The Temptation of Thievery

three

it's such a joy to continue writing again, though i wrote a little of this chapter nauseated on a bus to watch the sound of music's musical ahah
enjoy!!

(as it was by harry styles)

RAIMONA

"A wife?" I repeated, dumbfounded. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I cannot have a wife who cringes away from a gun," he explained, "or one that tells on me."

I bit on my lips, incredulity staining my features. He was a hilarious man; I'd give him that. And fortunately for him, it deterred me from the urge to file Clinton a report. As long as he didn't use it, I suppose it was dismissible. Discreetly bringing weapons into events wasn't uncommon by any means.

"Is that why you feel under pressure?" I asked.

"Of course. My family's upset because I'm taking too long to wed," he said scornfully. "It's ridiculous."

"No, it's not," I said, a little taken aback by his attitude. "If you're in a known family or organisation, you must wed before thirty. It's crucial," I emphasised. "There must be an heir. I heard my father had an uncle who didn't have willing heirs to overtake his business. The entire operation fell."

He huffed out as if I didn't understand, which frustrated me. I, too, had to be married quickly to bear heirs. And because my family had a hefty load of secrets, my partner couldn't be just any ordinary man from the streets. Considering that this stranger was attending a Clinton ball, he was most likely facing the same issue.

"What's so terrible about marriage?" I asked him instead, disliking his petty silence. My parents displayed love as if it were a fairytale, and I had no reason to believe otherwise.

He ignored my last question entirely. Instead, he said, "If you claim I must marry before thirty, then I should have a decade more. Why now?"

"Your family is merely being careful," I said, returning to swallow a few mouthfuls of wine.

I thought he must be staring at me, though he could undoubtedly only see the inky shape of my figure. "Marry me, meu anjo."

The laughter that burst from my lips was a fusion of pure bewilderment and amusement. I was unsure if it was the alcohol that rendered his words the most absurd thing I have heard in my lifetime. When I realised he hadn't followed up his joke with a just kidding, speech left me entirely.

"You cannot be serious, Evandros." I sneered the name enough for him to know I didn't believe it belonged to him.

There was a moment of quietude, then an arm extended from his figure and tucked a stray strand of my chestnut-coloured hair behind my ear. "You are perfect," he whispered, the words lost to the still air.

"You," I said, "are moronic."

He dropped his hand. "Fine," he relented. "It was a pleasure to meet you, minha futura esposa."

"The pleasure is mine," I said. A part of me had already settled comfortably in his presence and dreaded his absence, but I said nothing as he stood to leave. "Also," I added afterwards, my knowledge of the Portuguese language pulling through, "I cannot be your future wife."