14. Elena
ELENA
The diner is nothing like anywhere I've ever been.
The car pulls up to a corner in a neighborhood I don't recognize.
The buildings are all brick, and the streetlights cast everything in harsh yellow.
The sign above the door reads Rosie's in faded red letters, half the bulbs burned out.
Through the windows, I can see vinyl booths and Formica tables.
It looks like it hasn't been updated since the seventies.
I look down at my black silk gown and the diamonds at my throat and wrists. I look ridiculous.
"Elena." Declan's voice is quiet. "We don't have to—"
"No." I reach for the door handle before I can second-guess myself. "Let's go."
The driver opens my door, and I step out onto the sidewalk in my Louboutins. The concrete is cracked and uneven. I can hear music coming from inside, and a guitar accompanying a woman's voice, rough and soulful. The smell of grease and coffee hits me immediately.
Declan comes around the car, and I notice the way his shoulders relax. The tension that's been coiled in him all night starts to ease, and he looks at the diner like it's home. "You sure about this?" he asks.
I’m definitely not. But I nod anyway. He opens the door for me, and we step inside.
The diner is small and crowded. Almost every booth is full, and there's a line of people at the counter. The walls are covered in old photographs and sports memorabilia of Chicago teams, mostly. The floor is checkered linoleum that’s scuffed and worn.
A jukebox sits in the corner, playing something bluesy.
Everyone turns to look at us. I brace myself for the judgment, for the sneers and the whispers, for someone to tell me I don't belong here. Exactly, it occurs to me how Declan feels every time he walks into a gala or a dinner with the mafia families. And it feels fucking awful.
Suddenly, I feel an unwelcome sense of empathy for him. It’s no wonder he wants nothing to do with the people in my world or me, if this is the way he always feels. It’s miserable. I want it to stop, and the only reason I don’t leave now is because I can’t back down after this was my idea.
But instead of judgment or sneers, a woman behind the counter who looks to be in her fifties, gray hair pulled back in a bun and wearing a stained apron, breaks into a huge smile.
"Declan Murphy!" She comes around the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. "I haven't seen you in at least a month! Where the hell have you been?"
"Busy, Rosie." Declan's smile is genuine and warm, nothing like the careful mask he wears around me or my family, or the people we associate with. "Too busy."
"You're always too busy." Rosie swats his arm, then turns to me. Her eyes widen slightly at my dress, but there's no judgment in her expression. Just curiosity. "And who's this?"
"This is Elena." Declan's hand finds the small of my back. "My wife."
"Your wife?" Rosie's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, I'll be damned." She extends a hand to me. "Rosie O'Brien. This fella came to get dinner here not long after he moved into town, and was here just about every night for months.”
I shake her hand, surprised by the strength of her grip. "It's nice to meet you."
"Come on, I'll get you a booth." Rosie leads us through the crowded diner, past tables full of people who nod at Declan or call out greetings. No one stares at my dress. No one whispers behind their hands. They just... go on with their night.
The booth she leads us to is in the back corner, upholstered in red vinyl patched with duct tape in places. Rosie hands us laminated menus that are sticky with age. "What can I get you to drink?"
“I’ll have a beer,” Declan says. “Whatever’s good that’s on tap.”
"Make it two," I hear myself say. I immediately regret it, but it’s too late now. I’ve never had beer in my life.
Rosie grins. "I like her already." She disappears toward the bar.
I slide into the booth, the vinyl squeaking under me. Declan sits across from me, and for the first time tonight, he looks comfortable and at ease. Like he can finally breathe.
"You come here a lot?" I ask.
“Yeah, like Rosie said, I came here when I first moved into town, and the food was so good I kept coming back. I was stressed out and eating a lot of comfort food.” He chuckles. “Had to really hit the weights twice as hard.”
I swallow, forcing myself not to look at his midsection. Nothing about the way he fills out his suit—or anything else, for that matter—makes me think he’s anything but pure muscle. But I don’t say that. God, I could never.
I look around the diner again, seeing it through different eyes. This is his world, what he likes. Not the marble estates and crystal chandeliers, but this small, worn diner with its cracked vinyl and faded photographs. “It’s nice,” I manage, and Declan chuckles again.
“You don’t have to lie,” he says with a laugh.
“I mean…” I look around again, taking it all in. “It’s not what I’m used to. But I can see the charm.”
Declan still looks like he doesn’t believe me, but I do.
The place is shabby, sure, and no one I know would step a single foot in here.
But the people all look like they’re genuinely having fun.
No one looks like they’re secretly thinking something they won’t say out loud, or plotting against someone else, or imagining anyone else’s downfall.
No one here looks like they’re pretending to be anything they’re not.
And for once, I can suddenly see the appeal in how Declan lives his life.
He might be an outcast in my world for it…
but maybe he genuinely doesn’t want to be accepted by my people… or me.
That last thought oddly stings. And it makes me wonder why he’s here in the first place—not in the diner, but in the world of the mafia—if he doesn’t want to belong in it.
Rosie returns with the beers. "Food?"
"Burger and fries," Declan says without looking at the menu.
I scan the options. There are burgers, sandwiches, breakfast served all day.
None of it is anything like the carefully plated cuisine I'm used to. I don’t think I’ve ever actually eaten a real cheeseburger.
Not like what would be served here, anyway.
The last burger I can recall eating was something deconstructed with truffle sauce.
"I'll get the same thing," I say finally, setting the menu down.
"You got it." Rosie winks at me. "And welcome to the family, sweetheart."
She leaves, and I'm alone with Declan in this booth that smells like grease and coffee.
Hesitantly, I take a sip of my beer. It kind of tastes like something spoiled, and when I wince, Declan chuckles.
“It’s an acquired taste. If you were going to get into beer, I’d probably start you on an IPA or some other fancy craft beer. Michelob Ultra isn’t usually a good starting point.”
“Well, when in Rome, right?” I take another sip. It’s not that bad. Definitely not what I would choose.
“It’ll be better with the burger.” He grins, and I feel a small smile curve my lips despite myself.
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
He takes a drink of his own beer, then sets it down and looks at me. "Thank you," Declan says quietly. "For getting me out of there."
I shrug. "You looked miserable."
"I was." He takes another drink. "I hate those things. All the posturing and the judgment and the—" He stops and shakes his head. "I don't know how you do it. How you navigate all that so easily."
"Practice." I trace the rim of my glass with one finger. "And necessity. When you're raised in that world, you learn the rules, or you don't survive."
"Is that what it feels like? Survival?"
The question catches me off guard. Because yes, that's exactly what it feels like. Every gala, every dinner, every carefully orchestrated conversation, it's all about survival. Maintaining position and reputation and power, so that the other sharks don’t eat you.
"Sometimes," I admit.
He studies me across the table. "You're good at it. Better than anyone I've ever seen."
"That doesn't mean I enjoy it."
"No." His voice is soft. "I suppose it doesn't."
Rosie brings our food a few minutes later.
The burgers are thick and juicy, topped with melty cheese and lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickle, condiments oozing along with the grease.
The fries are thick and crispy, and she sets down a bottle of ketchup along with the two plates.
“Anything else?” she asks, hands on her hips, and Declan shakes his head.
“I think we’re good.”
“I’m good,” I echo, eyeing the burger. I’ve never eaten anything like this in my life.
I can’t begin to calculate the calories or what this could do to my cholesterol.
That much grease can’t be good for anyone’s skin or overall health.
But my stomach growls, and I realize I haven't eaten since lunch. That was hours ago.
I pick up the burger. It's messy and completely inappropriate for someone in a designer gown. I take a bite anyway.
It's delicious. The meat is juicy and perfectly spiced, the toppings are fresh and crispy, and the ketchup and mustard and cheese all blend together to make it possibly one of the best things I think I’ve ever eaten.
I immediately take another bite, then try a sip of the beer.
Declan was right; they are better together.
Declan watches me with something like amusement in his eyes. "Good?"
"Very." I wipe my mouth with a paper napkin. "Better than anything at that gala."
"Everything's better than that gala,” he says with a snort.
We eat quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the food and the drinks. Around us, the diner hums with life, conversations and laughter, and the clink of silverware on plates.
Finally, halfway through my burger, I set it down and reach for a fry. “So did you grow up around places like this?”
Declan looks surprised. "Why are you asking?"
"Because I want to know." I give another small shrug. “I should know more about you, right? You’re my husband.”