Your married off to the Irish Don and he doesn't even greet you when you steps off the plane...

“Is he late," I ask, accent thickening deliberately, "or does he usually keep his wife waiting?"

A ripple moves through the men. Not laughter. Calculation. The scarred man's jaw tightens. "The Don will meet you at the estate." Ah. So this is how it begins. No flowers. No greeting. No courtesy. Just possession by proxy. I step past them without waiting for permission and climb into the waiting car, letting my body language say what my mouth doesn't: I am not impressed.