Khalid's estate sat on the outskirts of Riyadh, modern architecture disguised as traditional design. Inside, Yusuf sat across from him in the private study, reading the official dossier on Lucia Marchetti.
"This is thin," Yusuf said, flipping through pages. "For a family that's been operational for three generations, we have almost nothing substantive."
"CIA redactions?"
"Some. But mostly it's just... absent. Like someone scrubbed it clean." Yusuf set down the file. "Her education is documented. Stanford Economics, Oxford International Relations. Both with honors. She serves on three corporate boards and chairs two charity foundations. Publicly, she's the acceptable face of a crime family."
"And privately?"
"That's the problem. We don't know." Yusuf leaned forward. "Your Highness, the pattern suggests someone very good at staying invisible. That level of operational security doesn't happen by accident."
Khalid stood, pacing to the window. The city sprawled below, all glass and steel rising from sand. "Faisal wants an answer by tomorrow."
"What do you want?"
"I want to not be a chess piece in my uncle's games." Khalid turned back. "But that's not an option, is it?"
"There are always options."
"Name one that doesn't end with family conflict."
Yusuf was quiet. They both knew the answer.
Khalid's phone rang—it was his sister Amira, a video call. He answered, her face appearing on the screen. Twenty-eight, living in London, technically studying art history but actually doing whatever wealthy Saudi princesses did when freed from family obligations.
"I heard about Uncle Faisal's latest scheme," she said without preamble. "An arranged marriage? Really, Khalid?"
"You have spies in the family?"
"I have cousins who can't keep secrets. Are you actually considering this?"
"I'm evaluating options."
Amira rolled her eyes. "That's diplomat-speak for 'yes, but I don't want to admit it.' " 'Who is she?"
"Lucia Marchetti. Italian-American, educated, from a business family—"
"A mafia family," Amira interrupted. "I'm not stupid, brother. I looked her up. The Marchettis run drugs and weapons through half of California. You're marrying into organized crime."
"We sell arms to war zones and execute dissidents. Let's not pretend we're better."
"Fair point." Amira's expression softened. "But Khalid, arranged marriages in our family don't exactly have a great track record. Look at Father's generation."
"I know."
"Do you? Because every man in our family marries for power. And I've watched those marriages. I've seen what they become." Her voice dropped. "I've seen what they do to the women trapped in them."
Khalid thought of his aunts, elegant and hollow, performing happiness at family gatherings. "This is different."
"How?"
"Because I know what I'm walking into. No illusions, no expectations."
"That's even sadder; do you realize that?"
After the call ended, Khalid sat in silence. Yusuf waited, patient.
"Your sister is right," Yusuf finally said. "But she's also in London, not here. She doesn't have to navigate family politics."
"She escaped. I envy that."
"You're fifth in line. You have freedom others don't. Use it."
Khalid pulled up files on his laptop—Marchetti family operations for the last five years. Yusuf had compiled them earlier: drug distribution networks, port acquisitions, political contributions, and shell company formations. Standard organized crime infrastructure, but executed with unusual precision.
He started cross-referencing dates. A major expansion into San Diego happened six months after Lucia finished her Oxford degree. A restructuring of their pharmaceutical distribution coincided with her joining the family business officially. The CIA arrangements that protected them had been negotiated around the time she turned twenty-five.
Patterns. Always patterns.
"Look at this," Khalid said, turning the laptop toward Yusuf. "Every sophisticated operation traces back to after she entered the business."
Yusuf studied the timeline. "Could be coincidence. Or CIA involvement. They've been protecting the Marchettis for years."
"But why? What's their value to American intelligence?"
"Access. The Marchettis operate where the government can't. Same reason we use proxies in Yemen."
Khalid nodded slowly. It made sense. More sense than the alternative—that a thirty-two-year-old woman was actually running a criminal empire while everyone credited her father and brother.
That would be impressive, he thought. Also terrifying.
"I've negotiated with warlords and diplomats," Khalid said quietly. "Dictators and CEOs. I can read a room in three languages and know who's lying before they finish their first sentence. So why does the thought of meeting one woman in Dubai make me feel like I'm going into battle unarmed?"
"Because the stakes are personal," Yusuf replied. "You can walk away from a weapons deal. You can't walk away from a wife."
Khalid closed the laptop. His sister was right—arranged marriages in his family ended badly. His father barely spoke to his mother. His uncles treated their wives like furniture. He'd watched it his entire life and sworn he'd be different.
But being different required options he didn't have.
His phone buzzed. Text from Faisal: Decision?
Khalid stared at the message. One word could change his entire life. He thought about Lucia's photograph—intelligent eyes, careful posture, and the look of someone who'd learned to hide in plain sight.
Maybe she was as trapped as he was. Maybe this marriage was just two prisoners negotiating the terms of their shared cell.
Or maybe she was exactly what she appeared to be—a mafia princess who'd say yes because family demanded it, and they'd spend decades performing happiness while dying inside.
There's only one way to find out.
He typed back, "Yes." Arrange the meeting.
Faisal's response came immediately: Already done. Dubai, three days. I'll send details.
Khalid felt something cold settle in his stomach. "He knew. He knew I'd say yes."
Yusuf's expression was grim. "Your uncle always knows."
"You've already arranged everything, haven't you?" Khalid called Faisal directly.
His uncle answered on the first ring, sounding pleased. "I arranged a meeting, nephew. What happens after is up to you. But remember—she's American. She'll expect love, romance, and emotional connection." His voice hardened. "Don't be foolish enough to give it."
"And if I want to?"
"Then you're weaker than I thought. Marriage is business. Keep it that way."
The call ended.
Khalid stood at the window, watching Riyadh's lights flicker in the darkness. In three days, he'd meet Lucia Marchetti in Dubai. In three days, he'd start a performance that might last the rest of his life.
Every man in our family marries for power, Faisal had said. Why should you be different?
Because he'd seen what those marriages became. Because he'd watched his uncles grow old next to women who despised them. Because somewhere in the last ten years of playing diplomat and dealmaker, he'd started to hope he could be more than his family expected.
Foolish hope. Dangerous hope.
But hope nonetheless.
"Three days," he said to Yusuf. "Find out everything you can about her before then. I want to know who I'm actually meeting."
"And if what I find changes your mind?"
Khalid looked at his reflection in the dark window—thirty-six years old, successful, powerful, and completely trapped by the family that gave him everything.
"It won't," he said quietly. "Faisal's already made arrangements. Backing out now would humiliate the family. I'm going to Dubai."
"Then I'm coming with you."
"Obviously."
After Yusuf left, Khalid pulled up Lucia's photo again. In three days, this woman would be sitting across from him, both of them performing, both of them calculating. Two strangers negotiating a marriage neither wanted but both needed.
Maybe that's the only honest foundation, he thought. No illusions. No expectations. Just two people trapped by circumstance, making the best of impossible choices.
It wasn't romantic. But it was realistic.
And in his world, realistic was the best you could hope for.