2. Declan
DECLAN
The cold air hits my face the moment I step outside the Capetti estate, and I breathe it in like I've been drowning.
The valet brings my car around—a black Mercedes that cost more than my father made in his entire life—and I tip him without looking at his face.
I can't look at anyone right now and risk them seeing whatever the fuck is written across my expression.
You don't belong here.
Her words echo in my head as I pull out of the circular driveway, the mansion's lights fading in my rearview mirror. My hands grip the steering wheel too tightly, knuckles white against the leather. I force myself to loosen my grip and breathe.
She's right, of course. That's the worst part.
Elena Capetti, with her midnight-blue silk dress and her diamond bracelet and her perfectly cultivated disdain, saw right through me, just like everyone else there tonight did.
She saw past the expensive suit and the title and the power I'm supposed to wield, straight down to the truth I've been trying to ignore for months now.
I don't belong in this world, and I never will. I never wanted to.
But I'm here now, anyway.
The drive back to my new penthouse takes twenty minutes, but it feels longer.
The city lights blur past, Chicago at night in all its gritty glory.
This is my city now. My territory. The Irish mob answers to me, reports to me, and bleeds for me.
But most days I still feel like I'm playing dress-up in another man's clothes.
Lachlan just... walked away. Handed me everything he'd built, everything he'd fought for, and disappeared like smoke, leaving me holding the reins of an organization I never asked for.
Now I'm surrounded by men who used to work for him, along with my own men who remember when we were just lackeys for a different powerful mob boss in New York.
Now I'm supposed to sit at tables with men like Enzo Capetti and dance with their daughters. Pretend I understand the rules of their world.
I'm just surprised you would even be here.
I pull into the underground parking garage of my building, the gate recognizing my car and opening automatically.
Everything in my life is automatic now, seamless, and expensive.
Nothing like the cramped apartment above the bar where I grew up, where the heat only worked half the time, and the neighbors' fights bled through the thin walls every night.
Hell, even after I worked for the Santoro family, I still lived in a pretty shitty place.
I was always afraid to spend the money we made, because a childhood of poverty made me feel that it could be gone at any second.
Now I have so much there's no way to lose it all. And I have to spend it, if I'm going to look like I belong enough to pretend that I do.
I should be grateful. Lachlan gave me a gift most men would kill for. But I feel like a fraud.
The elevator ride to the penthouse is silent and lonely, and I stare at my reflection in the polished steel doors.
The suit is more expensive than anything I've ever worn, made by some Italian designer whose name I can't pronounce, but it doesn't quite fit me right.
My hair is too long, falling across my forehead, but one of my men told me it makes me look less threatening.
More approachable. So I left it like this for tonight.
Civilized.
The thought makes me feel worse, all over again.
The penthouse is dark when I enter, except for the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I don't bother turning on the lamps. I just shrug out of my jacket, toss it over the back of the leather couch, and head straight for the bar cart.
There's good whiskey on it now, none of the cheap stuff Lachlan and I used to sneak when we were kids. The first sip burns going down, and I welcome it, focusing on the physical sensation of the heat spreading through my chest. Anything to stop thinking about her.
But I can't stop.
Elena Capetti. Twenty years old and already more poised than most women twice her age.
She moved through that ballroom like she owned it—which, I suppose, she does by association.
Her father's estate, her father's party.
And I was just a guest, an outsider allowed in on sufferance, tolerated because I have power now, even if I don't have breeding.
The way she looked at me when we danced was like I was something distasteful she'd found on the bottom of her shoe.
This isn't really your world, is it?
No. It's not. But it's the world I'm stuck in now, and I'll be damned if I let some mafia princess make me feel small.
Except she did. She made me feel exactly as small as I've been feeling since I took over this position… worse, actually, given the disdain in her eyes.
I drain the whiskey and pour another, heavier this time. The alcohol is starting to dull the sharp edges of my anger and humiliation. But it's not dulling everything. Underneath the anger and the wounded pride, there's something else.
Desire.
Fuck.
I set the glass down hard, the crystal ringing against the granite counter next to me. I don't want to think about that, or acknowledge the way my body responded to her even as she was cutting me down with her words.
But I can't help remembering the curve of her waist under my hand, the way the silk of her dress slid against my palm. The scent of her perfume, that smelled expensive and floral. I couldn't name it, but I'd recognize it anywhere now.
The way she looked up at me with those dark eyes, challenge and disdain written across her beautiful face.
And she is beautiful. Devastatingly so—the kind of beautiful that makes men stupid, makes them forget who they are and what they want.
Long dark hair that fell in waves down her back, olive skin that looked impossibly soft, lips painted a deep shade of rose that made me think of things I had no business thinking about.
I wanted to kiss her, right there on the dance floor, in front of everyone, and see if I could wipe that superior expression off her face.
I wanted to make her see me as something other than the biker who got lucky.
The thought sends heat through me, pooling low in my gut.
I shift, uncomfortable with the direction my thoughts are taking.
It's been too long since I've had a woman.
Months, actually, since I left New York.
I've been too busy trying to keep my head above water, learning the business and proving myself to men who don't know me—only that their former boss told them I'm in charge now.
That's all this is. Sexual frustration. Nothing more.
But even as I tell myself that, my mind is conjuring images I can't control. Elena on her knees in front of me, that perfect posture finally broken, looking up at me with something other than contempt in her eyes. Her hands bound behind her back, maybe. Or gripping my thighs. Her mouth—
Stop.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. This is insane. She's a Capetti. The daughter of one of the most powerful men in Chicago. She's untouchable, for a man like me. And even if she wasn't, she made it perfectly clear what she thinks of me.
I'm beneath her in every way that matters to people like her.
I should go to bed. It's late, and I have meetings tomorrow. The business of running a criminal organization never stops, never gives me a moment to breathe.
But I don't. Instead, I pour another whiskey and move to the windows, staring out at the city spread below me.
Somewhere out there, Elena Capetti is probably still at that party, dancing with men who belong in her world.
Men with the right last names who know the right fucking forks for every course at dinner.
Men who would never make her bow.
The thought comes unbidden, and this time I don't push it away. I let it unfold in my mind—Elena kneeling before me because I've made her want to, proven to her that I'm not just some biker who stumbled into power. That I'm worthy of her attention, her respect… her submission.
I imagine the way she'd look, stripped of that expensive dress, naked and vulnerable, her pride finally cracked. I'd make her ask for it, make her beg. Make her admit that she wants me, that she sees me as more than what she assumed I was.
My cock is stiffening, and I don't fight it this time. I just let the fantasy play out, letting myself imagine what it would be like to have Elena Capetti at my mercy.
I'd start slow. Make her wait. Make her understand that I'm in control now, not her. I'd trace my fingers along her jaw, tilt her face up to look at me. Watch those dark, judgmental eyes soften with need.
Then I'd tell her to open her mouth.
The image is so vivid it's almost real—Elena's lips parting, her tongue darting out to wet them. The way she'd look at me, uncertain for the first time since I met her, waiting for my next command.
Good girl, I'd say. I'd watch her react to the praise, watch her body respond even as her mind tried to resist. I'd slide my thumb into her mouth, letting her get used to the feeling of submission, of taking something from me.
She'd suck on it, tentative at first, then more confident.
And I'd feel that wet heat and imagine what it would be like when it was my cock instead.
My hand moves to my belt as my cock twitches and jumps, eager for the wet heat I'm imagining, and I stop myself. Fuck, Declan, not here in front of the windows overlooking the city, like some fucking exhibitionist.
In fact, just stop altogether. This is insane.
But the fantasy doesn't stop. It follows me as I walk to my bedroom, strip off my clothes, and step into the shower. The hot water pounds against my skin, but it doesn't wash away the images in my head.
Elena on her knees. Elena with her hands bound. Elena begging me to fuck her.