20. Elena
ELENA
Declan moves faster than I thought possible. His hand shoots out and closes around my wrist like a vise, twisting hard. Pain shoots up my arm, and I cry out, my fingers opening reflexively. The derringer clatters to the floor.
"Declan—"
He shoves me. Hard. I stumble backward, my hip hitting the edge of the vanity, and then he's on his feet, naked and furious, his face a mask of betrayal and rage. "Don't." His voice is low. Deadly. "Don't you fucking say my name."
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. "Please, I can explain—"
"Explain?" He laughs brokenly, the sound horribly bitter. "You were going to kill me. While I slept. After I—" He stops and shakes his head. "Jesus Christ."
He bends down and picks up the gun and looks at it for a long moment, his jaw working. Then he looks at me, and the expression on his face makes my chest cave in.
"Declan, please—"
"I said don't." He moves toward the door, still holding the derringer. "Don't say my name. Don't talk to me. Don't fucking look at me."
"Wait—"
But he's already gone. The door slams behind him, and I hear the lock click into place.
I'm alone. I stand there, my wrist throbbing where he grabbed me, my hip aching from where I hit the vanity.
I almost killed him. I stood over him with a loaded gun and almost pulled the trigger.
The realization hits me, and my knees buckle. I sink to the floor, my back against the vanity, my hands shaking so badly I have to press them against my thighs to make them stop.
What was I thinking? What the hell was I thinking?
I see his face again, the moment his eyes opened and he saw me. The shock and hurt and betrayal. And underneath it all, I saw a horrible grief, like I'd broken something in him that can't be fixed.
My throat tightens. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I don't let them fall. I don't deserve to cry. I don't deserve to feel sorry for myself. I made my choice. I picked up that gun, and I pointed it at his head.
And now I have to live with that.
He locked me in. The irony isn't lost on me. I've spent my entire life locked in by my family, by duty, by expectations I never chose. And now I'm locked in by the man I was supposed to kill.
I need to fix this. I need to make him understand. I need to explain what my father said, why I almost did it, and that now that I’ve had a second to think, I regret it more than anything.
But the door is locked. And even if it wasn't, I don't think he'd listen.
—
Morning comes eventually. I hear movement in the penthouse and the sound of the coffee maker. Normal morning sounds that feel surreal given what happened last night. I wait until I hear him in the kitchen, then I go to the door and try the handle. It’s still locked.
"Declan? Declan, please. I need to talk to you."
Nothing. No response. Just the sound of a cabinet closing. "Please." I press my palm against the door. "Just let me explain. Let me—"
I hear the front door open and close. The penthouse falls silent again. I sink down against the door, my forehead pressed to the wood, and finally let myself cry.
He comes back hours later. I hear the front door open, followed by the sound of him moving through the penthouse. I'm at the door immediately, my hand on the handle. "Declan, please. Just listen to me for five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
Silence. "I know you're angry. I know you have every right to be. But please—"
"We have an event tonight." His voice is right on the other side of the door, and I jump back, startled. I didn’t hear him getting so close. "The Castellano charity gala. We're expected to attend."
"I don't care about the gala. I care about—"
"Be ready by seven." His footsteps retreat. "Wear something appropriate."
"Declan—"
But he's already gone again.
I stand there, my hand still on the door handle, and feel something crack inside my chest. He's not going to listen or give me a chance to explain. He's made up his mind about what happened, about what I am, and nothing I say will change it.
But maybe the gala will help. Maybe being in public, being forced to interact, will give me an opening. A chance to reach him. I have to try. I have to make him understand.
The lock clicks open at six thirty. I’m dressed in a pale blue gown with a slit up one side and a low back, my hair pulled back and my makeup done softly. I look composed, but inside I feel like I'm falling apart.
Declan is in the living room when I emerge. He's wearing a tuxedo, his hair styled and his face carefully blank. He looks at me for exactly one second, then looks away. "The car is waiting."
"Declan—"
"Don't." He moves toward the door. "Just don't."
I follow him in silence. What else can I do?
The drive to the venue is excruciating. We sit on opposite sides of the back seat, the space between us feeling like a chasm.
I try twice to speak. Both times, he cuts me off with a look that makes the words die in my throat.
By the time we arrive, I'm desperate and frantic.
I need him to listen so I can make him understand.
But the moment we step out of the car, he's gone.
Not physically—he's right there beside me, his hand on my lower back as we walk into the hotel ballroom.
But emotionally and mentally, he's a thousand miles away.
The gala is nothing special, the kind of event I've attended a hundred times before. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, women in designer gowns and men in tailored tuxedos. The elite of Chicago's underworld, all gathered to pretend they're civilized.
Declan guides me inside, his touch impersonal and cold. The moment we're through the doors, he drops his hand from my back. "I need to speak with some people." He doesn't look at me. "Stay here."
"Declan, please—"
But he's already walking away, disappearing into the crowd. I stand there, alone in a room full of people, and feel the weight of every eye on me. They know something is wrong. They can see the tension between us. The whispers start almost immediately. I might be imagining it, but I don’t think I am.
I lift my chin and move toward the bar. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart.
The bartender pours me a glass of wine. I take it with a smile that feels like it might crack my face, then turn to survey the room.
Declan is across the ballroom, talking to a group of men I recognize from other families. He's nodding and listening, playing the part of the engaged mafia boss. But even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders. He looks miserable. And it's my fault.
I take a sip of wine and try to figure out what to do, how to fix this. How to make him see that I'm not the enemy. That I wish I hadn’t listened to my father. I wish I’d confided in Declan. Had him find a way out for us both. Surely if I could explain…
"Elena Capetti." A woman's voice, smooth and amused. "Or should I say Elena Murphy now?"
I turn to find Lucia Marchetti standing beside me, a champagne flute in her hand and a knowing smile on her face. "Mrs. Marchetti." I keep my voice neutral. "How are you?"
"Better than you, it seems." Her eyes flick toward Declan, then back to me. "Trouble in paradise already?"
My smile feels brittle. "I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you don't." She takes a sip of champagne. "It's just that your husband has been avoiding you all evening. And you look like you're about to shatter. But I'm sure it's nothing."
I want to tell her to fuck off. I want to throw my wine in her face and walk away. But I can’t, because she's right. And because making a scene will only make things worse.
Declan would appreciate the impulse. He’d tell me I should have done it. He doesn’t care about what any of these people think.
I wish I didn’t. I wish I’d cared about him enough to never let my father get under my skin… or realized in time that I did.
"If you'll excuse me—"
"He doesn't belong here, you know." Gianna's voice drops, becoming almost sympathetic. "He's trying. I'll give him that. But he'll never be one of us. And eventually, you'll have to choose between him and your family."
"I already chose."
The words are out before I can stop them. Gianna's eyebrows rise. "Did you?" She studies me for a long moment. "Then why does it look like you're losing him?"
She walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing there with her words echoing in my head. Why does it look like you're losing him?
Because I am. Because I pointed a gun at his head and destroyed whatever trust we'd built. I'm a Capetti, and he'll never believe I chose him over my family. Not now, after that.
I set my wineglass down on a passing tray and move toward the restrooms. I need a moment to breathe and figure out what the hell I'm going to do.
The restroom is empty when I push through the door. I go to the mirror and stare at my reflection, gripping the edges of the counter. I look perfect and composed. Every hair is in place, my makeup flawless, my dress elegant and appropriate.
I look like a lie.
I brace my hands on the counter and close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Trying to think. There has to be a way to fix this. There has to be—
The door slams open behind me.
I spin around, my heart jumping into my throat. Three men burst into the bathroom, moving quickly and with purpose. They're wearing suits, but something about them is wrong.
"What—"
The first one reaches me before I can finish the question. His hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off my scream. I bite down hard, tasting blood, and he swears but doesn't let go.
"Grab her!" The other two are on me in seconds. Hands on my arms, my waist, dragging me away from the counter. I fight, kicking and thrashing, trying to break free. My heel connects with someone's shin, and he grunts in pain.
"Fucking bitch—"
Something hard hits the side of my head, and stars explode across my vision. My knees buckle, but they don't let me fall. They're dragging me toward the door, toward the service exit I didn't even notice.
This is a kidnapping. The realization cuts through the pain and panic. This was planned. Coordinated. They knew I'd be here.
My father. This is my father's backup plan. I didn’t do it fast enough, and now…
I feel sure of it.
I try to scream again, but the hand over my mouth is too tight. I can't breathe. The sound gets through, but I don’t know if it’s loud enough.
"Move!" They're pulling me through the service door into a narrow hallway that smells like cleaning supplies and old carpet. I dig my heels in, trying to slow them down, but they're too strong.
"Help!" The word comes out for a brief second as I get air, and I shout as loud as I can. "Someone—"
A cloth presses over my nose and mouth with a chemical smell, sharp and sickly sweet. I try to hold my breath and turn my head away, but it's no use.
The world starts to blur. My limbs go heavy. I'm still fighting, trying to break free, but my body won't cooperate.
"Declan—"
His name is the last thing I manage before everything goes dark.