Chapter 4 The Older Brother

The winery at the estate wasn't just a place where wine was stored; it was a sanctuary of silences and secrets. A cold space, with stone walls that absorbed the heat of the summer and returned a nearly tangible humidity that clung to the skin and made breathing feel heavy. It was there that I met Nicolo for the first time, a meeting that changed the air between us and, in some way, also changed the atmosphere across the entire estate.

I entered with cautious steps, still wearing the lace dress Martina had recommended to make me look "sufficiently appropriate," though in reality, all I cared about was that no one suspected what I truly thought. The light was dim, only a few old spotlights illuminated the endless rows of barrels, and the smell of oak, fermented grapes, and dampness wrapped around me like rough cloth.

Nicolo was there, standing next to a pile of wooden crates with new bottles waiting to be labeled. Tall, with an angular face and a cold gaze, he made me feel like an intruder in his kingdom, even though we hadn't exchanged a word yet. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were fixed on an indeterminate point, but when he lifted his gaze and saw me, his expression changed for an instant: a mix that was hard to read, somewhere between surprise and something dangerously close to curiosity.

"Clara," he said in a low, controlled voice, without moving. "I didn't expect to see you here."

I tried to reply with a smile, although my lips seemed stuck, lacking the strength to express anything more than a calculated courtesy.

"I'm exploring. I need to know every corner of this place that will soon be mine."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. The tension in the air was palpable, an invisible thread tying us together without either of us wanting to admit it. I noticed his eyes scanning every detail of me, as if trying to figure out what my true intentions were, beyond the empty words I was speaking.

"This place isn't just a piece of land to show off," his voice had an edge. "There are traditions, loyalties, and a history you don't understand. Don't make the mistake of underestimating it."

I felt a chill slip down my spine. I wanted to respond, defend myself, tell him that I knew exactly what I was getting into, that my intentions went far beyond the illusion of an arranged marriage. But his presence was like an impenetrable wall, and I fell silent. I even regretted making that comment.

"I don't want to misinterpret the situation, Clara," he added, stepping a little closer. "Not everything you see is as it seems. Not even for us, those of us who live here."

At that moment, the air seemed to thicken, and his voice, so controlled and cold, carried a nuance that stirred a dangerous mixture inside me: attraction and rejection, fascination and fear. He was a man who commanded both respect and fear, an enigma wrapped in a strong body and a mind sharp as a razor. He would undoubtedly be the one who would challenge me the most to control.

Then, fragments of conversations I had overheard flashed through my mind, the way the family moved around him with a mixture of admiration and caution. And within that web of emotions, I realized that Nicolo didn't just control the winery and the wine; he controlled something much deeper: the fate of all of us.

I tried to maintain a steady gaze, though I could feel my hands sweating and my skin tingling with every word. I wanted to know more, but I also wanted to protect myself, to hide behind sarcasm and indifference the part of me that was starting to tremble.

"What do you mean by 'misinterpret'?" I asked, putting on the façade of confidence I was pretending to have.

Nicolo gave a smile that didn't quite soften his expression.

"That this family is broken, Clara. That it's not a fairytale nor a clean business. That your commitment to Marco isn't something you should judge without knowing the background."

The silence grew heavy. The shadows of the barrels seemed longer, more menacing.

"And yet, here you are," he finally said, stepping even closer, almost brushing against me with his presence. "What are you hoping to find?"

I didn't know how to answer. In reality, I was hoping for everything and nothing. I was hoping to find power, security, money, a place where I could stop being invisible, but I was also hoping for everything to crumble so I could take whatever was left.

We stood there, trapped in some kind of silent duel, the smell of wine and wet wood as mute witnesses to a tension that burned without drawing attention.

When I finally moved away, I noticed that Nicolo was still watching me, his cold, calculating eyes following my every step.

"Be careful, Clara," he said in a low tone, full of warning. "Because in this house, everything is paid for. And sometimes, the price is higher than what one is willing to give."

I walked away with measured steps, feeling that something inside me had shifted in an instant. The winery wasn't just a place to store wine; it was the epicenter of a dangerous game, and Nicolo had the winning cards.

As I ascended the stairs into the daylight, a mix of conflicting desires consumed me: I wanted to run and stay; I wanted to hate him and desire him. And above all, I wanted to know how far I was willing to go to win.

The sunlight that greeted me as I left the winery seemed too bright, almost offensive after the charged silence I had left behind. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my fast-beating heart, my hands still sweating, though the sticky humidity and dense air reminded me that I couldn't rule that place so easily with Nicolo around.

His words kept resonating in my mind: "In this house, everything is paid for." What did that really mean? What had happened with Marco? What secrets did this family hide behind their facade of wealth and apparent perfection? And what if they were ruined?

As I crossed the courtyard, I noticed the furtive glances of the employees working in the gardens. No one mentioned the wedding, but everyone worked to make sure everything went well, moving cautiously, as if an invisible hurricane was approaching. Martina, who was waiting for me sitting on a wrought-iron bench, lifted her gaze and gave me a smile full of complicity.

"How was the meeting with the big boss?" she asked in a low voice, not bothering to hide the curious gleam in her eyes.

"Colder than the wine in the cellar," I responded, trying to sound casual, though a part of me wanted to scream that that man was a mystery that could devour me whole.

Martina moved closer and, without saying more, took my hand firmly.

"We have to play our cards well, Clara. This isn't just a wedding; it's a game where no one wins without losing something. We both know that."

Her warning made me remember what we had planned from the start: to use the wedding with Marco to consolidate our position. But it also made me think of Nicolo, that man who, despite his coldness, seemed to hold the key to everything.

That night, as I prepared to sleep, images of Nicolo invaded my mind. His intense gaze, his deep voice, the way his words had pierced through my armor of sarcasm. I closed my eyes and remembered fragments of our conversation, mixed with flashes of my own ambition and fear.

I couldn't afford to fail. Not now. I had to get him on my side.