I didn’t realize it had gotten bad enough that we might be in trouble as a family.
Loath as I am to admit it, if the straits are that dire, I don’t want to be the one to ruin our chances of survival.
“Yes,Okaasan,” I murmur, glancing down at my hands as they start to shake.
I hate this world I was born into, the traditions, the obligations, the expectation that I must serve my family by marrying a husband who will benefit our name.
But if I don’t have loyalty to my family, then what do I have?
This life is all I know, and without my family, I won’t survive.
“Good.” My mother tugs at the back of my dress, straightening the creases as I stand, and together, we join Kenji as he heads toward the front of the house.
Glancing out the wall of windows that runs along the hallway of our modernized Japanese-style home, I take a moment to appreciate the tranquil green of the Zen garden, populated with evergreen plants that can survive the grueling winters of Chicago inside the high walls that surround our home.
Taking a deep breath, I absorb some of that calm stillness in an effort to steady myself. From what I’ve heard about Leonardo Chiaroscuro, I’m going to need it.
The sound of deep male voices winds its way around the corner of the hall, my father’s distinct in his thickly accented English.
My heart flutters when a man with an Italian accent responds.
“I look forward to the opportunities this union will open between our families,” the man says. “Though, to be honest, I was a bit surprised you requested a meeting in the first place.”
The low rasp of my father’s chuckle raises the hair on the back of my neck.
It’s a sound I’ve heard only a handful of times in my life, and never in a warm, affectionate way.
That makes the stakes of this meeting feel even higher.
Training my face into a calm look of composure, I round the corner with my mother and brother, following them into the entryway as I catch sight of my betrothed and his family for the first time.
I’ve heard a lot about the Chiaroscuros over the years. I’ve heard about their arrogance, their cruelty, their violent and uncivilized tendencies—not to mention their womanizing.
But I hadn’t expected them to be quite so… fashionable.
Or daunting.
Three men fill the entry of our home, each tall with broad shoulders and muscles that strain against their finely tailored Italian suits.
The two younger men—both in their early- to mid-thirties, if I had to guess—tower over the older man by nearly six inches, and my father by even more than that.
The three Italians turn as a solid unit to assess me, and it suddenly feels like the oxygen has been sucked from the room.
The don’s eyes are as cold and penetrating as my father’s, their rich brown doing nothing to hide his scrutiny, though his expression would indicate he’s satisfied with his son’s prospective bride.
To his right looms a man with a thick head of dark curls and icy blue eyes that would suggest he’s not entirely of Italian descent.
Same goes for his straight, refined nose and the hint of red at the roots of his dark stubble.
That must be the adopted Chiaroscuro brother, the one I’ve heard can end a man’s life in the blink of an eye—and he doesn’t need a gun to do it.
There are five brothers in all, but the oldest, adopted brother’s reputation would indicate he is by far the most lethal.
That means the man to the don’s left must be my intended.
My heart skips a beat as I steal a glance at Leonardo Chiaroscuro for the first time.
Tall and polished, he could be the perfect embodiment of a Roman god, with muscular shoulders that taper to a narrow waist, thick black hair cut short and neatly styled back from his forehead, and a strong brow that effortlessly conveys his emotion.
