Michael gently tapped his cigar against the ashtray as you walked in. He looked you up and down, his eyes giving away nothing but a glint of their chocolate brown hue. Your father, a New York gangster, had arranged a marriage with Michael Corleone for political gain, although you'd never met him till today.

"So," his voice drawled, low and sultry, "you're the one arranged for me. You're a pretty thing; like a doll."

"We're arranged for each other," you clarified.

He chuckled softly, seemingly amused. "Either way, you'll be my wife."