9. Declan #2
I pause, trying to be clear-headed about this, rather than pulling this stranger into a brotherly hug.
Hearing someone say it who isn’t Lachlan or one of the men I’m already close to feels like a weight lifting off of me, because that's exactly what I've been trying to do. That's exactly what I've been struggling with. I don’t want to become another one of these two-faced men in suits, when my whole life has been built on being honest about who I am and what I want, whether that’s peace or violence. But none of the bosses I’ve dealt with here agree. Everyone thinks I’m less than them—even my wife thinks I'm beneath her because I don't fit the mold of what a mafia boss should be.
I take a breath, shaking off the feeling. "The Capettis sent you." I let the disbelief creep into my tone, so he knows he’ll have to convince me otherwise.
"No." He shakes his head. "I came on my own. This is my own decision. I won’t be welcomed in the Capetti household any longer, but it’s worth it.”
Fuck, I want to believe him. I'm struggling on two fronts right now—the other families are undermining me, questioning my legitimacy, waiting for me to fail.
And my wife is undermining me in my own house, making me feel like I'm not good enough, like I don't belong.
Having someone come to me like this—someone who believes in me, who sees value in what I'm trying to do—is tempting. So fucking tempting.
Maybe too tempting.
"You understand I'll need to verify everything you're telling me," I say carefully. "I'll need proof you're not a plant. I'll need to know you're not feeding information back to the Capettis."
"I understand." He doesn't flinch. "I'll give you whatever you need to prove my loyalty."
I study him for a long moment, looking for tells, signs he's lying. For any indication that this is a trap. But I don't see any. What I see is a man who's tired and who's disillusioned with his family. A man who wants to work for someone he respects.
A man like me.
"Cormac will set you up with a room in this building," I say finally. "You'll stay here until I can verify your story. You don't leave or make any calls. You don't contact anyone. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And if I find out you're lying to me and that this is some kind of trap, I'll kill you myself."
He nods. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
I gesture to Cormac, who escorts Dante out of the office. The door closes behind them, and I'm alone again, with the nagging feeling that I just made a mistake.
But I also feel an odd flicker of hope. Maybe this man is telling the truth. Maybe he does believe in me. Maybe I'm not as alone as I thought.
Maybe I'm not failing as badly as it feels.
I pour a whiskey and try to ignore the voice in my head that says I'm being played—that says I'm so desperate for validation I'm willing to believe anything.
That says I'm weak.
No.
I'm not weak. I'm doing my due diligence. And if Dante Moretti is telling the truth, I just gained a valuable asset.
If he's lying, I'll deal with it.
—
The next few days are a blur of work and frustration, and Elena's continued campaign to drive me insane.
She's everywhere. In the kitchen making coffee when I come down in the morning, in the hallway when I'm heading to the gym, at the dining table going through options for household decorating, and always perfectly composed and perfectly dressed.
Always looking at me like I'm something she has to tolerate. Looking at her, you’d never know I caught her masturbating and broke her vibrator in a fit of anger while detailing all the lurid things I could do to her still-virgin body.
And it's killing me.
I can't focus on work. All I can think about is her—the way she moves, the way she sounds when she speaks, the way she looked on that bed with her hand between her legs.
But she won't admit she wants me.
I catch her watching me sometimes when she thinks I'm not looking. Her eyes follow me across a room, and there's something in her expression that’s hungry and desperate and confused. Like she doesn't understand what she's feeling, and doesn't want to feel it.
Like she's as lost as I am.
But then she'll say something cutting, designed to remind me I'm not good enough. And the moment is gone.
"Your men left muddy footprints in the foyer," she says one morning, not looking up from her tablet. "Giuseppe had to clean it three times."
"They were working," I say, pouring coffee. "In the rain."
"They could take their shoes off outside the door. Like civilized people."
The word civilized lands like a slap. It’s a reminder that she thinks I'm not. That my men aren't, and we're all just brutes playing at being something we're not.
I leave without responding and giving her the satisfaction of seeing how much it bothers me. Another day, I'm in my office reviewing shipment manifests when she appears in the doorway.
"You’ve been drinking the Macallan again.”
I glance at the glass on my desk. "So?"
"It's a twenty-five-year-old single malt. It's meant to be savored for special occasions. Not gulped on a weekday evening like cheap bourbon."
"I'll drink it however I want."
"Of course you will." She turns to leave, then pauses. "That's the difference between having money and having class. One can be bought. The other can't."
She's gone before I can tell her that I don't give a fuck about her definition of class. I'd rather be honest and rough than fake and polished. Her world of rules and traditions and expectations is suffocating.
But I don't say any of that. I just sit there with my expensive whiskey and my wounded pride, with the growing certainty that I'm losing this battle.
By Sunday, I'm ready to lose my mind. I've been putting off my traditional Sunday night dinner with my men since the wedding and trying to give Elena time to adjust. I’ve been trying to be considerate of her feelings.
But I'm done trying.
This is my house, and this has been my tradition for years. I'm not giving it up any longer because my wife might be uncomfortable.
I tell her about it that morning over breakfast. "I'm having the men over for dinner tonight," I say, not asking.
She looks up from her coffee. "All of them?"
"The core group. Eight, maybe ten."
"I see." She sets her cup down carefully. "And you're telling me this now? The day of? How considerate. I'll inform Giuseppe. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to prepare a meal for ten people with six hours' notice."
“He doesn’t need to. I’ll put something in the slow cooker, and make some easy sides. It’s supposed to be a homemade, Sunday night dinner. Not some fancy chef shit.”
Her jaw tightens. "Will you be expecting me to attend?"
"You're my wife. Yes."
I see her lips thin, but she just gives me a prim nod. "Then I'll be there."
She leaves, and I'm left with the uneasy feeling that I just made a mistake. Deep down, I know I’m continuing to poke at her on purpose—insulting her chef, issuing demands.
But it doesn’t seem to matter what I do, so for tonight at least, when it comes to how I want my night to go, I’m going to do what I want.
This is important. My men need to see that I'm still the same person I was before the marriage. That I haven't changed, and I'm still their boss, their leader… their friend.
That I'm still in control.
—
The dinner starts well enough. I put a roast in the slow-cooker with potatoes and vegetables, and make fresh rolls.
I set out whiskey and wine for drink options.
The men arrive on time, boisterous and loud, filling the house with their presence.
Cormac, Finn, Rian, Seamus, Liam, Padraig, and Aidan.
A core group of my original closest men from the club, and the ones who work with me now, who were Lachlan’s most trusted.
All men I’d trust with my life, and enjoy spending time with besides.
They come in wearing jeans and T-shirts or long-sleeved denim with the sleeves rolled up, all casual and exactly the way we prefer to be.
Elena appears just as we're sitting down. She's dressed simply in slim black pants, a white blouse, and dainty platinum jewelry with her hair pulled back. She looks elegant and composed, every inch the mafia princess.
And I can see the judgment in her eyes as she looks at my men.
"Gentlemen," she says, taking her seat at the opposite end of the table from me. "Welcome."
The men nod and murmur greetings. They're on their best behavior, trying to be respectful and make a good impression.
It doesn't matter.
"So," Elena says, her voice light and conversational. "Declan tells me many of you have come with him from the days when you were all in this motorcycle club together."
"That's right," Seamus says. "Most of us, anyway."
"How fascinating." She takes a sip of wine. "It must be quite an adjustment. Going from motorcycles and leather jackets to... this."
There's something in the way she says this. Something dismissive that makes my jaw tighten.
"It's different," Padraig says carefully. "But we're adapting."
"Are you?" Elena's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Because from what I've observed, you're still conducting business like you're in a garage. Spreading papers across coffee tables. Drinking beer from bottles. Tracking mud through the house."
The table goes quiet. "Elena," I say, my voice low with warning.
She ignores me. "I'm simply making an observation. In my world—in the world you're trying to be part of—there are standards. Expectations. Ways of doing things that show respect for the organization and the people in it."
"We respect the organization," Seamus says, his voice suddenly tight.
"Do you?" Elena looks at him, her eyes narrowing. She sounds like she’s warming up to her topic.
"Because respect means understanding that you're representing something larger than yourselves.
It means conducting yourselves with professionalism and not treating a multimillion-dollar operation like a motorcycle club. "
"That's enough," I say sharply.