I’ve always considered myself the pragmatic type.  Even as a child, I realized that wanting chocolate chips in your pancakes didn’t mean that the restaurant you are in served them that way.  When it was picture day at school, but no one had bothered to do laundry the day before, you couldn’t always wear your favorite shirt.  When you outgrew that favorite shirt, and Dad had a fistful of cash from last night’s poker tournament at the River Casino, you’d get a new one that was even prettier than the last—complete with sequins or ruffles or whatever you were into that year.  When Dad lost the game, you got smacked for even asking about a shopping trip.

Sometimes, when you are walking home from school in the ninth grade, two men grab you and drag you into a windowless van.  They tie you up and say they are going to kill you if your father doesn’t deliver some ridiculous amount of money to them, but your dad has been on a losing streak and in more debt than the government.

What else can your dad do but make a deal with the biggest crime lord he can find to make sure you’re brought home safely?

Pragmatism brings me to where I am now—on a long, winding country road leading to a new life.

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, but I can’t concentrate on the scenery as my father cruises his older-model BMW around curved roads and up steep hills.  I barely slept last night, and I doze with my head against the window.

I’m on a boat.  I can feel the rocking motion, but I can’t see.  There’s a blindfold around my eyes and ropes bound tightly around my wrists, holding them at the center of my back.  My temple throbs, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the punch I took to the face or the pressure of the floor where I lie, curled up in a ball.

“It’s past the deadline.  He ain’t gonna make it.”

“What now?”

“Kill her, that’s what.”

I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die.  I’m gonna die.

I feel hands lifting me from the floor, and I try to scream.  Nothing comes out.  I thrash against the hands grappling with me, but I’m overwhelmed.  There are gunshots.  I fall to the ground…

I come out of semiconsciousness with a jerk, hitting my head on the car window in the process.   I can’t remember the dream, but I know what it was about.  Mom glances back at me and scowls.

“Get yourself together,” she says.  “We’re almost there.”

“The big day is almost here, princess,” Dad says.  “You’ve got to be at your best.”

“I will be.”  The answer is automatic.  When Dad tells someone to do something, it gets done.  That’s just the way it is.  It doesn’t matter if he’s instructing one of the people who works for him, his wife, or his daughter—we all obey.

Any other action is dangerous.

I lick my lips, anticipating the view as we come around the corner, and try to forget the nightmare.  My father makes one last turn to the right and heads up the long, brick driveway toward the gate and buildings behind a line of willow trees.

This is it.  Starting tomorrow, this will be my new home.

The house—if it can even be called that—is insanely huge.  A tall, iron security gate with spikes on the top surrounds it.  Only two of the house’s wings are visible from the front, but I know from my last visit that there is another wing jutting out from the back.  There’s also a pool, a fountain, and a paved path leading to another house that isn’t nearly as big, but still impressive, and the stables where the Foley family keep their horses.

Sean likes to race horses.

Sean Foley is older than I, and he has blond hair and dark brown eyes.  The first day I met him, I remember thinking it was a strange combination.  We were introduced in this same house.  No, not house—mansion—the same huge, ridiculous building that encompasses the horizon in front of me, complete with a wing for the servants.  A wing!  For servants!  The house I grew up in was a posh Tudor with five bedrooms, but it was nothing compared to the Foley family home.  From the Greek statues at the entryway to the horse-shaped topiary in the garden, I had been in awe from the first moment I laid eyes on it.

“It will all be yours someday,” my mother had said.

“I’ll live here?  With him?”

“When you’re old enough.”

“When will that be?”

“Not until you’re nineteen, dear.  You have to finish high school first.”

It didn’t quite happen that way.

I finished high school way before the age of eighteen; I’m no one’s idiot.  However, the wedding had been delayed without explanation until this summer, a full year after the agreed-upon time.  Then last week, Fergus Foley fell ill.  There was talk of postponing the wedding until he was out of the hospital, except he never came out.

The patriarch is dead.  I’ve had the final fitting for my dress, and the wedding is supposed to be tomorrow afternoon.  But now, my family has been called to the Foley home to discuss the arrangements.

Arrangements.

Arranged marriage.

What century is this anyway?

I swallow hard and steel myself.  I try not to think this way.  The idea of marrying a man I hardly know is frightening, but I’ve known it was going to happen for five years, three months, and four days.  My future was sealed in an agreement between my father and Fergus Foley—an agreement that saved me from a horrible fate.

I owe the Foleys my life, so I guess I’m going to give it to them.

To him.

Sean Foley.

Dad drives up to the gates of the property, and the security guard gives him a nod as the gates are opened, and we drive through.  The driveway is long and paved with sand-colored bricks, complete with inlaid designs in red, gold, and green.  It makes me think of the eighties music Mom always listens to in the car, and I wonder what kind of karma a family like ours collects.

Marrying Sean Foley doesn’t upset me.  Forced marriage isn’t my preference, but I’ve had a long time to think about it, and I’m comfortable with the idea.  I don’t know the man well, but we’ve exchanged emails and have met in person a few times.  Our fathers have always been present when we have been together.  Nothing has ever happened between us—not even hand-holding or a kiss.

Every time I have been in his presence, Sean has been polite.  He shakes hands, makes eye contact, and smiles a lot.  We have similar tastes in music.  We are likely better off than a lot of other couples.  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

As we come around to the front of the estate, I think to myself, One thing is for sure—I could get used to living like this.

Even if Sean and I don’t end up getting along, I’ll have plenty of other people in the house to keep me company and plenty of activities on the estate to keep me occupied.  I’ve been home-schooled since my ordeal, so I’m used to a solitary life.  I can continue my education online.  I have friendships with people I’ve met through social media book clubs and baking websites.  Through the internet, I can keep in contact with them, and my life won’t be drastically different than it is now.  I’ll be fine living here.  I’m excited to try horseback riding.

Who am I trying to convince?

Dad pulls up and puts the car in park.  He reaches up and runs his hands through his thinning, grey hair.  Whenever the Foley family is involved, Dad displays this nervous tick even if he is just on the phone with one of them.  He isn’t like that with other people.

Cormick O’Conner, my father, has a collection of small businesses: four convenience stores, six gas stations, two nail salons, and a small bookstore.  Though none of them do much business, they all bring in money.

A lot of money.

I know they’re all fronts.  The people who come to talk business with my father range from the seedy, creepy types to the far too well-dressed.  Crates of goods that never make it onto the shelves of the stores are always coming in and out of the warehouses and are always moved in the dead of night.

I don’t know what might be in them, but I have my suspicions.

“Mind your manners,” my mother says for the umpteenth time.

“I will.”

“And don’t talk too much.  You get so chatty sometimes.  Sean Foley doesn’t want to hear all your chatter.”

“I won’t.”  Truth be told, there’s a lump in my throat.  I’m not sure I could talk even if I knew what to say.

I rub my left wrist.  It’s a nervous habit.  Miss Jolly, my therapist, tries to get me to remember why I started massaging my wrist whenever I was uncomfortable with a situation, but I won’t talk about it.  There might not be any permanent marks anywhere, but I know I was tied up.  That’s just a part of being kidnapped and held for ransom.  I remember being grabbed on my way home from school, and I remember thinking that I was going to die.  Sometimes, if Miss Jolly tries to force it out of me, I remember the sound of gunshots, followed by my body being lifted off the floor, presumably by my rescuer.  Everything in between is blank, and I’m all right with that.  I don’t need to remember the details.

It’s the outcome that has my attention now.

I understood the basics of the deal my father had made for my safe release though I didn’t really understand the why of it.  Why me?  Why would the head of such a powerful family bother with rescuing the daughter of a gambling addict in the first place, and why would Mr. Fergus Foley want me as his son’s wife?  No one seemed to be able to give me a decent answer.  Even at fifteen, I had been able to comprehend what was going on around me.  My mother’s babble about Irish family bloodlines was just that—babble.  Our families had all been here since before the Civil War.  Our genetics had melted in the pot along with everyone else’s, and I didn’t even know anyone in Ireland.  Mom said to just go along with whatever the Foleys wanted without question, but that didn’t clarify why I was eligible to be a wife of a Foley.

I still don’t know why.  All I know is that I’m about to be married to a man I barely know and that he is now the head of one of the wealthiest families in the country.  I try not to think too much about what must have been done to amass such wealth.  I don’t know exactly what the Foley family is involved in, but I know it’s no more legitimate than my father’s businesses.  Drugs?  Weapons?  Something worse?  Whatever it is, they’re good at it.

A valet comes around to open my mom’s door then mine.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. O’Conner,” the valet says as he tips his navy blue hat.  “Miss O’Conner, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Hello, John,” my mother says politely.  She nudges me with her elbow and gives me a harsh look as she straightens her skirt with slightly shaky hands.

“It’s good to see you, too, John,” I say quickly.  I try to smile, but my stomach is turning flip-flops.  The face of the valet isn’t one I remember.  I have no idea if I have met him before or not.  I probably won’t remember him later, either.

It doesn’t matter how long I’ve known about the arrangement my parents made with Sean Foley’s father or how much I’ve tried to prepare; I’m still nervous.  The obvious discomfort of my parents doesn’t help at all.  Being called to the Foley family home the day before the wedding has left us all on edge.  The meeting is unexpected—just as unexpected as the massive stroke that took Fergus Foley’s life two days ago.

“Martha!  Cormick!  I’m so glad you’ve made it safely!”  Sean Foley himself opens the door and carefully traverses the steps as the valet takes off with the car.  Sean approaches with one of his henchmen—a huge monster of a man—just behind him.  “And Kera, of course”—Sean takes my hand and kisses my knuckles—“so good of you to come.”

I look into Sean’s dark eyes.  They sparkle, making his smile appear genuine.  I feel heat rising to my face as I glance from Sean to the stern face of the tall man behind him.

Every muscle in my body tenses, and I quickly look to the ground.  Sean Foley’s henchman embodies the phrase “If looks could kill.”  I don’t know if he’s angry or not, but his presence alone is unnerving.  I suppose that’s why he’s around.

“I hope the weather holds out,” Mom says as she glances at the clear blue sky.  “I hear a storm is headed our way.  It would be a shame if we had to hold the ceremony inside.”

My father glares in her direction, and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.  Fergus Foley is dead; we’ve been called to a spontaneous meeting, and she’s talking about the weather.  It’s nothing more than a hopeful hint that the wedding hasn’t been called off entirely.

I rather hope it has been.

“No worries about that.”  Sean’s voice is soft.  I’m not sure if my mother even hears him—she’s looking nervously at my father, probably wondering if he’d slap her right in front of Sean—but Dad hears the tone of Sean’s words.  He glances at my fiancé with slightly narrowed eyes.

Sean Foley is tall and very easy on the eyes.  I have a picture of him on my nightstand at my parents’ house, and I look at it all the time.  His smile is quick and reassuring as he continues to hold my hand to lead me up the steps and through the huge double doors to the marble-tiled foyer beyond.

Sean pulls his hand away from mine as soon as we’re inside, and a woman in a severe black suit takes our coats and disappears off to the left as the rest of us head to the right with Sean in the lead.  The henchman behind him sticks to his left shoulder as we head down a long hallway to a spacious, open room lined with bookshelves.  There’s a desk, several comfortable chairs and couches, and one of those globe-shaped stands for holding expensive liquor without having it on display.  Sean moves to sit in a large, wingback chair.  All the other seats in the room are angled toward him, rendering him the center of attention.

As soon as he sits down, his whole demeanor changes.  A crooked smile crosses his face as he looks from my father to my mother and back again.  There is still a sparkle in his eyes, but it’s no longer reassuring or friendly.  It’s more like static electricity—as if there is lightning flashing around in his brain.  He never looks at me.  For a long moment, there is silence as I glance around the room.

The henchman stands just behind his boss.  I remember seeing him before when I was invited to dine at the country club with the Foley family and my parents.  He’s a foreboding man, and his size alone makes him memorable though I don’t recall his name.  He’s taller than Sean by a good three inches, and he’s so big, his shoulders brushed the sides of doorway as he entered the room.  I can understand why he’s acting as a bodyguard for the mafia kingpin.  No one in his right mind would go up against him.  Even though he’s an attractive, dark-haired man, I can’t even look at his face for more than a second.

There are three others in the room, and despite my nervousness, I recognize them all.  Neil Foley, Sean’s older cousin, is standing by the globe with a glass of something dark in his hand.  He’s haggard and gaunt, and his gaze doesn’t leave the ground as we all sit on the couches surrounding Sean.  Teagan Foley, Sean’s sister, leans against a bookcase with her phone in her hand.  She’s a beautiful woman with golden hair and a lot of eye makeup.  From what I have gathered, she is a math genius, and she handles the family’s bookkeeping.

Leaning back against the couch, opposite where I sit between my mother and father, is Lucas Elliot.  I have no idea what he does in the organization, but I know he was a very important advisor to Fergus Foley.  I suppose he’s Sean’s advisor now.

“I hope you received the flowers I sent to the funeral home,” my mother says, breaking the silence.

“I did,” Sean replies.  He snickers through his nose as he takes a cigar from a box on the side table near his chair.  “Thank you for your condolences.  My father will be greatly missed by some, I’m sure.”

Sean rolls his eyes and grins.  He pats his front pocket, glances at the table, and then turns toward his bodyguard.

“Deklan, do you have a light?”

I nod to myself, hearing the name of Sean’s strongman.  With so many people in the Foley family’s organization, I was going to have to focus on memorizing names.

“Yes, sir,” Deklan responds.

“Have you decided on a date for the services?” my father asks.

“The services will be private,” Sean says curtly.  He holds the flaming end of Deklan’s lighter to the tip of his cigar, but it won’t light.  He scowls at the end.  “Family only.  We won’t be publishing the time.”

“Of course,” Dad replies.  I watch his lips twitch and wonder what else he wants to say.  He’s obviously holding something back.

“Will we have to push back the wedding?”  My mother’s voice is quiet and timid.  She doesn’t even look up from her hands as she speaks.  “We can, of course.  Whatever you need to do.”

This is her fear.  If the wedding doesn’t occur, they are still in the Foley family’s debt, and it’s a debt my parents have no other way of paying.  Money laundering might be a lucrative business, but my father has a serious issue with Texas Hold’em, a game he claims to be good at but constantly loses.

“The wedding will still be tomorrow,” Sean says, and my mother lets out a sigh of relief.  Sean tilts his head and grins.  “However, there will be a slight change.”

My father lifts his head with a jerk, staring straight at Sean.  I can see his shoulders tense, and my own anxiety is an automatic response.  When my father gets angry, someone usually gets hurt.  Most of the time that’s Mom, but sometimes it’s just whoever happens to be closest, and I’m sitting right next to him.

“What change?” my father asks.  I can see his throat bob up and down, and he grips his thighs with his fingers, making the knuckles go white.

“The venue, for one,” Sean says.  “With the funeral plans, there’s just no time to set up the garden outside.  We’ll hold the ceremony here with a justice of the peace.”  He pauses as he taps his cigar into an ashtray, stares at the tip, and tries to light it again.  This time, he is successful, and the tip glows briefly as he puffs.  “Oh yes”—he uses the cigar to point toward the ceiling—“and the groom.  The groom is going to change.”