13. Declan #3
"But I'm here whenever you need to talk. Whenever you need perspective. I'm not abandoning you. I'm just trusting you to do what needs to be done."
"Thank you," I manage.
"You're going to be fine. You just need to give yourself time."
I hear a soft sound from the hallway just as I hang up and turn and see Elena standing in the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe, her hair loose around her shoulders. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she says quietly. "I just came down for water and heard you talking."
"It's fine." I set the phone down. "How much did you hear?"
“Not much.” She looks evasive. “Just a little. Anyway, I’m sorry. I’ll go get my water and head back upstairs.”
I hear the tap run and the clink of glass. Then her footsteps heading back upstairs. And I sit there in the quiet, thinking about what Lachlan said, and how I’m supposed to go forward from here.
—
The second gala comes too soon. This one is hosted by the Rossi family, and the tension between us is even worse than with the Marchettis.
The Rossis have been vocal about their disapproval of my leadership.
But refusing to attend would be worse than going.
So Elena and I get dressed, get in the car, and head to another evening of judgment and scrutiny.
The venue is even more opulent than the last one, held in a historic mansion. It showcases the kind of old money that makes my background feel even more inadequate.
Elena looks stunning in a black gown that hugs her curves, gold chains curving along her spine in the open back. I'm in another tuxedo that cost more than my first motorcycle, trying not to feel like an imposter.
"Remember," Elena murmurs as we walk in, "they're going to test you. Don't let them get under your skin."
"I'll try."
The ballroom is packed. I recognize most of the faces—other bosses, their wives, their capos and soldiers, all of them watching as we enter. All of them judging.
The first hour is brutal. Every conversation feels like a trap, and every question is designed to expose my inadequacy.
The Rossis make no effort to hide their disdain, and several other families follow their lead.
Elena stays close and introduces me with grace.
She redirects the conversations whenever she can, but even her efforts can't completely shield me from the hostility in the room.
And then there's the food. Everything—and I mean everything—is seafood. Oysters. Shrimp. Lobster. Crab. Fish prepared in different ways. The smell alone makes my throat tighten.
I'm severely allergic to every kind of seafood. Even cross-contamination can send me to the hospital. There’s not a single goddamn thing at this party I can touch, except maybe the alcohol.
I take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and nurse it slowly, trying to look like I'm participating while avoiding the food entirely. My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since lunch, and that was hours ago.
Elena notices. "You're not eating," she murmurs during a lull in conversation. “Are you feeling all right?”
I let out a slow breath. “I’m allergic to everything they’re serving. I can’t eat any of it.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
I nod. “It’s fine. We’ll just get through this.” But my stomach is cramping with hunger, and my head is starting to ache from the champagne on an empty stomach.
The evening drags on, and I'm exhausted and hungry, frustrated beyond measure. I'm about to excuse myself to find a bathroom—anywhere to get away from this for a few minutes—when Elena appears at my elbow. "We're leaving," she says quietly.
"What?"
"I don't feel well. We need to go." Her voice is firm.
"Elena—"
"Now, Declan." She takes my arm, her grip insistent. "Make our excuses. We're leaving."
I don't argue. I’m not going to force my sick wife to stay at the gala. I find our hosts, apologize for the early departure, and follow Elena out to the car. “What happened?” I ask as we stop outside. “Did you catch a bug or something?”
She shakes her head. “No. Where do you want to go eat?”
I blink, confused. “I—what?”
“I’m fine.” She looks at me as if I’m too slow to catch up to what she’s saying. "But you're clearly miserable. And hungry. I'm not going to watch you suffer through another two hours of that."
I stare at her. "You lied to get me out of there?"
She shrugs. It’s the most casual gesture I’ve ever seen her make. "Yes."
Now I’m thoroughly confused. "Why? Elena, you said you were sick—"
"I'm not sick. But you're hungry and having a terrible time. So where do you want to go?" She pauses. "Somewhere you'd actually enjoy."
I don't know what to say. Elena—my wife who barely speaks to me, who I humiliated in front of my men, who has every reason to hate me—just lied to get me out of a hostile situation and is now asking where I want to eat.
"There's a diner," I say slowly. "Nothing fancy. Just good food and no judgment."
"Perfect." She leans forward as we get into the car and gives the driver the address I provide. Then she sits back and looks at me. "Let's go there."