Declan #2
"Once," she says. "With my father." She’s looking at me with a hint of curiosity in her expression, as if she doesn’t understand quite why I’m doing this.
The server appears a moment later. "Good evening. Can I start you with something to drink?"
Elena glances at me. “I recommend we do their wine pairing,” she says. “They’ll know what will go best with the dishes.”
“Sure,” I agree quickly. I know white goes with seafood and red goes with beef… I think. That’s as far as I’ve ever gotten. I don’t even like wine, really.
But I remember her sipping a Michelob Ultra last night, without complaining, and I smile. “That sounds excellent.”
"The tasting menu is excellent here," Elena says quietly. "I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
She’s pretending that I knew what I was doing when I made the reservation, that I had any idea what all of this was about. She’s trying to make me feel less like an idiot, and I should be grateful. Instead, I feel humiliated.
"That sounds good," I manage.
When the server returns with the wine, Elena gracefully accepts her glass, and then the server disappears again to bring us the first course. I take a drink of the wine. It's good, I think, but I’d rather have a whiskey or a beer any day.
"This was thoughtful of you," Elena says, breaking the silence. "Making these arrangements."
"I wanted to do something you'd enjoy."
"I do enjoy it." She takes a sip of her wine. "But you don't have to pretend to be someone you're not, Declan."
The words sting. "I'm not pretending."
"Aren't you?" Her voice is surprisingly gentle as she looks at me over the rim of her glass. "You're uncomfortable here. I can see it."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She sets her glass down. "That's okay, Declan. You don't have to be comfortable in my world for me to appreciate the effort."
I don't know what to say to that. I have no idea how to explain that I'm trying to show her I can be what she needs, even if it means being uncomfortable and pretending.
The first course arrives shortly after. It looks sort of like chicken on a white plate, garnished with herbs I don't recognize. The server explains what it is, but I'm too focused on not looking like an idiot to really listen.
I take a bite. It's good. Interesting. But I have no idea what I'm eating. Elena watches me, her expression unreadable. "What do you think?"
"It's good."
Her mouth twitches. "You have no idea what it is, do you?"
I almost laugh. She doesn’t look like she’s making fun of me—it almost seems like we’re in on a private joke together, which is much more pleasant than I would have thought. "Not a clue,” I admit.
"It's duck thigh with yuzu and fennel." She takes a bite of her own. "The yuzu adds a citrus note that balances the richness of the meat. It’s very good."
"Right." I take another bite, trying to taste what she's describing. "Yuzu."
"It's a Japanese citrus fruit."
"Of course it is."
The corner of her mouth twitches again, almost becoming a smile. "You really didn't have to do this, you know. Take me somewhere like this."
"I wanted to."
"Why?"
I hesitate. I don’t know what to say that won’t make me sound like an idiot.
I could say that I’m trying to meet her halfway, or that I want to show her that I care.
That I don't know how else to fix what's broken between us. But her world doesn’t reward weakness, and I worry that’s what she’ll see that as.
But when I tried strength, that broke things even more. I feel completely at a loss as to how to court a woman like her. She might as well be from another planet, or a goddess of some kind, for how much I know about how to make her happy.
"Because you deserve it," I say instead.
She looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then she looks away, taking another sip of wine.
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of courses I can't pronounce and flavors I can't identify.
Elena explains each dish when it arrives patiently.
She's not condescending about it, just...
helpful. Like she understands that I'm out of my depth and she's trying to make it easier.
I appreciate it, even if it makes me feel like a child being taught table manners.
By the time we finish, I'm full and exhausted and ready to go home. But we still have the opera.
The Lyric Opera House is so grand it makes Alinea look understated. The building is decorated in gold, with soaring ceilings and crystal chandeliers. People mill about in the lobby, dressed in their finest tuxedos and gowns, dripping in diamonds and pearls. Everyone looks like they belong here.
Everyone except me.
Elena takes my arm as we enter, of her own volition.
She seems to be enjoying herself, and I see her smile when she sees that our seats are in a private box on the second tier.
The view is perfect; we can see the entire stage, the orchestra pit, and the audience below.
Elena settles into her seat with ease, probably from years of attending events like this.
I sit beside her and try not to look as uncomfortable as I feel.
The lights dim. The orchestra begins to play. The curtain rises.
I have no idea what's happening.
The singing is beautiful; I can appreciate that much.
The voices are powerful and emotional, filling the entire theater.
But the story is in Italian, and even with the subtitles projected above the stage, I'm struggling to follow along.
Something about a courtesan and a man who loves her.
Tragedy and sacrifice and death. The usual opera fare, I guess.
I glance at Elena. She's watching the stage, her expression soft. She's fully invested, deep in the emotion of what’s happening in front of her. She’s totally immersed, and I'm just... here. Trying to keep up.
Halfway through the first act, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. I ignore it. This night is for Elena. Whatever business is calling can wait.
But it buzzes again. And again. Elena glances at me, her expression questioning.
"Sorry," I whisper. "I'll turn it off."
I pull out my phone to silence it, but the name on the screen makes my stomach drop. Cormac.
He knows I’m out with Elena tonight, and he wouldn't call unless it was urgent. He wouldn't interrupt unless something was wrong.
Surely it’s not that serious. I don’t want to ruin the evening, and Cormac has been with Lachlan for years before he worked for me. He can handle whatever it is. I silence the phone and slip it back into my pocket, and try to focus on the stage and the music and Elena beside me.
But my mind is elsewhere now, on whatever crisis is waiting for me and the organization I'm supposed to be leading. On all the ways I'm failing. I can’t balance this and a marriage. I can’t even get through one date with my wife without something coming up.
Hell, I was pulled away from my fucking wedding reception.
The first act ends, and the lights come up. People begin filing out for intermission. "Do you want to get a drink?" Elena asks.
"Sure." We make our way to the lobby, where champagne is being served. Elena takes a glass, and I do the same, even though I'd rather have whiskey. My phone buzzes again.
"You should answer it," Elena says quietly.
"It can wait."
"Declan." Her voice is firm. "If it's important, you should answer it."
I pull out my phone. Three missed calls from Cormac, two from Finn, and a text from Ronan: Call me. Now.
My chest tightens. "I need to make a call."
Elena nods. "I'll wait here."
I step outside, into the cold night air, and call Cormac back. He answers on the first ring. "Where the fuck have you been?"
"I'm at the opera. What's wrong?"
"The shipment to the Capettis. The one you offered to help with. It went bad."
My blood runs cold. "How bad?"
"All but one of our men are dead. The Capettis are fine—minor injuries, no casualties. But our guys..." His voice cracks. "They're gone, Declan. All of them."
I freeze in place, my pulse loud in my ears. "What happened?"
"Ambush. Someone must have known about the shipment, knew our guys would be there. They waited until the Capettis were clear and then opened fire."
"Where are you?"
"The warehouse district. South Side. You need to get here."
"I'm on my way." I hang up and stand there for a moment, trying to breathe. All but one of my men are dead.
Because I offered to help. Because I was trying to build an alliance. Because I thought I could do this differently.
I head back inside. Elena is standing by the bar, her champagne untouched. She sees my face and sets the glass down. "What happened?"
"I have to go." My voice sounds distant. "There's been an attack. I need to—I'm sorry. I have to go. I'll send the car back for you."
"Declan—"
"Please, Elena. Just... go home."
I don't wait for her response. I'm already heading toward the exit, pulling out my phone to call the driver. The night I planned, the effort I made, the discomfort I endured… it all feels meaningless now. Because my men are dead.
And it's my fault.
—