We pulled up to the mansion just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the vast estate. Gabrielle would be arriving soon from college, though he had chosen to skip the wedding, citing a lack of interest in being part of "a business arrangement." He'd always been straightforward like that. As we stepped out of the car, Christina looked around in absolute awe, her eyes wide as they swept over the marble columns and manicured gardens. In contrast, Andrea's expression remained perfectly composed, her face a mask of indifference. But I knew better - she was storing every detail away, memorizing the layout and atmosphere, likely for some future use.

I picked up Christina's suitcases while she clutched her handbag close. Raffaele moved to do the same for Andrea, but she swiftly interjected.

"I can carry it. Thanks." Her tone was firm as she swung her guitar bag over her shoulder and took hold of one of the suitcases. She stepped forward to grab the other, but Raffaele beat her to it, lifting it effortlessly and closing the trunk with a decisive thud.

The moment we stepped into the grand hall, we spotted Gabrielle lounging on one of the designer sofas, a book in his hand. He looked up as we entered, his gaze shifting thoughtfully between the two women, assessing them with an intensity that made Christina squirm slightly. She managed a polite, if somewhat timid, "Hello," while Andrea merely placed her suitcase down and crossed her arms, waiting for one of us to direct her to her room. I couldn't help but admire the control she had over her expressions; it took me years after our mother's death to develop a similar mask.

"So," Gabrielle drawled lazily, rising to his feet, "which one of you is Andrea?"

There was no mistaking the glint of mischief in his eyes. He was testing the waters, trying to gauge which one was the rumored "unruly wife." Despite what their father had said about her, Andrea appeared perfectly polite - just a woman with a mind and will of her own.

"That's me. Why do you ask?" she responded, her voice tinged with boredom as if this entire exchange was beneath her notice.

"No reason," Gabrielle replied with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Did Mommy dress you today?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, and for a split second, a flicker of something dangerous passed through her gaze. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

"Why? Did yours?" she shot back, her voice calm but dripping with a quiet challenge.

The smirk vanished from Gabrielle's face, replaced by a look of surprise. He recovered quickly, forcing a smile, but the tension in the room spiked. Raffaele stiffened beside me, his jaw clenched. Our mother was a sensitive subject - one that no one dared bring up. Any other man might have 'disciplined' Andrea for such a remark, but Raffaele and I had sworn long ago never to harm a woman, unless she posed a direct threat to our lives.

Sensing the mounting tension, Christina interjected softly, her eyes darting between us. "Could you show us around the house?" she asked, her voice pitched higher than usual. It was a subtle plea to diffuse the situation.

"Of course," I agreed, gesturing toward the suitcases. "Let's get these to your rooms first, then we'll give you a proper tour."

I led Christina to what would now be our room, while Raffaele took Andrea to his section of the mansion. As soon as we stepped inside, Christina paused, taking in the understated opulence of the space. The room was spacious, with a king-sized bed draped in soft linen, a large fireplace in the corner, and French doors that opened to a private balcony.

"I'm sorry about what my sister said earlier," Christina murmured, wringing her hands. She looked genuinely worried, as if Raffaele would take his anger out on her sister. Had their father really instilled that much fear in them? It was common for men to be harsh on their daughters in our circles, but outright abuse was rare. Girls were usually raised to perfect their etiquette and manners - trained to be poised and agreeable, not broken.

"Don't worry about it," I assured her gently. "Gabrielle should have been more respectful to his sister-in-law."

She nodded slowly, her eyes still wary. "Which side of the bed is yours?" she asked softly, glancing at the bed.

"You can take your pick," I replied, giving her a small nod. "I've made some room in the closet for your clothes as well."

We soon completed the tour. We showed them the grand kitchen, equipped with every modern appliance imaginable, the formal dining room with its massive rectangular marble table, the sprawling hall lined with designer sofas, and finally, the expansive library filled with thousands of books of all genres. I had a feeling I'd find Christina here often; there was a certain light in her eyes as she scanned the rows of books.

Raffaele had also set up a music room - a recent addition he'd commissioned after learning about Andrea's love for music. Her shock was evident, if fleeting, but she quickly masked it and muttered a curt, "Thank you."

We concluded with the gym and training area, though I doubted either of them would have much interest in such places. At least, that's what I thought.

"Are any places off-limits?" Andrea asked, her gaze drifting around the space as if committing every corner to memory.

"The cellars and our offices," Raffaele responded, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "Don't go in there without one of us."

Andrea nodded, and Christina murmured a soft, "Understood." The little deer was learning to use her words. I smirked.

Later that night, around eleven, Raffaele and I changed into our training gear and headed to the gym. It was a nightly ritual of sorts, a way to burn off the excess energy and stress that came with our lifestyle. We assumed the sisters were asleep by now, safely tucked away in their rooms.

But when we pushed open the door to the training center, both of us stopped dead in our tracks. Andrea was there. Clad in tight athletic wear, she was relentlessly pounding at a punching bag - punch after punch, kick after kick, each strike precise and powerful, as though the bag had personally wronged her. Her form was impeccable, her movements almost fluid in their grace.

Raffaele cleared his throat, a soft sound that seemed almost comical given the scene before us. It was a mistake.

In an instant, Andrea froze mid-strike, her head snapping around to look at us. Before we could react, her hand flicked, and a blade - a slim, wicked-looking knife - embedded itself in the wall mere inches from Raffaele's face. We both stood rooted in place, stunned. The throw had been perfect, a deliberate miss meant to warn, not harm.

It was a skill that took years of training to master.

Who the hell was this girl?