6. Elena
ELENA
The ring sits in my palm, glittering up at me in the light from the lamp next to my bed.
I'm back in my room with the door locked behind me, the sounds of the dinner party fading into distant murmurs and laughter. My hand trembles as I hold the ring up to the light from my bedside lamp. The diamond catches the glow, throwing tiny rainbows across my walls, across my skin.
It's beautiful.
Damn him.
I wanted it to be gaudy and tasteless. Something I could dismiss with a single glance, something that would prove everything I said to him was right—that he doesn't understand our world, that he never will, that he's an outsider playing at being something he's not.
But it's not gaudy or tasteless. It's elegant and beautiful, expensive, the diamond flawless, the platinum perfect against the cool tones of my skin. It's what I'd be drawn to if I walked into a jewelry store. All of what I wear is like this—simple and luxurious without being overstated.
And Declan noticed that. The ring proves it. It says I see you instead of you belong to me.
I hate it. I hate that it's beautiful. I hate that some traitorous part of me wants to slip it on my finger and admire the way it looks against my skin. I hate that he chose something that actually suits me instead of something that would suit his idea of what a mafia wife should wear.
Most of all, I hate that it makes me feel something other than contempt.
I close my fist around the ring, feeling the metal dig into my palm, the sharp edge of the diamond pressing against my skin. Not hard enough to cut, just hard enough to remind me it's real.
This is real. In one week, I'll marry Declan Murphy.
The thought makes my chest tighten and makes it hard to breathe, and I'm afraid I'm going to have a panic attack.
I cross to my dresser and yank open the top drawer, where I keep things I don't want to look at but can't bear to throw away.
Old photographs. Letters from my mother that I've never been able to throw away.
A pressed flower from my thirteenth birthday that Alessio gave me before he became the man my father wanted him to be, instead of a brother that actually cared about me.
I drop the ring inside and slam the drawer shut.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the dresser top, leaning forward and trying to steady my breathing.
The wood is cool and smooth under my palms. Expensive.
Everything in this room is expensive. The silk sheets on my bed.
The Persian rug under my feet. The chandelier overhead.
The clothes in the dresser and the closet.
The jewelry box full of diamonds and other gems and gold.
All of it bought and paid for by my father, a reminder that I've never owned anything that was truly mine.
Not even my own future.
The anger rises hot and sharp in my throat. I want to scream, throw something, break something, make someone understand how furious I am. But there's no one to scream at. No one who would listen. No one who would care.
My father made his decision, and Alessio reinforced it. And I—
I have no choice but to obey.
I've always known this day would come, that eventually, my father would choose a husband for me, and I'd be expected to marry for the family's benefit rather than my own happiness.
I've prepared myself for it. Steeled myself.
Built walls around the soft, vulnerable parts of me that wanted to have some say in my own life.
I never imagined it would be a man like Declan Murphy, a rough, dangerous man who looked at me like he wanted to devour me and dismiss me all at once.
Not an outsider who doesn't have a family legacy, who took over an organization under circumstances everyone whispers about and who doesn't belong in the elegant, glittering world I've spent my entire life learning to navigate.
Not someone who makes me feel things I don't want to feel.
I push away from the dresser and pace to the window. The gardens are dark below, lit only by the soft glow of pathway lights. I can see the spot where Alessio found me and reminded me of my duty and my place.
You will do what Father commands.
The words echo in my head, mixing with Declan's voice from the hallway.
You're going to be my wife, and my wife deserves a ring.
Neither of them asked me what I wanted.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes. My reflection stares back at me when I open them—olive skin, dark hair, the elegant dress I wore to dinner. I look composed. Controlled. Every inch the perfect mafia princess.
But inside, I'm screaming.
—
The morning of my wedding dawns cold and gray. I wake before my alarm, my body tense and alert. I barely slept. The sky outside my window is the color of steel, heavy clouds promising rain. Fitting, I think. The weather matches my mood perfectly.
Maria arrives at seven with coffee and a tray of food I won't eat.
She's been with our family since I was a child, and she knows me well enough not to comment on the dark circles under my eyes or the way my hands shake when I reach for the coffee cup.
"Your dress is ready," she says quietly.
"And the hairstylist will be here at eight. "
I nod and sip the coffee. It's hot and bitter, which is oddly soothing. It, too, fits my mood.
The next three hours pass in a blur of preparation.
The stylist arrives with an assistant, and they transform my hair into an elaborate updo that's sleek and elegant, exactly what a Capetti bride should wear.
My makeup is applied carefully—subtle smoky eyes, nude lips, and soft shimmering highlighter for a glow that makes me look radiant even though I feel hollow inside.
The dress is last. It's a custom Valentino of white silk and lace, fitted through the bodice and flowing into a full skirt that pools around my feet like water.
The neckline is modest, the sleeves long and delicate.
Staring in the mirror, I can't help but think it makes me look like a virgin sacrifice.
A few of my cousins are here to help me get ready, and they help me into it and fasten the tiny buttons up my back. I stare at myself in the full-length mirror and barely recognize the woman looking back at me. I look like a magazine example of a bride, flawless in every way, beautiful and elegant.
And I wish, for one fleeting moment—one I bury so quickly it's almost not there—that my mother was here.
She would know what to say. Maybe she would even have talked my father out of this somehow.
She was a perfect mafia wife and mother, but she was kinder.
She tried to soften the realities of this life when Alessio and I were younger.
But she got pregnant again, unexpectedly, when I was twelve.
And she died giving birth, along with the little brother or sister that I never got to meet and was never talked about.
No one else in the house has talked about her since, either. My father refused to allow it. He removed every picture of her, fired anyone who said her name, punished Alessio and me if we did or if we asked questions. And I remembered one thing in particular—why she died.
She died doing her duty as a wife. Giving birth to another mafia son or daughter. Her marriage to my father sealed her doom.
I've been terrified of that future ever since, and I've tried to manage that fear in the only way I can, by clinging to routines and rules and expectations… and trying not to think about when that will come to pass, only all the ways my life will continue to be good if only I obeyed.
And now it's all falling apart. I'm being given to a beast. An unworthy man. One who will undoubtedly demand far more from me than any mafia husband who wants a wife only when it's necessary ever would.
A man who will upend my entire life.
I take a deep breath. Then another, trying to hold myself together.
You can do this, I tell myself. You've been trained for this your entire life. Smile. Be graceful. Do your duty.
Survive.
The word echoes in my head as I slip on my white silk heels and fasten my mother's pearl earrings in place. As I pick up my bouquet of traditional white roses and lilies.
I look like a bride, and I feel like a prisoner.
The car ride to the cathedral is silent. My father sits beside me, looking satisfied in his expensive suit. He doesn't ask how I'm feeling or offer any words of comfort or wisdom. He simply looks out the window, his expression calm, like this is just another business transaction.
Which, I suppose, it is.
When we arrive, there are already guests filing into the cathedral. I recognize most of them, other mafia families and business associates. They're here to witness the alliance and see the Capetti family strengthen its position through marriage.
They're not here for me.
Inside, the cathedral is breathtaking. Sunlight streams through the stained glass windows, casting colored light across the floors. The pews are filled with people in expensive clothes, their faces turned toward the altar where Declan waits. My breath catches when I see him.
He's wearing a black suit that's better tailored than what I've seen before, although he still looks like he doesn't want to be wearing it. His copper hair is styled back from his face, and even from this distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's holding himself rigid.
He looks uncomfortable. Out of place. Good, I think viciously. Now you know how I feel.