The Wrong Brother's Promised Bride

1. Leander

Leander

The phone on my nightstand starts buzzing at five in the morning. I turned off the ringer years ago, but the vibration against the hardwood floor is enough to pull me out of sleep instantly.

Someone better be dying. Cause that’s the only reason anyone would call me at this time.

I don't reach for it right away, I lie on my back in the dark, staring up at the concrete ceiling of my condo, letting my heart rate settle back into a steady rhythm. Five seconds. Six.

I roll over, pick up the phone, and check the screen.

Restricted.

There are only two people who have this unlisted line. One is the trauma center's chief of surgery. The other is a man I haven't seen in person since last month.

I slide the button and put the phone to my ear without saying a word.

"You're awake," Roberto mutters. His voice is deep, raspy from forty years of unfiltered cigarettes.

"I am now," I reply, my voice dry.

"There's a family dinner tonight at eight. The estate. Everyone needs to be at the table."

I sit up on the edge of the mattress, resting my elbows on my knees. The cold air in the bedroom bites at my bare skin, but I barely feel it.

"I can't make it," I reply immediately. "I'm buried at the hospital today. On-call rotation, back-to-back procedures, I have a full schedule until midnight."

It's a lie. My shift doesn't officially start until seven-thirty, and I'm only scheduled for one elective procedure this morning. But giving Roberto even an inch of free time is an invitation for him to fill it with blood and politics.

A brief silence lingers over the line. I hear the faint flick of a lighter on his end, followed by a slow exhale of smoke into the receiver.

"Clear your schedule, Leander," Roberto commands, his tone entirely level. "Your brother is bringing news from the shipping docks, and the capos are coming in from the north. A divided family sitting in front of the council looks like a weak family. You know how this works."

"I don't care how it works, Roberto." I answer, reaching for the water bottle on my nightstand and taking a swallow.

"You carry my blood whether you like it or not," he replies softly. "Eight o'clock. Don't make me send a car to pick you up from the emergency room. It'll create a scene, and you hate scenes."

He's testing me.

"Send a car if you want," I respond, staring at the shadows on the far wall. "Just make sure the driver knows how to change a flat, because he won't be driving it back."

I hang up before he can respond, tossing the phone onto the unmade sheets.

Silence fills the room again as I get out of bed, walk into the dark bathroom, and turn the shower on full blast. I let the ice-cold water hit my back until the lingering tension from Roberto's voice fades into a dull hum. I shave with practiced movements, my hands steady against my skin.

There’s no room for mistakes in my work, and there’s no room for hesitation in the life I built away from my father.

When I pull on a clean shirt and step out into the kitchen, the smell of dark espresso is already floating through the open living space.

Sitting at my kitchen island, wearing gym shorts and a faded t-shirt while flipping through a sports magazine, is Julian.

Julian has his own luxury loft four blocks away in the financial district.

He also has a key to my place, a key I’ve threatened to confiscate at least six times this year.

As an emergency room attending physician, his schedule is as chaotic as mine, but somehow he always manages to look like he’s on a permanent vacation.

People would argue that he is my closest friend, maybe even best friend, but I just think he’s a huge pain in my ass.

He doesn't even look up when I walk in. He just points a thumb toward the espresso machine.

"I brewed the good beans," Julian announces, taking a leisurely sip from one of my porcelain mugs. "You're welcome, by the way."

I grab a clean mug from the cupboard and pour myself a shot, leaning my back against the marble counter.

"Julian," I call, my voice flat.

"Leander," he replies in the exact same tone.

"Why are you in my apartment at five-forty-five in the morning?"

"My air conditioning was making a weird clicking sound at three a.m.," he replies, finally closing his magazine and slumping back against the stool. "And your couch is ergonomic. Plus, you buy better coffee than I do."

See? Pain in the ass.

"You have a three-million-dollar condo."

"Yeah, but it's cold and empty," Julian answers with a grin that would look charming on anyone else, but it just annoys me.

"Whereas here, I get to enjoy your sunny, welcoming personality first thing in the morning.

It sounded like you were on the phone earlier, who was it?

You look like you're planning a murder."

Close enough.

"My father." I answer, taking a slow sip of the scalding espresso.

Julian’s grin fades slightly, his sharp blue eyes searching my face.

Among the few people in my life who know who I actually am, Julian is the only one who doesn't tip-toe around the subject. He’s seen me patch up gunshot wounds in off-grid clinics when we were residents, and he knows exactly what kind of blood flows in my veins.

"The Don called?" Julian asks, his voice dropping the playful edge. "What does he want?"

"A family dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. The whole circus."

"Are you going?"

"I told him I was stuck in surgeries until midnight."

Julian snorts, setting his mug down on the counter. "He bought that?"

"No," I scoff, setting my cup in the sink. "He threatened to send a car to the ER to fetch me."

"Classic Roberto," Julian mutters, shaking his head. "So, are we throwing spikes on the pavement or calling in a fake bomb threat to the estate?"

"I told him to send the car so his driver could learn how to change a tire."

Julian bursts out laughing, clapping his hands together once. "God, I love when you get polite. It's terrifying. You really need a hobby, man. Or a girlfriend. Or a dog. Anything that stops you from looking like an assassin off his leash."

"I have a job," I mumble, picking up my dark charcoal suit jacket from the back of the dining chair and sliding my arms into the sleeves.

"You have an obsession," Julian corrects, standing up and grabbing his car keys off my counter. "You work eighty hours a week so you don't have to think about the fact that your family runs half the shipping docks on the East Coast."

"Get out of my house, Julian."

"I'm going, I'm going," he croons, backing toward the front door with a dramatic wave. "I've got an eight a.m. intake anyway. Try not to glare at the surgical nurses today, Leander. Nurse Higgins almost cried last Tuesday when you asked for a ten-blade."

"She handed me a twelve," I mutter coldly.

"It was a mistake, grumpy!" Julian yells from the hallway as he slips out the door.

The apartment goes quiet again as the front door clicks shut. I let out a low breath, checking my watch. Six-fifteen.

I head down the hallway toward the street. The morning air in the city is sharp and damp, smelling of rain, concrete, and diesel exhaust. It’s quiet at this hour, save for the distant rumble of garbage trucks two blocks over.

My phone vibrates twice in my coat pocket while I walk. I pull it out, squinting at the screen.

It's a barrage of actual work notifications from the head floor nurse and the trauma chief.

Shift lead called out sick.

Two motor vehicle accidents coming in from the highway.

Dr. Vance wants pre-op charts reviewed by seven.

I let out a short, cynical breath, shoving the device back into my pocket.

Great! My fake excuse just turned into reality. Just great!

I continue down the sidewalk, keeping a fast, steady pace.

I stop at the small Italian coffee cart three blocks from the hospital entrance, I'm going to need more than one cup of morning coffee to tide me through the day.

The street is starting to wake up now, delivery drivers unloading crates, commuters shuffling toward the subway stairs with their heads down.

The owner, Marco, takes one look at my face and doesn't even bother with a greeting. He knows my routine. He turns around, pulls a double shot of dark roast into a paper cup, snaps the plastic lid on tight, and slides it across the stainless-steel counter.

"Long day ahead, Doc?" Marco asks, wiping down the metal surface with a damp rag.

"Starting early," I nod, sliding a twenty-dollar bill across the counter without waiting for change.

I take a sip as I cross the street toward the main entrance. The coffee is scalding, bitter, and strong enough to wake up a corpse. Perfect.

My mind is already moving past Roberto and tuning into the hospital's rhythm, checking on the trauma bay handoffs, scrubbing in for the seven o'clock laparotomy, making sure the junior residents didn't mess up the overnight charting.

In the hospital, everything has order. Chaos happens, but there are rules for fixing it.

I'm three steps from the automatic glass doors of the lobby when a woman steps backward out of the side alcove near the admin offices.

She isn't looking. She’s carrying a huge stack of brown files tucked into her arms, stepping straight back into the main foot-traffic line without checking her shoulder.

She bumps into me hard with enough momentum to send her stumbling sideways.

Out of pure instinct, my left hand shoots out and grabs her shoulder to keep her from slamming onto the pavement. But my right hand, the hand holding sixteen ounces of dark roast takes the brunt of the collision.

The plastic lid pops right off.

A wave of burning liquid splashes across the front of my white dress shirt, soaking straight through the cotton, scorching my skin underneath, and dripping down the front of my trousers.

"Jesus," I snap, letting go of her shoulder instantly and taking two fast steps back.

The heat stings against my ribs, sticking the wet fabric to my skin. I look down at the massive dark brown stain completely ruining a custom suit, then snap my gaze up to her.

She's standing there, clutching a thick stack of manila folders that are now splashed with brown spots along the bottom edge.

She's wearing a navy blazer, her hair pulled back into a neat clip, though a few strands have spilled loose around her face from the force of the bump.

Her eyes are wide, caught entirely off guard.

Today really isn’t my day.

"Do you usually walk backward into people without looking?" I ask, my voice hard.

She blinks, and for half a second, I expect her to stumble over an apology or act flustered. Instead, her chin goes up, her shoulders square, and her expression hardens right back at me.

"I was stepping out of the doorway," she replies, her voice completely smooth and devoid of any remorse. "You were walking too fast."

"I was walking straight on a public sidewalk," I answer, pulling a handkerchief from my back pocket and pressing it uselessly against my ruined shirt. Waste of time. "You backed out of a blind corner into traffic. That's basic common sense."

"You weren't traffic, you were moving like a train," she retorts, looking down at her own sleeve where a drop of liquid caught her lapel. She frowns slightly, wiping it away with her thumb before looking back up. "And normal people slow down when they see someone coming out of a building."

I stop wiping my shirt and look at her properly.

Most people at this hospital, residents, nurses, even some of the attending staff usually step around me or keep their tone polite when I look like this. I know what I look like: tall, cold, and very unapproachable.

She doesn't seem to care at all. She stands her ground on the concrete like she owns the block.

"I caught you so you wouldn't hit the pavement. I deserve a thank you or at least an apology." I mutter, keeping my tone controlled despite the burning sensation on my ribs. “My shirt is ruined because you splashed coffee on me.”

"You didn't catch me, you grabbed me," she corrects immediately, meeting my eyes dead-on. Her eyes are a striking light hazel, sharp and unyielding. "And for the record, you spilled your own coffee when you reacted."

Unbelievable. This situation… this woman, is unbelievable.

I stare at her for a long beat. My head is already pounding from Roberto's early morning call, my shirt is ruined, and I have a surgical bay waiting for me upstairs. I don't have the patience or the bandwidth to debate street etiquette with a stranger who refuses to take accountability.

"I don't have time for this," I step around her and the wet stain on the pavement. "Watch your step next time."

"You're welcome for saving you from a complete collision!" she calls after me, her voice ringing clearly over the quiet hum of the street traffic.

I don't turn back. I just push through the automatic glass doors into the lobby, leaving the smell of spilled coffee behind for the sterile scent of rubbing alcohol and floor wax.

Just another chaotic day in this building, I think, pulling at the wet collar of my shirt as I head toward the staff elevators. At least inside these doors, I'm the one in control.