12. Elena #2
I go to the spa. I tell myself it's because I might as well take advantage of the appointment. I'm sore and tense, and a massage sounds good, and I have nothing better to do with my day. Not because his apology meant something to me. Definitely not because of that.
The spa is in a high-end building downtown, with soft lighting and the scent of eucalyptus in the air.
The receptionist greets me by name, Mrs. Murphy, which still sounds strange to my ears, and leads me to a private changing room.
I strip out of my clothes and into the plush robe they provide, then follow another attendant to the massage room.
It's dim and warm, with soft music playing and candles flickering on a side table.
The massage table is already prepared, the sheets turned down invitingly.
"Just lie face down," the masseuse says gently. "We'll start with your back and shoulders."
I do as she says, settling onto the table and letting my face rest in the cushioned cradle.
The sheets are soft against my skin, and the room smells like lavender.
It’s soothing. The masseuse's hands are warm when they touch my back.
She starts at my shoulders, working at the knots there, and I try to relax into it and let go of the tension I've been carrying since yesterday.
But I can't stop thinking about what Declan said.
I've never been that way with a woman. What I did to you was wrong. I'm ashamed of it.
The words loop through my mind, over and over, like a song I can't get out of my head. I keep hearing his voice and seeing the look on his face when he said he didn't want me to be afraid of him.
"You're very tense," the masseuse observes quietly. "Try to breathe. Let yourself relax."
I try. I really do. But every time I start to drift, my mind snaps back to the same place, and especially when he admitted he was wrong.
No one has ever done that for me before.
My father has never shown even a hint of regret for the decisions he's made about my life.
When he told me I was marrying Declan, he didn't ask how I felt about it or care that I was terrified. He just expected me to obey.
And I did. Because that's what daughters do in our world. We obey. We do our duty. We sacrifice our own wants and needs for the good of the family. But Declan apologized and admitted he was wrong. He looked me in the eye and told me he was ashamed of what he did.
I don't know what to do with that.
The masseuse works her way down my back, then my legs, then asks me to turn over so she can work on my front.
I comply, my mind still elsewhere. After the massage, there's a facial, then a manicure and pedicure.
Then they offer me champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries in a private relaxation room with a view of the city.
I sit there in my plush robe, sipping champagne I don't really taste, and try to figure out what I'm feeling.
Confusion, mostly, and something that feels dangerously close to softening. I don't want to soften toward him or start seeing him as anything other than the man I was forced to marry. The man who doesn't belong in my world, and who humiliated me yesterday in front of his men.
But he apologized. And that changes something, whether I want it to or not.
By the time I get back to the penthouse, it's late afternoon. I'm relaxed, finally, my body loose and warm from the massage, my nails perfectly manicured, my skin glowing from the facial. I feel almost human again.
The penthouse is quiet when I enter. I don't see Declan anywhere, which is a relief. I'm not ready to face him yet. I haven’t even figured out what I'm supposed to say or how I'm supposed to act after this morning.
I head upstairs to get ready for tonight.
We have a charity gala to attend, some fundraiser for children's hospitals that all the major families are expected to show up to.
It's the kind of event I've been attending my entire life, where appearances matter more than anything else.
I'll need to play the role of the perfect mafia wife.
I stand in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear. Something elegant but not too flashy. Something that says I'm confident and composed and completely unbothered by the fact that my marriage is a disaster.
I settle on a deep emerald-green gown, fitted through the bodice and hips, that flows out in a dramatic skirt that brushes the floor.
The neckline is modest, but the back is open, showing a tasteful amount of skin.
It's sophisticated and expensive, exactly the kind of dress a Capetti daughter would wear and the kind of dress that will make people forget for a moment that I married down.
I do my makeup carefully with smoky eyes, nude lips, and a subtle highlight on my cheekbones. I pull my hair up in an elegant twist with a few tendrils framing my face, and add diamond earrings and a matching bracelet, family heirlooms that my mother wore before she died.
When I'm finished, I study myself in the bathroom mirror. I look perfect and polished, like I have my life completely together. And a small part of me doesn’t mind the fact that Declan will no doubt be going mad inside with lust the moment he sees me.
I know exactly how beautiful I look, and I know I have no intention of letting him touch me again until I have to.
If he really meant his apology this morning, he won’t try, and he’ll be miserable.
The thought makes me smile.
There's a soft knock on the bedroom door. "Elena? Are you ready?"
It’s Declan's voice. I take a deep breath, smooth down the front of my dress, and open the door.
He's standing in the hallway, dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, though he still looks uncomfortable wearing it.
His copper hair is styled back from his face, and he's clean-shaven. He looks good.
His eyes widen slightly when he sees me. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you." My voice comes out cool and distant, and he notices. I can see it in the way his expression becomes more guarded.
"The car's waiting downstairs whenever you're ready."
"I'm ready now."
We ride the elevator down in silence. The air between us is thick with tension, but it's different from before, more uncertain. Like we're both trying to figure out where we stand with each other now.
The car is waiting at the curb, a sleek black town car with a driver who opens the door for us without a word.
I slide into the back seat, and Declan follows, settling in beside me but keeping a careful distance between us.
The driver pulls away from the curb, and we head toward the venue in silence.
I stare out the window, watching the city slide past. The buildings are lit up against the darkening sky, their windows glowing like stars. It's beautiful in a cold, distant way, like everything else in my life.
"Elena."
I turn to look at Declan. He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "I meant what I said this morning," he says quietly. "About being sorry, and it not happening again."
"I know." The words come out before I can think about whether I want to acknowledge his apology or not.
He looks surprised. "You do?"
"Yes." I turn back to the window. "I don't forgive you. But I believe you."
There's a long pause. "That's fair."
We lapse back into silence, but it's less tense now. After a few minutes, I find myself speaking again. "The man at your meeting yesterday. Dante Moretti."
Declan's posture becomes more alert. "What about him?"
"Where did he come from?"
"He approached me not long ago and said he wanted to work for me instead of the Capettis." Declan's voice is careful. "He said he believed in my way of doing things. That he was tired of the old methods."
"And you believed him?"
"I wanted to believe him." He turns to look at me. "Why? Do you know him?"
"I've seen him around." I choose my words carefully. "He's been with my family for years. Mid-level guy. Competent but not particularly ambitious."
"So why would he defect?"
"That's what I'm wondering." I turn to face him. "Something about this doesn't feel right, Declan. Even if he's sincere, even if he genuinely believes in your approach, poaching one of my father's men is going to escalate tensions, not de-escalate them."
His jaw tightens. "I need people around me who believe in my capabilities. Who respect me."
The implication hangs in the air between us. Unlike you.
"I understand this world better than you do," I say, keeping my voice level. "I was born into it. I've been navigating it my entire life. And I'm telling you that something about Dante Moretti doesn't add up."
"You're a Capetti." His voice goes cold. "Why would I trust your judgment about one of your family's men?"
The words hit like a slap. "I'm your wife."
"Are you?" He turns to look at me, and there's something hard in his eyes that makes my stomach drop. "Because last I checked, we never consummated the marriage. Which means you're still at least somewhat a Capetti."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I stare at him, trying to process what he just said and the implication behind it.
You're not really mine. You're still theirs.
"That's not fair," I manage.
"Isn't it?" He looks away, his jaw tight. "You've made it very clear from the beginning that you think I'm beneath you. That I don't belong in your world. That this marriage is a punishment you're being forced to endure. So why would I value your opinion over someone who actually respects me?"
"Because I'm trying to help you." My voice sharpens into anger. "Whether you believe it or not, I don't want to see you fail."
"Why not?" He turns back to me, his eyes searching my face. "If I fail, you can go back to your family. Back to the world you belong in. Isn't that what you want?"
“Sure.” My jaw tightens. “As a humiliated bride. That’s not a future that’s good for me, Declan. My future is tied to yours now, whether either of us likes it or not.”