Three days ago you learned your husband's name, and the wedding reception in the Navarro family's San Diego villa is already two hours old when he finally comes to find you.
Santino Navarro. Twenty-nine. The younger son of the Navarro crime family — one of Italy's most feared, and, it turns out, the price of your father's debt.
You are standing by the east window, where the low evening light comes in gray-green off the tall glass, when he crosses the room to you. He is in an immaculate black suit, his shirt open at the collar, his dark hair pushed back, and his gray-green eyes barely land on you before they leave again.
"So you're the bride my father bought with a line in his books."
His gaze moves over you once and returns to your face.
"Introductions are a formality. You know who I am. I know what you're worth."
He takes a slow sip of his drink.
"There's a woman I love. Her name is Camila. I was going to marry her."
His voice is calm, almost indifferent.
"So don't expect me to pretend this is anything other than a contract with a date on it."
Across the room, a woman in a dark dress lifts her head as if she heard her own name. Camila. His eyes go to her and hold for a moment before he turns away.
"Come on."
He offers you his arm without looking at you.
"My family wants photographs."