Epilogue Adriana #4
I can hear the attempt at confidence in his voice. It's strange—there's some there, as if he's used to women wanting to be close to him, but with enough uncertainty bleeding into it that I know I'm not the type of woman who usually is.
I should refuse him—make an excuse and go find Marco or one of the other acceptable men in this room. But something stops me.
Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's the way Gabriella is staring at me with wide eyes, clearly shocked that Murphy would approach me directly. Maybe it's the challenge in his expression, like he's daring me to say no.
He's a grown man, dangerous and violent, but in this room he almost seems like a boy getting his footing. I almost feel a little bad for him, which startles me.
Dancing with him would be gracious. Exactly the way the daughter of the host should behave, which is why I agree.
"Of course." I hand my champagne flute to Sofia and step forward, letting Murphy take my hand.
His palm is warm and calloused, not the soft hands of the men I usually dance with, who've never done manual labor in their lives. These hands are scarred and rough, and I feel a strange flutter in my stomach as his fingers close around mine.
He leads me onto the dance floor with surprising grace.
For a man who looks so out of place, he knows how to waltz.
His hand settles at my waist firmly, and I rest my left hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric of his suit.
That hot prickle moves over my skin again, and I tell myself it's only distaste at being so close to someone so far beneath me.
We begin to move, and I'm acutely aware of how close he is, how much space he takes up. How his scent, clean and masculine, with a hint of whiskey, fills my lungs with every breath.
"You have a beautiful home," he says casually.
"Thank you." I keep my eyes fixed on his shoulder, not quite able to meet his gaze. "My father takes great pride in it."
"I'm sure he does." There's something in his tone I can't quite read. Amusement, maybe. "Must be nice, growing up in a place like this."
"It was. I've been very fortunate."
"Fortunate." He repeats the word like he's tasting it. "That's one way to put it."
I look up at him then, and immediately regret it. His eyes are too green, too intense. I feel like he's seeing too much of me, and I don't like it. "What would you call it?"
"Privileged." His hand tightens slightly at my waist. "Sheltered."
Now I don't feel like he's an uncertain boy any longer, and I don't feel sorry for him. The words sting. "I'm not sheltered."
"No?" His mouth curves into something that might be a smile, but there's no warmth in it. "You've never had to fight for anything in your life, have you? Never had to wonder where your next meal was coming from, or whether you'd have a roof over your head tomorrow."
Heat rises in my cheeks. "That's not—"
"I'm not criticizing," he interrupts. "Just observing."
We turn, and I catch a glimpse of Gabriella and the others watching us.
They're not even pretending not to stare.
Everyone is watching us, I realize—the mafia princess dancing with the upstart from the motorcycle club.
It's probably the most interesting thing that's happened at one of these parties in months.
"You don't belong here," I say. The words come out before I can stop them.
Murphy's expression doesn't change, but I feel him stiffen. "Excuse me?"
"I'm just surprised you would even be here.
" I keep my voice light, conversational, as if I'm commenting on the weather.
"This isn't really your world, is it? All this—" I gesture vaguely at the ballroom, the chandeliers, the people in their expensive clothes.
"It must be very different from what you're used to. "
For a moment, he doesn't respond. We continue dancing, moving in perfect sync, but the air between us has changed, gone cold.
"You're right," he says finally. "It's not my world. I come from somewhere a lot more honest than this."
"Honest?" I can't keep the skepticism out of my voice.
"Yeah. Honest." His eyes bore into mine. "Where I come from, if someone has a problem with you, they say it to your face. They don't smile and make polite conversation while they're thinking about how much they despise you."
My heart is beating too fast. "I don't despise you."
"Don't you?" He leans in slightly, and I catch the smoky scent of whiskey again. "You've been looking at me all night like I'm something you scraped off the bottom of your shoe."
"That's not—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"It's fine." His voice is emotionless. "I know what you think of me—what all of you think of me. The biker who got lucky. The nobody who doesn't know which fork to use at dinner."
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to." He releases me abruptly, stepping back. The music is still playing, but we're no longer dancing. "Thank you for the dance, Miss Capetti. It was... enlightening."
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