12. Elena #3
The car pulls up to the venue before he can respond. The driver opens the door, and Declan steps out first, then offers me his hand.
I take it. His palm is warm against mine, his grip steady and strong. He helps me out of the car, and for a moment we stand there on the sidewalk, his hand still holding mine, both of us looking at each other like we're trying to figure out who the other person really is.
Then he releases my hand and offers me his arm instead. "Shall we?"
I slip my hand through his elbow, and we walk into the gala together.
—
The venue is stunning. It's one of the city's historic hotels, with marble columns and crystal chandeliers and soaring ceilings painted with elaborate frescoes. The ballroom is packed with people in evening wear, champagne flowing freely, and a string quartet playing in one corner.
It's exactly the kind of event I've attended a hundred times before, where I know exactly how to play my role.
Declan and I make our entrance together, and I can feel the eyes on us immediately.
The whispers. The speculation. Everyone wants to know about the Capetti daughter who married the Irish upstart.
Everyone wants to see if the alliance will hold or if it's already fracturing.
I keep my expression serene and my posture perfect. My hand is resting lightly on Declan's arm like I'm completely comfortable being here with him. Like we're a real couple instead of two people trapped in an arrangement neither of us wanted.
"Mr. and Mrs. Murphy." A woman approaches us, her smile bright and artificial. "How wonderful to see you both. Congratulations on your recent marriage."
"Thank you," I say smoothly. "It's lovely to be here."
We make small talk for a few minutes, then she moves on, and another couple approaches. Then another. Then another. It's exhausting, but it's also familiar. This is what I was trained for—what I'm good at.
Declan, on the other hand, looks increasingly uncomfortable.
He's polite and charming when people speak to him, but I can see the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw tightens every time someone makes a subtle dig about his background.
His hand flexes at his side when someone questions his legitimacy subtly.
He doesn't belong here, not really. And everyone knows it. Including him.
After about an hour of circulating, I excuse myself to use the restroom.
Declan nods, his attention already caught by someone else approaching.
I make my way through the crowd, smiling and nodding at people I recognize, until I reach the hallway that leads to the restrooms. It's quieter here, away from the main ballroom. I can actually hear myself think.
I'm about to push open the door to the ladies' room when I hear voices from around the corner. Two women, their voices low but carrying in the marble hallway.
"—can't believe she actually went through with it."
"What choice did she have? Her father arranged it."
"Still. Marrying him. It's such a step down."
I freeze, my hand on the door handle.
"I heard the other families are laughing about it. The Capettis, allying themselves with some motorcycle club reject who got lucky."
"He's not even a real boss. Lachlan Gallagher just handed it to him. There's no legitimacy there, no history."
"Poor Elena. She must be mortified."
"I would be. Can you imagine? Going from being a Capetti princess to being married to... that?"
Their voices fade as they move away, but the words linger, echoing in my head.
They're right. I married down, and this alliance is a joke.
And if that's what everyone thinks, then my own standing is compromised.
My own reputation is at risk. Because in this world, you're only as strong as your alliances, and only as respected as the people you're connected to.
If Declan fails, I fail. If he's seen as weak, I'm seen as weak.
My survival is tied to his success now, like I said to him in the car. Whether I like it or not.
I push into the restroom and lock myself in a stall, my hands shaking slightly. I need to think about what this means, and what I'm supposed to do about it.
The truth is, I know this world better than Declan does. I understand the politics, the power plays, the subtle ways that respect is earned and lost. I could help him, guide him through the social minefield he's trying to navigate.
But why would I do that? Why would I help the man who humiliated me? The man I was forced to marry?
Because if he fails, you fail.
The thought is cold and practical, purely self-interested.
It has nothing to do with the apology he gave me this morning.
Nothing to do with the vulnerability I saw in his eyes.
Nothing to do with the way he looked when he said he didn't want me to be afraid of him.
This is about survival and protecting my own position, making sure that when people look at me, they don't see a woman who married down.
They need to see a woman who made a strategic alliance that strengthened her position.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra as I leave the restroom and head back toward the ballroom. This is about self-preservation. Not about him. Not about caring what happens to him.
I'm almost back to the main room when someone steps into my path.
"Mrs. Murphy."
I look up and find myself face-to-face with Dante Moretti.
He's dressed in a dark suit, his hair slicked back, his expression pleasant and professional. He looks like he belongs here, like he's just another guest at the gala instead of a man who's supposed to be working security for my husband.
"Mr. Moretti." I keep my voice neutral and polite. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I'm part of the security detail tonight." He gestures vaguely toward the ballroom. "Making sure everything runs smoothly."
"Of course."
There's a beat of silence. He's studying me, as if looking for something. "I wanted to check in with you," he says finally. "Make sure you're settling in well. Marriage can be... an adjustment."
The words are innocuous enough. But there's something in the way he says them that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"I'm fine," I say carefully. "Thank you for your concern."
"Of course." He smiles. "It's just that I know how difficult it can be joining a new organization. New people, new ways of doing things. And Mr. Murphy is... well, he's different from what you're used to."
"Different how?"
"Less traditional." Dante's voice is smooth. "Less connected to the old ways. Some might say less... stable."
I study him, trying to figure out what he's really asking. What he's fishing for. "My husband is building something new," I say slowly. "That requires a different approach."
"Indeed." He nods. "And you support that approach?"
"I'm his wife."
"Of course. Of course." He holds up his hands in a gesture of apology. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise. I just wanted to make sure you're safe and that he's treating you well. That you're happy."
There it is. The real question underneath all the pleasantries. Are you loyal to him? Or are you still one of us?
"I appreciate your concern," I say, my voice cooling. "But I assure you, I'm perfectly fine."
"Good. That's good." He steps back, giving me space. "I just wanted you to know that if you ever need anything—if you ever feel unsafe or uncomfortable—you can come to me. I may work for your husband now, but I haven't forgotten where I came from. Or who your family is."
The implication is clear, to me, at least. I'm still loyal to the Capettis. If you need help, I'm here. Or maybe, I'm watching you. Reporting back. Making sure you remember where your real loyalties lie.
"Thank you," I say, keeping my expression neutral. "But that won't be necessary."
"Of course not." He smiles again, and this time it looks almost genuine. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mrs. Murphy." He disappears back into the crowd, leaving me standing alone in the hallway with my heart pounding and my mind racing.
Something is wrong. I don't know what, exactly, and I don't have proof. But every instinct I have is screaming that Dante Moretti is not what he appears to be.
And Declan has no idea.
I take a deep breath, smooth down the front of my dress, and head back into the ballroom.