3. Declan #2
"You're asking for respect you'll never earn," Enzo interrupts.
"Because you're not one of us. You never will be.
Lachlan understood that. He was Irish, yes, but he understood the rules.
He understood tradition. He knew how to move in our world.
He took what he claimed with blood and forced others to understand the cost of ignoring him. " His eyes bore into mine. "You don't."
I don't understand their world. I don't know the unspoken rules, the subtle hierarchies, the traditions that govern everything they do.
I'm an outsider trying to force my way in, and they all know it.
But I'm not giving up. I'm not going to disappoint Lachlan, who's my brother in every way but blood, or force him out of retirement because I can't humble myself and restrain my violent desire to slaughter this man.
The words I force out next taste like poison, but I think of how many more men will die if I don't say them. "Then help me understand."
Enzo blinks. "What?"
"You're right—I don't understand your world. I don't know the traditions, the rules, the way things are supposed to work. But I'm willing to learn and adapt."
"Adapt." Enzo chuckles. "You think you can just... adapt to centuries of tradition?"
"I can try." I meet his gaze directly. "I'm not asking you to accept me as one of your own.
The Irish and the Italians have never gotten along, and I'm not expecting us to be friends now.
I'm asking you to give me a chance to prove that I can respect your traditions while still leading my organization.
That I can be a partner instead of an enemy. "
For a long moment, Enzo says nothing. He just studies me, his expression unreadable. The bodyguards behind him are still as statues. The restaurant around us is quiet except for the soft murmur of conversation from the main dining room.
Then, slowly, Enzo smiles. It's not a warm smile. It's the smile of a predator who's just spotted an opportunity, though I can't think of what it might be. I feel the warning prickle of danger at the back of my neck.
"You're willing to adapt," he says. "To prove you respect our traditions."
"Yes."
"To show that you're serious about being part of this world and earning your place in it."
"Yes," I repeat, though his tone makes my instincts scream a warning.
Enzo picks up his wineglass again, swirling the dark liquid. "There is a way you could prove that. A very traditional way, actually. One that would cement an alliance between our families and show everyone in this city that you're committed to our world."
I wait. My pulse is loud in my ears.
"You could marry my daughter."
For a moment, I can only stare at him as my mind tries to process what he just said.
Marry his daughter. Marry Elena.
"Your daughter," I repeat.
"Elena." Enzo's smile widens. "She's twenty years old, beautiful, educated, and raised to be the perfect mafia wife. She understands our world in a way you never will. She could teach you. Guide you. Help you navigate the complexities of our traditions."
I think of Elena at the party last night, and the way she looked at me with such disdain. The way she made it clear I didn't belong in her world.
I'm just surprised you would even be here.
"An arranged marriage," I say slowly. It's everything that I was thinking just last night that I have no desire to partake in. That I'd never want to tie myself so closely to any mafia family, bind myself to them in such a permanent way… but particularly not the Capettis.
But I also can't help but remember what else I was thinking about last night… and what marriage would mean.
"A strategic alliance," Enzo says smoothly.
"It's how things are done in our world, Mr. Murphy.
Marriages cement peace between families.
They create bonds that can't be easily broken.
If you married Elena, it would send a message to everyone that you're serious about being part of this world.
That you respect our traditions. That you're willing to do what it takes to maintain peace. "
My mind is racing. This is insane. Marrying a woman I barely know, a woman who despises me, just to prove a point? Just to avoid a war?
But even as I think it, I know it's not insane.
It's exactly how their world works. Marriages as business transactions, daughters as bargaining chips.
Alliances sealed with rings and vows instead of contracts and signatures.
I saw it before in New York, in the world surrounding the Santoros, and it's no different here.
If I refuse, Enzo will see it as proof that I'm not willing to adapt. That I don't respect their traditions and I'm not serious about peace.
He'll go to war. And I'll lose. Even if I were to win, it would come at a heavy cost.
"You want me to marry your daughter," I say again, still trying to wrap my head around it.
"I'm offering you a solution," Enzo says. "A way to avoid bloodshed and prove yourself at the same time. Elena is a valuable asset, beautiful and intelligent. Any man in our world would be honored to have her as a wife."
Any man in our world.
Not me. I'm not part of their world. That's the whole point. I don't feel honored; I feel fucking trapped. Backed into a corner by a man more skilled at navigating the politics of the mafia than me.
But I could be. If I do this, if I marry Elena Capetti and bind myself to her family, I'll have the legitimacy I've been lacking—the acceptance that's been just out of reach.
I could prove to Lachlan, to my men, to the entire fucking city that I'm capable of handling this, because they'd actually pay attention long enough to notice that the cut of my suit and the way I eat my dinner have nothing to do with whether or not I can get men to follow me and run a business.
I'd also have a wife who hates me.
I think of her again, and the way her dark eyes flashed when she looked at me. The way my body responded to her even as she was cutting me down.
The way I fantasized about her last night.
Fuck.
"This is a serious offer," Enzo says, watching me carefully.
"But it's not one I'll make twice. You have a choice, Mr. Murphy.
You can accept my daughter's hand in marriage, prove your commitment to our traditions, and secure peace between our families.
Or you can refuse, and we'll settle this the old-fashioned way. "
He's offering me marriage or war. And he knows which one I'll choose. He knows I can't afford a war right now. Not when I'm still trying to prove myself and fill shoes that are too big for me.
He's backed me into a corner. And he knows it.
"I need time to think about this," I say, though we both know I don't have a choice.
"Of course." Enzo's smile is all teeth. "Take the rest of the day. But I'll need your answer by tonight. This offer expires at midnight."
He stands, buttoning his suit jacket. The bodyguards move with him, flanking him as he prepares to leave.
"One more thing," Enzo says, pausing at the edge of the table.
"Elena doesn't know about this yet. I'll inform her of the arrangement once you've accepted.
She's a dutiful daughter—she'll do what's expected of her. "
A dutiful daughter. Like she's a piece of property to be transferred from one man to another. The thought makes my stomach turn. But this is their world. These are their rules.
And if I want to survive in it, I have to play by them.
Enzo leaves without another word, his bodyguards trailing behind him. I sit alone at the table, staring at the untouched wineglass in front of me, my mind spinning.
Marry Elena Capetti. The woman who looked at me like I was dirt on her shoe. The woman who made it clear I didn't belong in her world. The woman I can't stop thinking about, even though I should.
The woman who would become my wife.
I stand up, and my legs feel unsteady as I walk through the restaurant, past the hostess, and out into the fresh air.
Cormac is waiting by the car, his expression tense. "How'd it go?"
I look at him—this man who's followed me from the motorcycle club to the mafia, who's trusted me to lead even when I didn't trust myself. Who deserves better than a boss who doesn't know what the fuck he's doing.
"He made me an offer," I say.
"What kind of offer?"
I take a breath and let it out slowly.
"He wants me to marry his daughter."