“You should go inside and change. Get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.”

His voice scrapes over me, his jaw clenched. The flashing in his dark eyes oscillates between what looks like desire and anger, and I instinctively take a step back, my body hitting the porch railing.

“You’re upset.”

“I sent people out searching for you,” he says.

“I went for a walk. I suppose the afternoon got away from me.”

“I was worried about you.”

“It never occurred to me that you would worry.” I try for a smile. “I’m still adjusting to being a wife.”

Anthony takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair where the faintest touch of gray resides at the temples. “No, I’m sorry. You’re free to come and go as you please, of course. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. But I did worry. I suppose you learn to see threats everywhere.” His voice drops to nearly a whisper. “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.”

Surprise fills me.

“I’m sure I’m quite safe here,” I tease, struggling to lighten the mood, to soften the intensity in his gaze and to tame the uncertainty churning inside me. “It’s not as though there’s anyone around to do me harm. We’re practically alone here.”

“In my line of work, it’s hard to take that for granted.” He hesitates. “I’m not an easy man.”

Anthony wraps a strand of my hair around his finger, pulling me closer to him gently.

Something tumbles in my chest, his mouth inches from mine.

“I’m not an easy man,” he continues. “But I am trying. I’m not used to being a husband. Or worrying about a wife. Be patient with me. Please,” he amends.

“I will.” Hesitantly, I reach between us and stroke my fingertips along the curve of his jaw.

A groan escapes Anthony, and he fists the damp fabric of my dress. He leans into my touch as my back scrapes against the railing, as his body resettles itself in the cradle of mine.

“Mirta.”

My name sounds foreign falling from his lips, as though I have been remade into someone new.

He leans forward, and I wait expectantly for his kiss, only to be caught off guard when instead his forehead rests against mine.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

The emotion in his words staggers me.

“I was worried about you,” he repeats, the fervency in his voice enough to make me wonder if his life is truly as dangerous as he says. I thought I’d left my fears behind me in Cuba, and for a moment, I consider asking him if I should be worried, but we’re on unfamiliar ground here, the budding intimacy between us too new, and I’m loath to shatter this fragile bond we’re building with questions that can be put off for later.

My hand drifts higher, curving around his neck as my fingers thread through his hair, the desire in his gaze sending a flash of courage through me.

The muscles at the back of his neck are tense knots.

“Your meetings didn’t go well?” I ask, hazarding a guess at his mood.

“No. They didn’t. There’s trouble back home in New York. I spent too much time in Havana, was away for too long. My enemies thought they could move in on my territory.”

“You make it sound like things are dire.”

“It’s a different type of war than the one you’re used to. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s what we tell ourselves. Maybe all war is the same—a fight for power, for resources. On the streets, it’s for territory. Respect. I protect what’s mine. The people who work in my places, the families that live in my neighborhoods.”

It sounds all too familiar. “And where do I fall in the hierarchy?”

“You are the most important thing for me to keep safe. You and our future children. My business will not touch you. I promise you that.”

“Don’t make me promises you can’t keep.”

My father promised us things back in Cuba—that he was smart to back Machado, that it would keep us protected, safe. Men behave as though the world is theirs to order and control, but life doesn’t always work out like that. Often there’s something around the corner you can’t prepare for or muscle your way out of.

“You don’t approve of my work, do you?” Anthony asks.

“Does it matter if I approve, really?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Then, no, I suppose I don’t.”

He releases me, taking a step back, his gaze on mine.

“You’ve heard the rumors about me. And yet, you married me anyway.”

“I did. And yes, the rumors are fairly difficult to miss. Are they all true?”

“Enough are true.”

So he is a criminal of sorts. That part doesn’t bother me as much as it should—I’ve seen enough of Havana’s prominent citizens dirty their hands in order to get ahead. I can’t say I’m happy about the American Mafia’s presence in Cuba, either, but my opinion matters little. They’ve made their claim on the island, so it seems better to ally ourselves.

“I’m scared,” I admit. “When my father fell out of favor with the government, we lived with the threat of violence. I saw the toll it took on those I loved, lived with fear hanging over my head, death all around me. That’s part of why I wanted to leave Cuba, why I wanted to give my family a chance for a better life.”

“You married me because of my friendship with Batista.”

“It wasn’t only that. But yes, given the stakes at hand, I had to do what was best for my family. And you? Did you give my father money to marry me?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“I’m not stupid. It wasn’t lost on me that suddenly my father’s worries about money lessened after I accepted your proposal. That there was money for my wedding trousseau and new gowns when we’d been wearing the same old ones for two years. The day he presented your proposal, he told me my family desperately needed this. I assumed there was money involved.”

“But you didn’t ask him directly?”

“It wasn’t my place.”

Perhaps I overstep in discussing this with Anthony, but if he wants the “real” marriage he described earlier, then I want our marriage to be a partnership. I saw how my mother struggled during our family’s troubles, my father shutting her out of all of it completely. Maybe he thought he was protecting her, but the end result of us losing everything was still the same. There is no power to be had in Anthony treating me as anything less than an equal.