Claimed for Life: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

could’ve held back, but I wanted to take pictures of the desert for my blog. The brutal truth of nature that these reddish-orange sand dunes provide is jarring enough to make waves in the photographer community, but I’m without the ability to capture it now. My camera is back at the hotel.
I sigh, pulling the headscarf over my face again. Ten seconds of sunlight was all that was necessary to remind me to stay covered. It’s not worth letting my skin breathe, even for a few minutes. The sweat rapidly drying from your body feels good at first, until it’s replaced with skin-melting temperatures and severe UV burns. Then, it’s not so pleasant.
The sand is so hot beneath my feet that I can feel it through my tan desert boots. I feel like I’m part of the military on a special operation in South Africa, but in reality, I’m with the type of people the military would have major issues with. We push guns, drugs, and anything else you can’t get on the legal markets to people for large amounts of cash.
And by we, I mean my father and his mafia. I’m just along for the ride.
My father isn’t that bad of a guy. In fact, I admire him. He’s a serious man, but he still knows how to make me laugh. I could’ve parted ways with him when I turned eighteen, but I chose to stick around. Now, at twenty-one, I’m just as eager to go on trips with him and his mafia crew as ever. He’s my rock, and I’m his jewel. Together, we’re a great team.
“We’ve got company,” a gruff voice shouts from the front of the line, breaking my train of thought.
Everyone stops walking, and for a moment, I wonder if this is how things end for us. I’ve had scares in the past. Two years ago, I was shot in the leg on what was supposed to be a routine weapons drop-off somewhere off the coast of China. Our boat was intercepted and attacked by pirates, but not the kind with peg legs and eye patches. These men wore bulletproof vests and carried rifles.
I was shot when we fought back, but the bullet didn’t do all that much damage, having ricocheted off the metal floor and into my calf muscle, but it hurt like hell, nonetheless. Sometimes, I still feel the ache in my leg, and it reminds me of just how easy it is to die.
My father taught me never to allow myself to be taken as a prisoner. You fight back, no matter what the odds. Capture just makes you open for torture and interrogation, and as a young woman, that’s the worst thing that can happen to me. They do terrible things to women. Death is preferable.
So, as my body stiffens and my hand instinctually lowers to where my pistol rests on my thigh, I remember that night on the boat. I feared for my life then, just as I do now, but this time, things are different. We’re in the middle of the desert, with no cover and very few men. We’re practically defenseless.
I look forward, past the line of linen-cloaked men toward the threat that’s moving toward us. From the dust in the hazy air, I can make out three white trucks driving our way. The only people that could possibly be out here in trucks are the Valangana, a rogue freedom fighters’ group that we’re here to make a weapons deal with. Anyone else would’ve been blasted off this miserable earth in an instant by the drones that fly through the air like buzzards looking for a corpse to pick at.
I can only hope that’s who have come to greet us. Otherwise, we’re likely to be dead where we stand in a few moments. I can make out machine guns, capable of turning a person into a pink mist in the noon sun, mounted on the tops of the trucks heading our way.
“Valangana,” a commanding voice shouts from the front of the line. It’s my father, Michael Dormer, letting everyone know that the trucks bring good news instead of inevitable death. The Valangana wish us no harm.
The coiled muscles in my shoulders loosen, allowing them to drop. My hand still hovers over my thigh, and the men in front of me still grip their rifles tightly, but we’re likely to be safe from here on out. Even in the baking desert sun, we’re better off with our allies than anywhere close to the main city. The government here doesn’t take too kindly to weapons dealers.
I straighten my back, looking out through the thin slit of my headscarf at the dusty trucks as they roll up to the front of the line. They come to a stop, and a man in all black desert robes steps out of the passenger’s seat. He’s tall, and his features are striking. Even from the back of the line, I can see the sharpness in his pitch-black eyes. He must be the leader of the Valangana, Bheka.

Chapter Two


Honey
As frightening as it was to have a slew of armed trucks pull up to our shabby line of tired travelers, I’m thankful it happened. The Valangana came to drive us all to their base camp, cool A/C blowing from the front of the trucks. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve stumbled on a little piece of paradise in these armored vehicles.
“Daughter of Dormer,” the driver beside me says in a baritone South African accent.
I look over to him, marveling at his heavy facial features and dark skin. All these men are exceptionally attractive, something I never thought I would find myself thinking about a group of rogue desert dwellers. Beauty can be found everywhere, even in the harshest climates. In fact, I’ve found that the more brutal the location, the more handsome the men.
“Yes, my father is Michael Dormer, leader of the Dormer Mafia,” I announce proudly, keeping my chin up as I speak.
A slight