4. Elena
ELENA
My father's office smells like leather and cigars, a scent so familiar it usually brings comfort. Today, it makes my stomach turn.
"You'll marry Declan Murphy in one week."
The words hang in the air between us. I'm standing in front of his massive mahogany desk, my hands clasped in front of me, my posture perfect. Years of training keep my spine straight, my chin level, and my expression composed. But inside, everything is tilting sideways.
"I don't understand." My voice comes out steady and calm, nothing like the crashing panic that's starting to flood through me. "Why would you—"
"You don't need to understand." My father doesn't look up from the papers he's signing. His pen scratches across the page. "You need to obey."
The dismissal stings sharply. I've always known my place in this family, as a daughter and an asset.
A future wife to whoever serves our interests best. But I thought I'd have more time.
I thought when the moment came, it would be to someone appropriate.
Someone from our world. Someone who understood the traditions, the expectations, the unspoken rules that govern everything we do.
I'd thought I would have time to manipulate the men I would mind marrying least into wanting me and approaching my father, so at least I would have some control.
Someone who wouldn't upend my life too much, who would do the bare minimum as a husband and otherwise leave me alone.
My other fears can't be assuaged so easily, but not having my life and my routine upended too drastically would help.
Not Declan Murphy. Not the Irish upstart who took over Lachlan Gallagher's organization under questionable circumstances. Not the man who looked so uncomfortable at the party, who doesn't know how to navigate our world, who clearly doesn't belong.
Not the man whose hands felt like fire on my waist when we danced.
I push that thought away. "Papa, please. At least tell me why. What does this accomplish?"
He finally looks up. His dark eyes, a mirror of mine, are cold. "It accomplishes peace. It prevents a war that would cost us resources and attention I don't want to spare. And it creates an alliance that benefits both families."
"An alliance with him?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "He's not even—"
"Careful, Elena." My father's voice drops to something dangerous.
"You're questioning my judgment. I know you think you have an understanding of our world, but your understanding is limited to parties and social graces, household management, and conducting yourself as a daughter and a future wife. Not business."
My throat tightens. "No. I'm just trying to understand—"
"There's nothing to understand. The decision is made. You'll marry Declan Murphy next Saturday. The ceremony will be traditional, formal, and you will conduct yourself with the grace and dignity expected of a Capetti daughter." He returns his attention to his papers. "That's all."
I stand there for a moment, frozen, waiting for him to say something else… to explain. To acknowledge that this is my life he's rearranging with a few sentences and a signature on a contract.
But he doesn't look up again.
"Yes, Papa." The words taste like ash.
I turn and walk out of his office, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Each step is controlled. I don't run. I don't stumble. I don't let anyone see the way my hands are shaking.
I make it to my room before the trembling spreads to my legs.
—
Dinner is at seven, as always. The dining room is elegant, glittering with crystal and silver, the table set for eight.
My father sits at the head, my brother Alessio to his left and me to his right.
Various cousins and associates fill the other seats.
I sit up straight, showing no sign of the churning thoughts in my head, outwardly calm.
The perfect daughter, the perfect decoration.
I stare at the plate in front of me, arranged with roasted chicken, asparagus, and potatoes with rosemary. Food I normally love. Our cook makes everything perfectly, seasoned just right and presented beautifully.
I can't eat any of it.
My stomach is a knot of painful anxiety. Every time I try to take a bite, my throat closes. The smell of the food makes me nauseous. I push the asparagus around my plate and cut the chicken into smaller and smaller pieces, rearranging everything to make it look like I've eaten more than I have.
"Elena, you're not eating." My father's voice is quiet and flat, a reminder that appearances matter. That not eating suggests something is wrong, and nothing can be wrong in the Capetti family.
"I'm not very hungry." I force a smile. "I had a late lunch."
It's a lie. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and even that was just coffee and half a piece of toast. But my father accepts it with a small nod, returning his attention to his own plate.
The conversation flows around me. Business talk, mostly.
Territory disputes. Shipment schedules. This kind of discussion happens at every family dinner, and I've learned to tune it out while still appearing engaged.
But tonight, I can't focus on any of it.
My mind keeps circling back to the reality that's crashing down around me.
You'll marry Declan Murphy in one week.
Seven days to prepare for a life I never wanted with a man I barely know. Seven days before everything changes.
I've always known I'd have an arranged marriage.
That's how things work in our world. Daughters are valuable assets, tools for creating alliances and cementing power.
I've been raised for this my entire life—taught how to be the perfect wife, how to manage a household, how to host dinners, navigate social situations, and present the right image to the world.
I thought I mattered more than this.
"Elena."
My father's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I look up, forcing my expression into something attentive.
"Yes, Father?"
"I've informed the family of your engagement. Everyone is very pleased." His tone suggests this is a good thing. A cause for celebration. "The wedding will be next Saturday at St. Catherine's. The priest has agreed to expedite the usual wedding timeline."
With a hefty donation, no doubt. Around the table, people are smiling and nodding, offering congratulations that I don't want. My cousin Sophia reaches over to squeeze my hand, her eyes bright with excitement.
"How wonderful, Elena! You must be so happy."
I'm not happy. I am the opposite of happy. I'm drowning in a sea of expectations and duty, and the crushing realization that I have never had any control over my own life.
But I smile. I nod. I accept the congratulations with grace and poise, because that's what's expected of me. "Thank you," I murmur. "I'm very fortunate."
The words feel like glass in my throat.
After dinner, I escape to the garden.
I need space. I need air, and to be somewhere that isn't full of people congratulating me on a future I don't want.
The garden is my favorite place on the estate.
It's formal and carefully maintained, with stone pathways winding between perfectly manicured hedges and flower beds that bloom in carefully orchestrated succession throughout the year, according to season.
In the center is a fountain, and the sound is soothing.
I sink onto one of the stone benches near the fountain, wrapping my arms around myself. I'm not wearing a coat, and the cold seeps through my dress almost immediately. But the discomfort is grounding, something I can focus on besides the panic clawing at my chest.
One week.
I've spent my entire life preparing for marriage. I know how to run a household, how to entertain guests, how to be the perfect mafia wife. I know the expectations, the responsibilities, the role I'm supposed to play.
But I thought I'd have more time. I thought I'd be able to ease into it, to adjust, to prepare myself mentally and emotionally for the transition. I certainly expected a longer engagement period than a week.
I cope with my life through routine. Through having days that are carefully laid out the same way, through choosing every part of my life I'm given any agency over in order to cope with the parts that I don't. My clothes, my spare time, my hobbies…
those things I have control over. And the traditions and expectations of our world provide another framework I can rely on.
I expected to function within those. A proper husband, a normal engagement, a formal marriage based on duty, with both parties understanding what was expected.
That's the only way I've been able to deal with being born into this life.
Instead, I'm being thrown into it with a man who doesn't even understand our world, who looked so out of place at that last party that I felt embarrassed for him. A man who has no family legacy, no tradition, no understanding of the intricate social dynamics that govern everything we do.
I close my eyes, trying to slow my breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth—a technique I learned years ago, back when my anxiety was so bad I couldn't leave the house without having a panic attack.
I thought I'd gotten better. I thought I'd learned to manage it and function despite the constant undercurrent of fear that runs through my life.
But this—this is too much. This is every fear I've ever had about losing control, about being powerless, about being nothing more than a pawn in someone else's game.
My father promised me things. Not explicitly, but implicitly.
He promised that I'd have a good life, that I'd be taken care of, that I'd marry someone appropriate who would treat me well.
He promised that as long as I was obedient, as long as I fulfilled my duties, I'd have security and stability and a certain amount of freedom within the constraints of my role.