Chapter 2

Augusto started to go after his sister. He needed to talk to her, to try to calm that desperate heart. But he was stopped by their father's firm hand on his arm.

"Don't bother going now," Arnold said, his voice heavy. "She won't want to listen to you. Let her process this first. You two can talk later."

There was too much emotion behind that forced composure.

Arnold sat on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. The crying came hard, broken, as if it had been held back for years.

"If I had another alternative, I'd take it," he said between sobs. "Any alternative at all. Just so I wouldn't have to see my daughter like that... and still having to marry that man. I'd be willing to die if I had to. Just to spare her from this."

Augusto felt the weight of those words settle onto his shoulders.

"I'm going to find a solution, Dad," he replied firmly. "I promise. I'll go upstairs, take a shower, and then meet with Mark. We'll figure something out."

"Take the box he sent for you," their mother asked before Augusto went upstairs.

He picked up the box reluctantly. He knew it wasn't wise to cross Pietro, not even over something seemingly trivial. Sometimes a single detail out of place was enough to create problems.

In his room, he tossed the package on the bed and went straight to the shower. The cold water helped push away, for a few minutes, the weight he carried in his chest. He dressed quickly, but the white shape on the mattress caught his attention again.

He took a deep breath and decided to open it.

Inside was a white tuxedo. Flawless. Far too elegant to be a coincidence.

Augusto frowned. He didn't understand the choice of color, but he recognized the good taste. There was something unsettling about that perfection, as if every detail had already been designed with him in mind.

He closed the box and left it on the bed.

He grabbed a copy of the contract and headed out. He needed to see Mark.

On his way down, he found his parents still in the living room, talking in low tones. He approached only to let them know where he was going.

"I'm going out to try to find a solution. Keep an eye on Alice. Don't let her do anything reckless," Augusto said, visibly worried.

He left right after and drove straight to Mark's place. He got there quickly. They lived close to each other.

The door opened almost immediately. Mark greeted him with an expression far too serious for that hour, but Augusto didn't find it strange. The situation was too complicated for smiles.

"Want a drink?" he offered.

"Please. I'm going to need one," Augusto replied, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto the sofa.

Mark prepared the drink in silence. He didn't ask anything. Just served. Then he led Augusto to the study.

On the desk, there was already a copy of the contract.

The two sat down and began rereading the document. Silence stretched as their eyes traveled over the cold clauses, each line more suffocating than the last.

After a while, Mark broke the silence.

"So... do we kill him?" he said, shrugging, as if suggesting something mundane.

Augusto let out a short, humorless laugh.

"I'm trying to save my sister, not commit suicide."

He knew that idea was practically a death wish. Others had tried something similar before. None had survived.

"He sure as hell deserves it," Mark added, draining his glass in one gulp.

That sounded strange to Augusto. He'd always known Mark didn't like Pietro, but there was something different about the way he said it. It wasn't just hatred. There was resentment. Something personal.

Mark stood, poured more bourbon, and walked to the window. He stood in silence for a few seconds, breathing deeply, before continuing:

"There's another way out."

Augusto looked up.

"You could offer an aunt, a cousin..." Mark paused briefly. "Or even yourself."

Augusto felt his stomach turn.

"The contract doesn't mention Alice by name," Mark added, still facing away. "It only says it has to be a member of the Castro family."

Augusto smiled, about to scold his friend, but held back the impulse. He looked at the contract on the desk again and, for the first time, didn't just see clauses. An idea shot through his mind. Reckless. Dangerous.

Mark returned from the window and sat beside him again. He noticed the faint smile that had appeared on Augusto's lips. It should have brought relief. Instead, it tightened his chest.

Augusto turned suddenly, took Mark's face in his hands, and kissed his cheek.

It was quick. Too intimate to be casual.

Mark went rigid for a second, caught off guard by the closeness. He played it off, the way he always did.

"Hey..." he said, forcing a smile. "I know I'm hot, but don't push it."

Inside, though, the gesture weighed more than it should have.

Augusto stood, grabbing another drink before continuing his explanation.

"Pietro is a massive womanizer," he said, gesturing lightly with his glass. "So I'm going to offer myself in my sister's place, arguing that the clause isn't clear. He's so proud of his own masculinity that he'll refuse. Not even his father would allow his son to marry another man."

He drained the glass in one go. There was excitement in his voice. Hope.

"Augusto..." Mark interrupted, this time looking directly at him. "Have you considered the possibility that this could backfire? What if he accepts?"

Augusto was quiet for a moment.

"There's no possibility he'll accept," he answered, trying to sound convincing. "But if I'm that absurdly unlucky... then I'll have to live with the choice I made. What'll console me is knowing I saved my sister."

Despite the firm words, doubt crept in. Pietro wasn't an ordinary man. He was cold. Calculating. Cruel enough to accept just for the pleasure of humiliating, tormenting, punishing Augusto for destroying the planned union with Alice.

He shook his head, pushing the thought away before it could take root. If he let that possibility grow, he'd end up drowning in it.

"Mark, can you set up an appointment with your uncle for me? I want to talk to him about the contract."

Mark nodded silently and picked up his phone. He called his uncle, who answered promptly. A few words were all it took for a direct response: Augusto could come immediately.

The speed of the confirmation made Augusto smile with relief. He didn't want to wait. He needed that answer as soon as possible, as if time were slipping through his fingers.

"So... are you coming with me to talk to your uncle?" he asked, already grabbing his jacket.

Mark hesitated for an almost imperceptible instant. He put his phone away, looked elsewhere, and took a deep breath before answering.

"I can't," he said at last. "I've got something to take care of. I can't go with you."

The excuse sounded rehearsed. Too short. Too fragile.

But Augusto didn't notice.

Augusto wasn't sure if it was just in his head, but he had the feeling that Mark had changed suddenly — ever since the moment he'd suggested offering himself in his sister's place.

"Then I'll send you news as soon as I talk to your uncle," he said, already walking away. "I hope we're right and I can actually pull this off."

He hurried toward his car.

Mark stood still, watching him leave, until the vehicle disappeared from sight. Then he lowered his head, as if the weight of the world had crashed down on his shoulders, and murmured an apology that would never be heard.

"I'm sorry... I can't defend you. And I'm sorry for being such a coward all these years, for never saying how I really feel."

He picked up his phone with trembling hands. He wiped the tear rolling down his face and dialed a number he knew by heart. When the call was answered, his expression changed. The sadness gave way to something harder. More bitter.

"He already knows about the clause," he said, his voice low and loaded with restrained anger. "I've done my part."

He ended the call without waiting for a response.

Back inside his house, he walked to the study. He poured more liquor, ignoring the harsh taste, and then his eyes fell on the photograph on the desk.

It was him and Augusto.

He traced his fingers over the image carefully, as if he could touch him through the paper. The composure he'd still been holding shattered right there. The glass trembled in his hand and, finally, Mark couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

Mark remained there for some time longer, drowning in alcohol and his own tears. The guilt and regret consumed him. He felt like a coward. He was pushing the man he loved straight into the lion's den, while he'd never had the courage to admit — not even to himself — that he was in love with his own best friend.

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