Chapter 3 Martina

The sun poured in through the windows of the main hall of the estate, drawing rectangles of warm light over the Persian rugs and the dark wooden furniture. It was an ordinary morning, exactly two months before the wedding, and the air was filled with that sweet, metallic scent that often accompanied summer days in the old winery mansion. I was sitting on the couch, my fingers nervously playing with the edge of an empty glass of mineral water. Beside me, Martina absentmindedly flipped through a magazine she had stolen from the butler's desk.

She was sixteen, that age when innocence and ambition cross paths at a dangerous intersection. I watched her as she threw me a fleeting glance, almost as if seeking approval, though she always knew that in this game, I held the cards. Martina was the anchor that kept me sane, the silent accomplice in a sea of masks and lies that surrounded us all.

"Do you think it will be easy, Clara?" she asked, lowering the magazine with a gesture that was meant to be casual.

I smiled, tilting my head, pretending the question was naive.

"Easy isn't the word. But the game is played with the cards you're dealt, and we've been given an ace of spades."

She laughed, that adolescent laugh that hadn't yet been tainted by betrayal or deep disappointment.

The days slid by with the apparent monotony of preparations: dresses that had to fit with the precision of a tailor's suit, flowers that wilted before they had a chance to unfold their full fragrance, and endless rehearsals where smiles froze on the faces of those who knew too much and said too little.

Martina and I moved between those hours with a rehearsed choreography: on the outside, two sisters excited about a wedding that promised to change our lives; on the inside, two strategists analyzing every gesture, every look, every whisper.

"And Nicolo?" Martina suddenly asked, not lifting her eyes from the magazine, but with a voice full of contained curiosity.

I knew who she meant, of course. Nicolo, the older brother, always present at family gatherings with that sharp smile and the gaze that seemed to pierce you and strip you of your intentions. A man who seemed to hide a dark ocean beneath the calm surface of his facade.

"Nicolo is... a variable that's hard to decipher," I answered, choosing my words carefully. "He's not easy to approach, and that makes him even more interesting. We must be careful with him."

Martina looked at me then, with a mixture of admiration and something that could be called fear.

"Do you think he'll be on our side when all of this is over?"

It was a question too sincere to be thrown so freely in a place where secrets were common currency. But the truth was, I needed to hear it, and I needed her to know she could trust me, that this wasn't a solitary journey.

"What matters is that we know where we're going," I replied, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. "The rest are just pieces on the board. Let's not be intimidated."

We parted for a moment as we prepared to head downstairs to the hall, and the distant sound of Marco's piano, my fiancé, reached us like an invisible thread that tied the entire family to a unique, controlled rhythm. Marco had that way of playing that made everything seem like a scene from an old movie, full of glamour and secrets hidden behind every chord.

However, something in his expression when he looked up at the window struck me as cold, inaccessible, as if he were there, but not entirely present. I couldn't help but feel a mix of frustration and repressed desire every time he approached. It was like a fire that never quite caught, a subtle tension that burned beneath the skin.

The intermittent rehearsals had become a routine of stolen glances, controlled gestures, and words that said more than they left unsaid. Sometimes, in those heavy silences, I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into. But then I remembered the prize, and the answer came back strong.

When Martina and I retired to our room, the distant sound of Marco's voice and the murmurs of the servants mixed with our whispers.

"Do you think Marco knows something we don't?" she asked that night as we went over the last details of the event.

"I don't know," I admitted, with a hint of irony. "But if he does, he's not showing it. That's a double-edged sword."

Martina nodded, biting her lower lip.

"Sometimes, I feel like this family holds more secrets than we can imagine."

A shadow crossed my gaze as a wave of nausea climbed up my throat. It wasn't just the food or the suffocating heat of the Italian summer, but that unsettling mix of desire and danger that made me feel both alive and vulnerable at the same time.

That night, as I prepared to sleep, an image slipped between the broken fragments of my memory: a brief, heated argument I witnessed between Marco and Nicolo, voices raised in the dim light, words lost in the darkness. I couldn't remember everything, but the weight of that moment left me breathless.

I knew that, although I still didn't understand the full extent, something was being hidden from me.

The air in the room grew heavier, and I found it hard to fall asleep, as if every word between us added weight to a secret we were only beginning to understand. Martina, with her large eyes and that mix of innocence and determination, seemed both an anchor and a storm at the same time. Sitting across from me, the jasmine scent from the garden entered through the window, mingling with the faint smell of cold coffee we had left on the table.

"You know?" she whispered, lowering her voice as if afraid the walls had ears. "Last night I heard Marco and Nicolo argue. I couldn't understand much, but Marco's voice sounded... different, like he was really scared or angry."

My chest tightened. I didn't want to confess that I had seen them, that I knew exactly what she was talking about. The information Martina brought was a key that opened the door to a dark and forbidden room. I couldn't let that truth slip out of control. But she was useful, too useful to frighten. I didn't want her to worry unnecessarily.

"And what made you think that?" I asked, pretending to take a casual interest.

Martina stared at me intently, with the expression of someone who knew more than she was letting on.

"I don't know, Clara. It was the way Nicolo interrupted him, almost like he wanted to silence him. And Marco, instead of fighting back, fell silent, something I've never seen before."

My voice cracked a little, and cold sweat covered my back. I took a deep breath, trying to control the trembling in my hands.

"That's not our problem," I said, though my words sounded empty. "What matters is that we're here and we know what to do. You help me, and everything will be fine."

Martina nodded, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. At that moment, I felt the complicity between us solidify, an invisible web woven with secrets, ambitions, and fear.

But the shadow of Nicolo and Marco stretched over the house, and I knew it wouldn't be long before it enveloped both of us.