but visible against my pale skin.
I touched the mark. It hurt.
Thomas was an idiot. A parasite. But he was my blood. And Gabriel... Gabriel was the blade at my throat.
I stepped into the shower, turning the faucet until the water ran scalding hot. I scrubbed my skin until it was red, trying to wash away the smell of expensive cologne, of fear and confused desire.
But water couldn’t wash away memory. Or debt.
At seven forty-five the next morning, I stood on the sidewalk.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a leaden sky that promised storms. I wore gray tailored pants, a black turtleneck, and a beige overcoat.
Armor. No exposed skin. No dresses that invited a touch.
I’d pulled my hair back in a low ponytail and wore glasses, even though my contacts were in my bag. I wanted to create barriers. Layers.
A black SUV, armored and gleaming like a giant beetle, glided silently to the curb at exactly eight o’clock.
The rear window rolled down.
There was no driver. Gabriel was behind the wheel.