13. Declan
DECLAN
The venue is the kind of place that makes me feel like I'm wearing someone else's skin.
I adjust my cufflinks for the third time in as many minutes, standing near the bar with a glass of whiskey I haven't touched.
The ballroom is packed with Chicago's elite, mafia families dressed in designer suits and gowns that cost more than most people make in a year.
The Marchettis have never liked me. They made that clear from the beginning, when I first took over from Lachlan.
They see me as an upstart, a pretender, someone who doesn't belong in their world of tradition and bloodlines.
Tonight's charity gala is just another opportunity for them to remind me of that fact.
"Mr. Murphy." Antonio Marchetti approaches with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "How good of you to attend."
The emphasis on you isn't subtle.
"Wouldn't miss it," I say, keeping my voice even. "It's for a good cause."
"Indeed." His gaze flicks over me, assessing, judging me. "I was surprised to hear about your marriage to the Capetti girl. Quite a coup for someone in your... position."
Position. Not our world. Not the organization. My position. Like I'm a temporary fixture that can be removed.
"Elena and I are very happy," I say, the lie smooth on my tongue.
"I'm sure." Antonio's smile sharpens. "Though I imagine it must be difficult for her, adjusting to such a different lifestyle. The Capettis are old blood. Very traditional. Your story is so... modern."
The word modern sounds like an insult.
I take a sip of whiskey to buy myself time and keep from saying something I'll regret. "We're finding our way."
"Of course, of course." He claps me on the shoulder with false warmth. "Marriage is always an adjustment. Especially when the backgrounds are so disparate."
He moves on before I can respond, leaving me standing there with my jaw tight and my hand clenched around the glass. Disparate. Like Elena and I are from different species.
Maybe we are.
I scan the room, looking for her. She disappeared about twenty minutes ago, and surely she can't have lingered in the bathroom that long.
I catch sight of her across the ballroom, standing near the windows in that emerald-green dress that makes it evident she was born into this world.
She's laughing at something one of the women said, her posture perfect, her smile gracious. She belongs here in a way I never will.
The thought sits heavy in my chest. I've been trying so hard to prove myself, to show these people that I'm worthy of the position Lachlan gave me. But moments like this, standing in a room full of people who look at me like I'm an intruder, make me wonder if I'm fighting a losing battle.
"Declan Murphy." Another voice, another forced smile. This time it's one of the Marchetti capos. "Enjoying the party?"
"It's lovely.” That's what you're supposed to say at these things, right?
"I heard you had some trouble recently. An attack on one of your shipments?" His tone is sympathetic, but there's curiosity underneath it, and maybe satisfaction.
"We handled it."
"I'm sure you did." He takes a sip of his drink. "Still, it must be concerning. Attacks like that suggest weakness. Vulnerability. It makes other families wonder if you're really up to the task of leading."
My grip tightens on the glass. "I appreciate your concern."
"Just an observation." He shrugs. "In this world, perception is everything. If people think you're weak, you become weak. No matter how strong you actually are."
He walks away, leaving me with the distinct impression that I've just been threatened.
I drain the rest of my whiskey and set the glass on a passing waiter's tray. My jaw aches from clenching it, and my shoulders are tight with tension. I want to leave, get out of this place and away from these people who look at me like I'm something they scraped off their shoes.
But I can't, because leaving would prove them right. It would show them that I don't belong, that I can't handle their world.
So I stay, and I smile, pretending that their words don't cut as deep as they do.
"Mr. Murphy." A woman approaches—Benedicta Marchetti, Antonio's wife.
She's elegant and cold, with that kind of beauty that mostly comes from a lot of expensive procedures.
"I wanted to introduce you to some of our guests.
" She leads me to a group of older men, all of them looking at me with varying degrees of skepticism.
I shake hands and make small talk. I answer questions about my background and my plans for the organization.
Every word feels like a test I'm failing.
One of them—a man named Salvatore something—asks about my time with the motorcycle club.
The way he says motorcycle club makes it sound like a disease.
"It taught me a lot about loyalty and leadership," I say, keeping my voice steady.
"I'm sure." Salvatore's smile is patronizing. "Though I imagine the mafia is quite different from... that."
That. Like my past is something shameful. Something to be dismissed.
I'm about to respond when I feel a hand on my arm. "Excuse me, gentlemen." Elena's voice is smooth and gracious. "I need to steal my husband for a moment."
She doesn't wait for their response. She just guides me away with a hand on my elbow, her touch firm enough to be insistent but subtle enough that no one watching would think anything of it.
"You looked like you were about to punch someone," she murmurs as we move through the crowd.
"I was considering it."
"Don't." She steers me toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. "Salvatore is an ass, but he's also influential. Punching him would only make things worse."
I glance down at her. She's not looking at me, her attention focused on navigating us through the crowd. But there's something different about her. "How did you know—"
"I've been watching you." She stops near a column, turning to face me. "You've been tense since we arrived. And every conversation you've had has made it worse."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." Her dark eyes meet mine. They’re almost gentle for once. "But you're doing better than you think."
Before I can respond, another couple approaches.
Elena shifts seamlessly into hostess mode, introducing me with warmth and grace.
She steers the conversation away from my background and toward neutral topics—the charity, the venue, mutual acquaintances.
When the man makes a subtle dig about my lack of family connections, Elena smoothly redirects.
"Declan's building something new," she says, her voice carrying just enough authority to shut down further questions. "Which is exactly what this city needs. Fresh perspective combined with respect for tradition."
The couple nods and moves on. Elena's hand is still on my arm. "You didn't have to do that," I say quietly.
"Do what?"
"Defend me."
She looks up at me. Her face gives nothing away. "You're my husband. Of course I did."
Before I can process that, we're swept up in another conversation.
And then another. Elena stays close the entire time, her presence a buffer between me and the worst of the scrutiny.
She introduces me to people I should know, and redirects conversations when they veer into dangerous territory.
She makes subtle comments that position me as legitimate, as worthy, like I belong.
She's helping me, and I don't know what to do with that.
After about an hour of this, I need air. I need to get away from the crowd and the judgment, and the constant feeling that I'm one wrong word away from proving everyone right about me. "I'm going to step outside for a minute," I tell Elena.
She nods. "I'll be here."
I make my way through the ballroom and out onto the terrace.
It's cooler out here in the night air. The terrace overlooks the estate's gardens, and I lean against the railing and close my eyes, trying to breathe through the tension coiled in my chest. I hear the door open behind me, then footsteps on stone.
"You okay?" Elena's voice is quiet.
I open my eyes but don't turn around. "I'm fine."
"You keep saying that." She moves to stand beside me, her arms crossed over her chest against the cold. "But you're not."
"I'm just tired of being looked at like I don't belong."
"They're testing you." She glances at me. "That's what they do. They test everyone. Even people who were born into this world."
"You weren't tested."
"Yes, I was." Her voice is soft, almost sad. "When my mother died, my father expected me to step into her role immediately. To host dinners, to manage the household, to represent the family at events. I had no idea what I was doing, and I made mistakes. Lots of them."
I study her face, trying to imagine her as a twelve-year-old girl thrust into a world of adult expectations. "What kind of mistakes?"
"I used the wrong fork at a formal dinner. Called someone by the wrong title. Wore the wrong dress to a funeral." She shakes her head. "Every mistake was noted and judged, used as evidence that I wasn't ready. That I wasn't good enough."
"But you figured it out."
"Eventually." She turns to face me fully now. "But it took time, and practice. And a lot of humiliation along the way."
The admission surprises me. Elena always seems so composed, so perfectly in control. The idea that she struggled, that she felt inadequate, doesn't fit with the image I have of her.
"How did you get through it?" I ask.
"I watched and learned." She pauses. "And I stopped caring what people thought of me. Or at least, I pretended to stop caring. Eventually I got good enough at my role that I didn’t need to pretend any longer."
It makes me see her a little differently. Not just as the mafia princess who looks down on me, but as someone who's fought her own battles to belong.
"You're doing better than you think," she says again. "Tonight, you held your own. You didn't let them intimidate you."
"It doesn't feel like it matters."