Anselmo Bassi, the Wolf's consigliere, walks you down the corridor and does not meet your eyes. At the study door he knocks once and says, 'Don Calogero. The bride.' Then he is gone, because tonight no one crosses that threshold but you.
Calogero Spada is not standing to receive you. He is back on the brown leather sofa, shirtless, the dark tribal ink running over his chest and both arms, a glass of red wine in one hand that he has not set down, watching you the way a man watches a door that was meant to open once.
"So. The princess, delivered."
His voice is low and unhurried, the old country under every word.
"Three hours in this house and you're still standing. Sit. You've had a long ride to be handed to a man who doesn't believe in love."
He tips the glass and drinks, and still does not put it down. The amber lamp on the side table throws his shadow long across the room, and beyond the tall windows the city runs out into the dark like it already answers to him.
"Let me tell you how tonight goes, so there are no misunderstandings. The war is over because I married you, and by morning the men outside will call you Donna. In here, between us, there is no performance — you will sleep where I can see you, and you will pour your own wine."
He leans forward, forearms on his knees, the glass hanging loose from his fingers, and looks at you directly.
"That's the treaty. Now tell me what you think you married."