Claimed for Life: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance

smirk graces the man’s face. “I didn’t expect a woman.”
I recoil, feeling offended. I’m just as able-bodied and tough as any of the men here, if not more so. My family name should say enough about me, but some things never change. Men will always doubt a woman in the field, no matter how much she does to prove herself.
I take a sharp breath in. “Do you have an issue with me being a woman?” I ask.
“The desert is no place for a woman,” he says.
“And yet, here I am,” I reply crisply.
He chuckles, his voice as deep as the engine of the truck he’s driving. “Here you are,” he parrots.
I frown at him, then turn back to face forward with my lips pressed tightly together. It’s not the first time someone has suggested that I’m unfit to be involved in my father’s dealings, but it annoys me how bold this man is to insult the daughter of the man he intends to make a major deal with. It speaks miles about his character.
I’m silent for the rest of the drive, refusing to look anywhere but straight forward as we roll through the vast desert landscape on four wheels. It only takes about ten minutes for us to reach our destination, an outpost wrapped in so much barbed wire that you would think it’s a giant metal tumbleweed at first glance. All three trucks stop just outside the entrance.
I jump out of the truck, not waiting for any commands or cautions from the driver. The only person I’ll take any orders from is my father anyway, so it’s not like anything he said would’ve mattered.
The bottoms of my boots meet the soft sand with a small thud, sinking into the scalding grains that have been all but cooked into glass by the sun. My skin prickles as the sharp needles of heat return in a sudden wave. I hope we’re not kept waiting for long in this insufferable heat.
I look to my left, watching my father climb out of the truck directly beside me. His grizzly black and grey beard is a natural mask against the sun, and he wears a pair of designer sunglasses over his wrinkled eyes. He glances over at me and gives me a curt nod, as though to say, “Everything is going as planned.”
I feel confident as I join the rest of the mafia men outside the entrance to the Valangana outpost. We should be through with negotiations in a few hours, and then we’ll be permitted to head back to civilization. All I have to do is hang around and try not to get myself into trouble. I just wish I could take some pictures of this place. It’s extraordinary.
“Inside,” the man in all black says, waving his hand toward the guarded entrance.
I stand close behind my father, blessed by his shadow as the two guards standing stoically still at the entrance part ways. They step to either side of the arched doorway in one swift motion, returning to their statuesque stance once the way is clear. We move in a line, with the man in black behind the line, ushering us inside of the compound.
Behind the gnarly barbed wire-wrapped walls are a series of stout buildings built from clay, almost disappearing against the red sand. Their walls are thick, and I imagine them to be quite cool inside. I’d love to slip into the shady interior of one and have a cold drink of water.
“The camels have come to greet us,” the Valangana leader says from behind us once we are inside, his voice filled with amusement.
I look ahead of us to see a small group of camels walking quickly toward us as though we were here to feed them. Unlike other desert animals I’ve encountered, these camels aren’t shy in the least and look to be quite curious about the new people that have joined them in the outpost. They walk toward us with an excited gallop, eyes large in their thin skulls.
The camels come to a stop in front of us, and the Valangana leader walks up from the back of the group, his hand extended outward toward the camels. He tosses a pad of a prickly pear cactus at the feet of the camel in the front, spikes and all. The camel bends its long neck down and scarfs up the cactus as though the spines didn’t even exist.
“That doesn’t hurt them?” I ask my father, looking up at him.
He smiles. “When you’re born and bred in the desert, you eat what you can get.”
I look back at the camel, amazed that it was able to eat such a harsh plant. I wonder if the men around here eat cactus in the same way, or if they remove the spikes first. With all the barbed wire, I have a suspicion that they’re into that sort of thing, like how people in South America eat the hottest peppers like they were nothing.
The man in black turns around, facing toward the rest of the group. “Welcome to the Valangana freedom fighters’ compound,” he says, spreading his long arms wide. “My name is Bheka, and I am the leader of these people. I’m sure you are all tired from your journey through the Kalahari Desert, so please, fill your canisters to the brim with cold water and rest your bodies in the shade.”
I’m so thankful to hear the friendliness in his deep voice. I’ve had to deal with so many ruthless men, my body rigid and tight the entire time I was around them, that finally doing business with a decent human being sends a wave of sweet relief through me. I don’t have to worry about being stabbed in the back or taken prisoner. I feel a little safer here.
“Dormer,” Bheka says, coming forward with a long step.
Both my father and I perk up at the name, but I know he’s only speaking to my father. It’s always the case, but my