Chapter 2 Arranged Marriage

Leonardo Sebastian Franco's POV

Most people don’t know they’re going to get married the first time they meet. Relationships develop over time. Some men and women weigh up the pros and cons to decide if they can live with someone until death does their part. Others follow their heart. Others claimed them by heart.

Not for me.

In my family, tradition dictates differently. The decision was made for me a long time ago. That’s how the business works. Money is power, and power is everything. Power means survival. It’s the most fundamental rule of the world.

My name is Leonardo Sebastian Franco, son of Fernando Franco.

Only the strongest survive. I am strong. I am powerful.

Now, I want to survive together with my Mafia Family.

That’s why I’m here, why we’re driving up the road that zigzags to the top of the hill and ends in a cul-de-sac. A mansion peeks from behind high walls. Beyond, the ocean glimmers in the golden dusk. Below, to the right, the lagoon is a flawless mirror surrounding the stilt cabins on the island. The town of Great Talubangi River lies a kilometer inland on the bank of the river, consisting of a supermarket, a post office, an old as well as a new church, a small police station, an art gallery, a gas station, and a handful of shops and restaurants.

Anticipation tightens my gut. The reaction is involuntary. Far from being pure or innocent, it’s born from instinct, from the darker, animalistic side of me that needs to claim and procreate.

Survival.

That’s why we came from Manila to this secluded town in Negros Island that’s no bigger than the point of a needle on the map, to meet my bride.

I’ve known for ten years, but twenty or thirty couldn’t be long enough to prepare me for the moment. Whereas most human beings take the freedom of dating whomever they like for granted, I see it for what it is - a chore.

Dating is nothing but a tedious process of selection via elimination. There’s a certain calm in knowing one woman is destined to be mine. Our union will serve in fulfilling my duty. There’s logic in that. It gives stability to life in a world where little and few can be trusted. It gives meaning to existence. No soul-searching or introspection is necessary.

It’s been decided.

The outcome has been predetermined.

The timing, however, could’ve been better. We left my mother and sister alone for New Year, but I understand only too well why my father is eager to see this contract to fruition. The reason for his haste eats at me too.

Instead of flying to the nearest airport, we rented a car in Bacolod City and drove the one hundred kilometers to Kabankalan. My father wanted to see the Sugar Cane Field Route and stop on the way to buy wine. We took the scenic road along the coast, passing cliffs that broke off into the stormy sea and bays studded with smooth rocks and birds. Sea bamboo drifting on the dark waters of small coves marked the mystery coast. The rugged shores eventually gave way to dunes covered with Aloe Vera, their red flowers like flaming torches in the clear blue sky, and long stretches of white sand where the air smelled of salt and succulent groundcovers.

After booking into a hotel on the golf estate in the neighboring town of Kabankalan, my father needed a day to rest and recover his strength. The following day, we did a reconnaissance of the area and paid our business partner—my future father-in-law—an unscheduled visit to his office. My father believes in catching his associates off guard. That way, they don’t have time to hide any unorthodox dealings they prefer to keep in the dark. “If you want to know the true nature of a man,” my father always says, “catch him with his pants down.”

My father stops next to an intercom with a camera and pushes the button. The gates swing open without a squeak. We follow the road to where several cars are parked around a fountain on a circular driveway.

Barry Maximo Fernandez appears on his doorstep before my father has cut the engine. I get out and straighten my jacket, taking stock of the surroundings like a soldier scouts a battlefield.

The house is the most impressive for miles around, built on the highest hill. Maximo stands on the porch like a cock crowing on his dunghill. In this sparsely populated part of South Negros Occidental, he may be the wealthiest man living in the biggest house. Compared to our property in Hinigaran, which is nothing short of a castle, the house that defines Fernandez’s status is unsubstantial. Inconsequential.

Much good all that money does us. Like Maximo’s pretentious residence, our stronghold and landscaped gardens are for show. It’s like putting a scumbag in a fancy suit. The centuries-old stigma still clings to our name. We come from a long line of vicious pirates and uneducated scoundrels. We’re not welcome in the circles of the refined, religious, and elite.

That will change soon.

Maximo Fernandez descends the steps to meet us.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he says, shaking our hands, but his fake smile says otherwise.

The garden is buzzing with the commotion appropriate for a rich girl’s sixteenth birthday party. Staff wearing black uniforms and white aprons are running up and down between the house and a cool truck parked in the far corner of the garden. White and pink flower wreaths decorate the balustrades, and a silver balloon arch frames the doorway. The breeze carries the notes of string music from the front of the house.

Maximo leads us to the lounge, which is similarly decorated with flowers and balloons. Bouquets of lilies and roses perfume the air. A round table in the center of the room is piled high with parcels wrapped in pink with white ribbons and vice versa. Did they specify the color of the wrapping paper like a fucking dress code on the invitation? I won’t be surprised if Maximo introduces his daughter by marching her down the stairs in billows of white and pink voile.

What does she look like? I resisted the urge to look her up on social media. A part of me, the darker, more deviant part that can resist neither gamble nor dare, wanted to walk into this unprepared and let the surprise take me wherever it would. Shock me. Please me.

I’m about to find out which.

My father takes the box wrapped in golden paper from his jacket pocket and leaves it with the mountain of packets on the table. He’s gone to a great deal of trouble to select a fine piece of craftsmanship from one of the best jewelers in Metro Manila.

The sliding doors are open, revealing the green lawn that sweeps to the edge of the dune and the sea that’s visible to the convex curve of the horizon. The party is already in full swing. Guests mingle around cocktail tables, their droning conversations audible above the music. The string quartet is set up under a pine tree, the musicians expertly keeping the volume on a level that allows for chatter.

The women are decked out in their best, some of them sporting hats you’d see at the Derby, and, like my father and Maximo, the men are dressed in tuxedos. I prefer a style less universal. I opted for a modern Filipiniana look with a designer jacket, a fitted shirt, and tailored pants.

“Welcome to my humble home,” Maximo says, waving a waiter closer. “Can I offer you a glass of champagne?”

“Maybe Scotch first,” my father says. “While we talk business.”

Maximo glances at the top of the stairs and then at his watch. “It’s hardly the moment.”

My father’s smile is indulgent. “It won’t take long.”

Our host doesn’t have a choice but to comply. Our family is an important service provider—for lack of a better word—in his business. Although, from our impromptu visit to his office yesterday, I got the impression he wasn’t ecstatic about our presence.

As manners dictate, my father asked about the welfare of his family and specifically about the news of his youngest daughter. I could almost see the gears turning in Maximo’s head, questioning the unlikely coincidence of our uninvited visit that happened to fall on the date of his daughter’s sixteenth birthday. He couldn’t do otherwise but tell us about the party. The town is small. News travels. It would’ve been rude and politically incorrect not to invite us. We traveled across the whole of the Philippines and neighboring countries in Southeast Asia after all, going to considerable efforts and expenses to call on him. Of course, my father accepted the invitation gracefully.

Judging by Maximo’s reaction yesterday, I won’t be surprised if my bride-to-be does not know of my existence. Maximo isn’t a good actor. He couldn’t hide his aversion. He barely endured shaking my hand. People either fear or despise me. Mostly, they do both. Too bad.

Maximo Fernandez may think he’s better than us where morals are concerned, but we put him on his throne. He may sit there with a lily-white conscience and pretend his empire isn’t built on blood, but I’m not scared to face the truth or to roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty.

Maximo shows us a study with leather couches facing a coffee table in the center of the floor but indicates the visitors’ chairs in front of the desk.

My father shoots me a look as we take our seats. It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to understand that Maximo is scavenging whatever power he can, even if said power comes from hiding behind a desk.

Maximo pours Scotch at the wet bar and offers us each a drink, omitting one for himself.

He sits down and folds his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you, ?”

My father takes his box of cigarillos from his pocket and holds it out to Maximo. Barry Maximo shakes his head.

“It’s time for Leonardo Franco and Luna Bella Fernandez to meet,” my father says, measuring Maximo.

Maximo keeps a poker face, but he sits up straighter. “Why?”

“Luna Bella will be eighteen in two years.”

The only reaction Maximo shows is the twitch of his eyes. “Indeed. What of it?”

My father rolls a cigarillo between his fingers and puts away the box. “She’ll be an adult.” When Maximo doesn’t comment, he continues, “Of marriageable age.”

Maximo spares me no more than a glance, his upper lip curling as if I’m an unpleasant sight. “I don’t see what that has to do with Leonardo.”

“She’s been promised to Leonardo.” My father smiles. “Have you forgotten?”

Maximo’s face turns red. “I didn’t agree to any such thing.”

My anger ignites in a second. I know what he’s doing, why he’s denying the oath he made. We’re good enough to do his dirty work, but we’re not good enough for his daughter.

“We shook hands on the deal,” my father says.

Maximo no longer makes an effort to disguise his anger. “I didn’t consent to what you’re implying,”

“Where I come from, a handshake is as good as a signature. Giving your handshake is giving your word.” My father looks Maximo straight in the eyes. “Lying about it does not only make you a coward, but it’s also a slap in our faces.”

Maximo turns from red to purple. “In my place, a handshake holds no hidden meaning. Its only purpose is expressing politeness. We congratulated each other on a successful negotiation, nothing more. You get your fair cut every year.”

“You seem to have a short memory, my friend.” My father leans forward, bracing his elbow on the desk. “Part of the deal was always that Leonardo would enter the business when he graduates from university and that we’d strengthen our mutual interests in blood.”

“You’re mistaken,” Maximo says, his voice rising in volume.

“You act as if being tied to the Italian family is an insult.” My father makes that statement like a challenge. “It will only benefit you.” He takes a stack of folded papers from his inside jacket pocket and slides it over the desk. “I took the liberty of getting my lawyer to draw up a contract. They’ll get married when she turns eighteen, but she can stay with us to acclimatize while Leonardo finishes his MBA in Manila. Of course, she’ll get a house in her name and a monthly allowance. Provision for the children born from their union, including expenses, education, trust funds, and such, has been stipulated. They won’t want for anything. The marriage will be out of community of property, but in the unlikely event that my son decides to leave her, she will retain her property and possessions, and she will receive a handsome compensation.” My father relaxes in his seat again. “Take your time to look it over.”

Maximo doesn’t as much as glance at the contract. “You seem to have it all figured out.” He sneers. “What happens if she leaves him?”

“In that case, she gets nothing, but let’s not bring them bad luck by focusing on the negative aspects before we’ve even celebrated their engagement. As you know, divorce is highly unusual in my family.”

“Engagement?” Maximo exclaims. “She’s sixteen, for crying out loud.” He points a finger at me. “You’re twenty.” Scornfully, he adds, “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“That’s right,” I drawl. “I’m not asking to marry her straight away. Like my father, I prefer that she finishes school. I believe she’s attending an excellent establishment with a prestigious reputation, and a good education is important to me. Four years may seem like a big age difference now, but once she’s an adult, the gap won’t be significant. Aren’t you seven years older than your wife?”

All but choking on his spit, Maximo pushes back his chair.

We didn’t come to the birthday party of a sixteen-year-old girl with guns, but maybe we should’ve.

When I make to get up, my father exchanges a look with me, wordlessly instructing me to let him handle it.

“They should announce their betrothal as soon as possible,” he says in a placating tone, “but the actual engagement doesn’t have to take place until she’s turned of legal age. In the meantime, it’ll be wise to let them get to know each other.” My father spreads his hands. “The fact that I’m behaving so considerately and in the best interest of your daughter should reassure you.”

The laugh Maximo utters is cold. “Reassure me?”

My father waves at the papers on the desk. “If my promise isn’t enough, the figures will surely satisfy you.”

XXX