"You didn't tell her," were Philip's first words when Kurt Anders answered his phone.

"I never planned to. Cassandra will not talk, Philip. I know my daughter. But she is one hell of a curious individual. She will want to know everything if I tell her what you said I should and I do not want her to know everything."

His jaw tightened. "And she is not curious enough now? She does not believe the crappy tale of an arranged marriage, Anders. We can get into more trouble if your daughter's curiosity gets in the way."

"Cassandra will most probably spend the entire six months inside a room with her canvas and paints. She has an exhibit coming up soon. She will be very busy. Before she starts to wonder about the hell she is in, it will be over and she won't ever have to know about it. For now, you simply have to do what I asked you to do. We had a deal."

"If she gets in trouble, it is not my fault."

A long silence reigned from the other end. "Keep her safe and your friend gets everything."

Philip shook his head. "And they know? About the marriage?"

"Yes, I relayed the news."

"How did they take it?"

"You are asking if they are still watching you?" Philip did not reply and waited for Anders to continue. "Of course they are. You have to keep playing the game, Philip. We can't have them doubting us both now."

"No," he said in a cold voice, "You keep playing the game, Anders, or we are both dead before we know it."

"Of course, of course. Just keep marry my daughter, seal our family's union and keep her safe. You are new to this game, but this is how things work. We make commitments beyond business."

Philip shook his head. "Give your daughter a pep talk. I don't want to babysit a child," was all he said and he ended the call.

*****

Cassandra didn't really have anything to wear to an elegant dinner. Sure, she attended events and all, but that was before two years ago. Lately, she was just not into socializing and it was now a problem because all she could see inside her walk-in closet were just shirts—a lot of it—some tattered or paint-stained pants, shorts, boots, scarves, sweaters, and more of the same things but no dresses of any kind.

Out of desperation, she remembered her basement and ran all the way down barefooted. The boxes were still there—including the one that contained the white gown she never got to use. Trying her might not to look at the box where her worst memories had been hidden for years, she busied herself through the bigger brown boxes and finally found the one labeled DONATION: CLOTHES which she never got to hand out since she was still figuring out which charity would accept such clothes. Opening the box, she heaved a sigh of relief that the plastic coverings were still intact. She took a black evening dress which she only wore once, closed the box before she saw another one which would just create further confusion, and ran back upstairs. It was already six and she hadn't showered yet. Smelling the dress, she contemplated for a moment, shrugged and went to grab her strongest perfume and sprayed some on the dress. Contented, she dropped the dress on her bed and looked for the pair of black pumps she got from her mom last Christmas, ones she never got to use.

After her shower, she dried her hair and did the usual hair and make-up, dressed, put on her diamond stud earrings and no other jewelries since they made her itch, and waited for her future husband to ring her door. She doubted at first if he knew where she lived but remembered that he already got her phone number so why not her address?

As she waited slouched on one chair, she thought about her father and the real reason why he suddenly sold out his own daughter. He would never do that to her. She just knew it. Unless something bad happened, she thought. If her dad would not talk, Philip Strindberg better because there was no way she would let a stranger slip a ring around her finger without valid reasons.

Then a very strange thought came to her. What if the Strindbergs were part of the Mafia? It could very well be! What is this? Godfather IV? Did her father stumble into bad business with them and now they want to bind him to them through her?

But that could not be. Her father knew nothing but manufacture plastics! Plastics!

A knock on the door followed by the buzzing sound snapped Cassandra back to the present. Grabbing her black clutch and keys, she went to open the door.

"Are you ready?" he asked, looking her up and down. Consciously, she tugged her dress lower down her knees and looked him over. He didn't look bad himself, dressed in black tuxedo and dark gray tie. Good thing he looks good, she thought to herself.

"Yes," she replied dryly. "Do we really have to do this?" She did not want to meet his family who could be the freaking Mafia! What she really wanted to do was talk

"Of course. It's the main reason why we're getting married."

She frowned. "Your family?"

"Yes," he answered, blinking before she could figure out whether or not he was lying. And by that Cassandra was certain he was lying. "And don't ask anything further. All you have to do is pretend you're happy. That's all they want to see."

"Oh, so let me get this straight," she said, feigning ignorance. "My dad had his own reason for selling me out and you have yours." She peered at him and asked, "You're not getting your share of the inheritance if you don't marry, right?"

He looked at her incredulously. "That only happens in movies, my dear future wife. I want a wife so they'll leave me alone."

"That's your only reason?" she cried. "That happens in movies too!"

"You don't know my family," he said, stepping back. Obviously, their conversation just ended. Why didn't she believe him? The movies could make up better plots than this guy, she thought as she stepped out and locked her door. He led her down the path across her small lawn and to his black BMW.

She stopped dead on her tracks as he opened the passenger door.

"What's wrong now?" he asked rather impatiently.

"I can't ride shotgun," she rapidly shook her head as she said it.

"Why?"

"I..." She couldn't tell him the reason, and she never would. "I just can't."

"Look here, Cassandra. We don't have time for your little games, alright? If you don't want to go, you don't really have a choice. My family is already waiting for us at the restaurant."

She looked at him desperately. "No, it's not that. I just can't ride shotgun."

He fixed her with a hard look for a long moment before exclaiming, "Fine!" He slammed the passenger door that caused her to flinch, and walked to open the backseat. "Get in. Now."

"Thank you," she muttered as she hastily climbed inside. Once again, the door slammed beside her and she saw him stride in anger to the driver side.

He did not say another word as he started the ignition and sped off. Cassandra leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes, clutching her small bag in front of her anxiously.

"Please, slow down. I can't breathe," she uttered when she couldn't take it any longer.

The sudden brake of the car brought her forward and her head almost slammed against the backside of the passenger seat.

"What exactly is your problem with riding shotgun and fast cars?" he demanded, glaring back at her.

"Nothing..." she trailed off in a small voice. God, how she hated to be this vulnerable!

"Don't tell me you have a phobia—"

"Yes, yes, that's it," she cut off, accepting the best explanation he offered.

"This is really crazy," was all he said as he turned back and started down the road again, but in a more normal pace.

When her nerves began to calm down, she realized how Philip's temper could be easily ignited. We'll have a problem with that then, she thought considering her own temper.

"Your perfume is too strong," he finally said as he stopped the car at red light, breaking their silence.

"What?"

"Your perfume is too strong," he repeated, throwing her a glance over his shoulder.

Thank God for the darkness of the night, he couldn't see her face flush in embarrassment. "I spilled half of the bottle on my bed and most of it went to my dress," she lied. There was no way she was telling him her dress came out of a box from two years ago and the perfume was its savior.

He seemed to believe her because he did not say anything about her strong scent; instead, he changed the topic, "Free your day tomorrow."

"Why?" she leaned forward to look at him. She planned to do some unfinished paintings tomorrow.

"In case I didn't tell you, tomorrow is the day before the wedding and you don't have a dress yet."

"Why would I need a dress? I thought it would just be us and the judge and some witnesses?" It was what she really imagined after all.

"You're marrying a Strindberg, Cassandra. They would never settle for a simple wedding."

Cassandra gulped. "You mean I'm actually going down the aisle?" she asked in horror.

He looked at her through the rearview mirror as he started the car when the lights turned green. "My family thinks we've been planning this wedding for half a year now."

"What!" she cried in disbelief. "You led your family to believe that you are going to be married a long time ago?"

"Not that long. I spilled the news a month ago, before I signed the contract with your old man."

"You already gave them my name a month ago?"

"Yes, of course." She saw him shrug his shoulders.

"You were so sure then that you would have a contract with my father? And how did you know about me a month ago?"

"I do my own research and planning. Stop asking questions. We better think of some story to tell my family."

"What story?"

"Where we met, how we met, when and where I proposed...stuff like that," he explained. "My grandmother is very specific with details and I'm sure she'd ask you a lot of questions sooner or later." He reached inside his breast pocket and took out a piece of paper. He handed it to her.

She reached over to get it, "What's this?"

"That's pretty much everything you should know about me. Don't worry about your profile—your father gave it to me."

"Huh, wouldn't be surprised about that at all," she muttered as she dropped the paper inside her clutch bag without reading it. She had all evening later to go through it. She could just pretend to know Philip later in front of his family. Or she could just keep her mouth shut and act all shy. It was her first time to meet them after all. "So, about our story?"

"Yes, the story," he said, remembering their original topic. "I told them we met through a mutual friend at a party in Chicago, talked, dated for almost two years but only that I kept it a secret from them until now; I proposed in Paris last year, you said yes, and now we're getting married in two days."

She took some time to take it all in and finally asked, "Tell me more about the proposal."

"Why?"

"People always want to know every detail of the proposal," she said, her voice telling him that he of all people should know that.

"You add the details. That's all I told my family and so far, they accepted it."

"Of course they accepted it because they always ask the bride about the proposal, not the groom."

"Then what do you suggest the proposal was?"

"I don't know, you tell me. I was not there."

"Neither was I."

"But you thought of it. Not really my problem if this little story of ours gets jumbled up."

He sighed. "Fine. I proposed inside a café, the ring was mixed in your ice cream, you got it, your cried, said yes, the people clapped with glee and that was it."

"I cried? No, that can't be. I just laughed with joy, no crying."

"Fine, you laughed with joy, teary-eyed."

"What's with the tears? No, no tears. I was just plain happy and laughed and my eyes were dry."

He shook his head. "My grandmother's not gonna like that. She'd prefer you cried."

Of course. How did it ever cross her mind? He had a grandmother. A Mafia grandmother, a voice in her head whispered.

Shaking her thoughts away, she snapped, "I don't really care, okay? I didn't cry. Period."

"Fine."

"Fine," she snapped back.

*****

The moment they reached the restaurant, he ordered her to get out of the car in a hurry before anyone saw her climbing out of the back of the car which she hastily obliged, glad to finally be able to have her feet back on solid ground.

"Let's go," he said as he approached her after he handed his key to the valet. He grabbed her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. "Smile and pretend to be happy," he said.

"Why?"

"So my family will leave me in peace until the wedding," he said, leading her inside the elegant restaurant that glittered with wine glasses and furnished with rich dresses and smart tuxedos.

Cassandra's heart began to hammer against her chest as they approached a group of three people—one man and two women—on the far side of the room. Soft jazz music played in the background and it somehow helped to calm her hyperactive nerves.

"Oh, thank god you're here," an old lady wearing a gray sequined dress turned to them.

Doesn't look like a family of an organized crime, Cassandra thought. In fact, they simply looked like an elegant bunch. They looked vaguely familiar, their faces she had passed through in the papers and magazines and her earlier Google searches.

Cassandra readied her smile, trying her might to remember that it should reach her eyes. If there was anything else in the world she knew what to do, it was to fake happiness. The whole group of beautiful faces turned at their direction, their eyes expectant.

Cassandra looked at Philip at one corner of her eye and realized he was smiling like crazy that she almost snorted. His left hand went to cover her hand that was clutching the crook of his arm and she realized how tense she was. She relaxed her hold when she felt his warm hand over hers.

"This is Cassandra Anders. Cass, this is my family," Philip spoke with a touch of joy in every word it was almost believable to her ears. He was a really good actor!

"Hi," she beamed at the group. Organized crime clan or not, Cassandra figured it was not good to piss her future transient family.

"Sit down, you two!" the old lady with grayish hair spoke once again, motioning her hand toward the two empty seats beside her. Once seated, she looked at Cassandra admiringly with glimmer in her eyes, "You're as beautiful as Philip said." Cassandra looked at Philip with fake amusement and he just shrugged, looking at everyone around with a look that said I told you so. "I'm Hope, Philip's grandmother," the old lady continued and looked at the man across the long table seated at the other end, "that's William."

Cassandra just smiled. Why did she never read those articles about the Strindbergs? It would be of great help now.

"Her husband," the old man said with mock dryness, but his eyes were lovingly looking at his wife. He transferred his gaze to her with a warm smile and added, "It's good to finally meet you, my dear. Philip has been keeping you a secret from all of us."

She didn't really know how to answer that, but Philip obviously already thought of it because he said to her, "I already told them that you have been flying in and out of the country for years until now." His voice was so gentle she almost doubted if the man sitting beside her, holding her hand on the table was the same one who shouted at her outrageous behavior in the car.

"Yes." She cleared her throat and continued, "I've been quiet busy."

There was a short pause before the beautiful lady sitting across her finally grabbed her moment to say, "In case anyone forgot about me, I'm still here." She smiled contentedly. Her blue eyes told Cassandra who she was. "I'm Mary, Philip's mother. I'm so glad to finally put a face with the name, my dear."

You could have tried Google, she thought. Her name, along with her works, was searchable online.

"Me too," Cassandra answered, couldn't help but smile genuinely at the warm lady across her. "Philip has told me about you," she looked around the table and added, "all of you." Not that she was a pretty good liar, but you could say lying came to her naturally in moments like this. Two years was enough to teach her that.

"Well, why don't we start our dinner and get to know each other better?" Hope's cheerful voice said. And as if on cue, a waiter appeared carrying their food. "My dear," she turned to Cassandra, "I hope you don't mind. We made the honor of choosing the courses."

"That's okay, I eat almost anything," she replied and chuckled with the group. She tried very hard not to sigh in relief. The Strindbergs were not bad at all! Mafia or not, of course, she added in her mind.

Well, except Philip who by the way was doing an amazing act on being the perfect gentleman by placing her own napkin on her lap and even showed some sweet performance by tucking some of her stray blond hair behind her ear that sent some unexpected tingling current through her body. His act must be paying off because his family was looking at them with so much contentment and joy that Cassandra almost felt bad about the charade. She was almost afraid about the questions they obviously had at the ready.

"Where's Chanty?" her future husband asked the group once they started with their soup.

"You know your sister," Mary rolled her eyes. "She's always running late."

"And I won't be surprised if Angelica will be with her," Hope added, her voice sour.

Who is Chanty? Who is Angelica? She should have memorized the profile he gave her earlier. But that was too late now. She had no other choice but smile as if she knew the names; as if she had spent hours hearing Philip talk about them.

Philip frowned beside Cassandra. "Why would Ange be here?"

"You know why," his mother answered, and then her eyes flickered to Cassandra and she said, "But don't worry, my dear, we'll be here."

Cassandra just smiled, no idea what they were talking about. Who is this Angelica?

And as if someone from above heard her question, two supermodels trotted across the room, apparently headed toward their direction. Now that Cassandra could clearly see them as they got nearer, they couldn't be supermodels at all—they could be superstars from Hollywood—with their perfect hair and dresses and heels and legs. The shorter of the two must be Chanty because her hair was just the feminine version of Philip's. She was dressed in a dark-blue silk dress that extended down her knee, emphasizing her blue eyes. The other girl—the taller one with red hair, Cassandra guessed, must be Angelica.

Everyone else on the table noticed the arrival of the two ladies and each one of them, with the exception of Cassandra's awestruck face, had an expression ranging from disapproval to annoyance. Cassandra realized their eyes were focused only at Chanty's companion and she wondered why. Again, as if her question was heard by the man upstairs, the answer came as fast as the question.