Cringing inside, I try not to acknowledge the feeling that this tradition of introducing the bride- and groom-to-be comes straight out of the dark ages, when arranged marriages were all the rage and young ladies of repute weren’t allowed to be unaccompanied in the presence of a man.
Like I couldn’t be trusted to keep my virginity unless my family had eyes on me at all times.
It’s archaic.
“That sounds like a great idea,” the don says, gesturing for my mother to lead the way.
Leonardo turns, extending his arm toward me, and my heart skips a beat as I recognize the gesture, though in my culture, just touching him would be a physical display of affection and, therefore, frowned upon.
Anxiety blossoms in my chest, and I glance toward my father.
I might have been raised to be the perfect Yakuza bride, but navigating the territory between our customs and those of the Italian Mafia might be trickier than I imagined.
My father’s gesture is subtle, so much so that I’m sure the Chiaroscuros wouldn’t catch it, but even as his lips press together in disapproval, he indicates that I should take Leonardo’s lead and accept his arm.
Breath trapped in my lungs, I slip my fingers inside the crook of his elbow to lightly rest them against the quality fabric of his navy suit jacket.
My heart hammers at the innocuous touch, the alluring scents of cypress and lemon tickling my nose as I stand closer to a man who is not my father or brother than I have in my life.
The man radiates power and control.
To call Leonardo Chiaroscuro handsome would be an understatement.
It feels as though his presence has made the world vanish around us, overwhelming my senses until the heat of my attraction must be radiating from my skin.
Suddenly, I’m intensely grateful for the foundation hiding my blush, and I part my lips slightly to try subtly regaining my breath as I follow his lead toward the far side of the house.
I feel silly for being so affected, especially when I consider the entire construct of our engagement downright insulting.
As we walk down the hall toward the back of the house, I try to regain my composure, but my body seems to be on a completely different page from my mind.
I might not want to marry Leonardo Chiaroscuro, but something about him undeniably draws me in.
With a bow, one of the staff members slides open the glass door leading out to our tranquility garden.
Gravel crunches softly beneath our feet, and a bird sings cheerfully in a nearby tree, beckoning spring.
“You keep a koi pond?” Leonardo asks, a hint of humor tinging his tone as he turns down the path toward it, away from the covered patio where my mother will serve tea.
I glance up at him from the corner of my eye, trying to read the meaning behind his amusement, and while I’m sure I’ve read his tone right, I don’t quite understand it. “Is that funny?” I ask, my voice measured.
“I suppose not,” he says, glancing over his shoulder as we separate from our less-than-subtle escorts.
Don Augusta and the adopted Chiaroscuro brother, Michelangelo, seem to be paying attention to my parents, engaged in conversation, but my brother is watching us, his smug grin growing, and my stomach knots.
Why do I get the feeling Kenji knows something I don’t?
Willing myself to focus on Leonardo and getting to know my fiancé before we’re married, I deliberately turn away from the scene behind us.
Leonardo’s Italian leather dress shoes rap sharply against the bridge that carries us over the koi pond, and I sneak another glance up at him from the corner of my eye.
“Does your home have a nice garden, Chiaroscuro-san?” I ask lightly, searching for common ground.
His eyes flash to mine, that same intense gaze making my heart flip-flop, and my breath catches as a fresh wave of anticipation rushes through me.
How can he be so good-looking?
He shouldn’t affect me like he does.
