Then, taking one last fortifying breath, I turn to face our guests.
And as my eyes land on the dark, towering figure that fills the doorway, a shock jolts through my body, stealing the air from my lungs.
2
EVI
My heart stutters as I take in the tall, powerfully built man who steps into the room ahead of my parents. Then my lips curve into a genuine smile as my shock melts unexpectedly into relief.
“You must be Sandro,” I say, my voice finding strength as I turn to face him fully.
He’s not at all what I expected. But somehow, that’s a good thing. Dressed in a sweat-stained T-shirt and what appear to be bloodied boxing shorts, he looks quite literally like he just came from a street brawl.
His dark hair, cut in a high fade, looks as reckless and extreme as the rest of him, shaved close at the temples while the longer strands fall into his eyes.
He runs his fingers through them as if to tame the chaos, but the sweat that still clings to his skin and curling locks makes them stick up at odd angles.
Dirt and blood coat Sandro’s sweat-slicked skin, masking portions of the tattoos that seem to cover almost every inch of his exposed arms and neck.
Even the cheek beneath his right eye is marked by a black nautical star. His left eye looks slightly swollen and discolored, hinting at the start of a fresh shiner that will match his split lip once it’s filled in.
The bruised and bloodied beast of a man clears his throat as he stops before me. He gives a gruff “Yeah,” his voice as jagged and broken as his appearance, and it makes my heart flutter.
Comparing Sandro to the clean, sharply dressed, relatively tattooless man who stands behind his right shoulder, I’m more than a little relieved to know I couldn’t mistake one twin for the other even if I tried. Their features might be astonishingly identical, but their personalities are visibly night and day, their lifestyle choices worn like a badge of honor in every stitch of fabric and drop of ink beneath the skin.
While my father casts looks of distaste toward my betrothed from behind Sandro’s shoulder, a strange thrill of excitement rushes through my veins.
This is the man I’m supposed to marry, and while I’ve spent ages fretting over this moment, suddenly, I feel a deep sense of calm.
I’ve been so worried about failing to impress my future husband, but from the looks of it, he couldn’t care less about this meeting. And as odd as it might sound, that puts me at ease.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, meeting his stormy hazel eyes with a confidence I didn’t know I possessed.
He studies me with a silent sense of confusion, his guarded expression making me wonder if I’ve already said something wrong. In the blink of an eye, my anxiety returns, my palms sweating as my father’s words of warning ring in my ears.
I need to make this arrangement work—for all our sakes.
“I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important,” I add lightly, the corners of my lips twitching with the effort to keep my smile in place.
Behind him, Sandro’s twin, Rafael, makes a soft noise—something halfway between a scoff and a snort—and his eyes dart toward Sandro in a meaningful way.
Sandro doesn’t even have to look at his brother for the subtle communication to take place, but I can tell it must have meant something to him because Sandro shifts uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders as he holds my gaze.
“It’s fine,” he says curtly, his tone indicating that he would rather be anywhere but here, and I can’t help the flicker of amusement as I realize I must be spot on. No doubt, he would rather have finished whatever fight he was clearly in the middle of before he came to meet me. But I won’t let that discourage me.
“Well, I hope I’m worth your while,” I say sweetly, intrigued by the man I’m supposed to win over.
If I had to guess, I’d say Sandro has little interest in marriage—if any. And perhaps that’s not a bad thing.
This way, I won’t come as too much of a disappointment to him when he learns the truth about me. It will be better for everyone involved if his expectations are low from the start.
And judging by the amount of effort he’s put into this meeting, I’d say they’re somewhere in the basement right now.
Moving with the grace only my mother possesses, she comes to stand beside me, touching my arm, her fingertips lightly prompting my attention. “Evi, why don’t you show Sandro the garden? Maybe you two could talk—get to know each other.”
It’s a rather obvious ploy to give me a moment alone with Sandro, where I could further the cause and prove I’m worthy of his interest. But from his stoic expression, that might be a harder task than I anticipated.
Swallowing my nerves, I nod and gesture toward the side door that leads out into our sunlit courtyard.
