21. Declan
DECLAN
The sound cuts through everything—the string quartet playing near the bar, the polite laughter of women in designer gowns, the low murmur of men discussing territory and profit margins.
It's a scream, high and sharp and terrified, and it comes from somewhere deeper in the building, away from the ballroom.
I know that voice.
My body moves before my mind catches up.
I'm already pushing through the crowd, ignoring the startled looks and the hand that reaches out to stop me, someone trying to ask me a question I don't hear.
The scream came from the direction of the restrooms, down a hallway that branches off from the main ballroom.
I'm moving fast, my hand already reaching for the gun holstered at my back beneath my tuxedo jacket.
She betrayed me. She stood over me with a loaded gun and almost pulled the trigger. I should let her deal with whatever trouble she's gotten herself into. Should let her family handle it, since she's made it clear where her loyalties lie.
But she's my wife. And despite everything, despite the betrayal and the fact that I can't trust a single word that comes out of her mouth, I can't just walk away.
The hallway is empty when I reach it. I hear voices ahead, muffled and urgent, coming from somewhere past the restrooms. A service exit, maybe. Somewhere the staff uses to move through the building without being seen by guests. I pull my gun and move toward the sound.
The door to the women's restroom is slightly ajar. I push it open with my shoulder, keeping the gun raised, and find it empty. No Elena. No sign of struggle.
The voices are louder now, coming from a service corridor just past the restrooms, through a door marked "Staff Only" in discreet lettering.
I move toward it, my heart pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, and push through.
The corridor is narrow and utilitarian, with concrete floors, fluorescent lighting, and the smell of cleaning chemicals and old carpet.
Three men are dragging Elena toward an exit at the far end.
She's limp in their arms, her head lolling forward and her gown trailing on the floor behind her.
One of them has a cloth pressed to her face.
They haven't seen me yet. They're focused on getting her through the exit, on moving fast and quietly. They’re professionals. This isn't some opportunistic grab—this is planned.
I don't give them a chance to realize I'm here.
The first man goes down with a bullet through his shoulder. He drops Elena's arm and staggers backward, his hand going to the wound, his mouth opening in a shout that I cut off with a second shot to his chest. He hits the wall and slides down, leaving a smear of blood on the concrete.
The other two react immediately. One of them drops Elena. She crumples to the floor like a broken doll as he reaches for his own gun. The other lunges at me, trying to close the distance before I can fire again.
I sidestep and bring the butt of my gun down hard on the back of his skull. He goes down with a grunt, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud. The third man has his gun out, raising it toward me, and I fire twice. Once in the chest, once in the head. He drops before he can pull the trigger.
The corridor goes silent except for the ringing in my ears and the harsh sound of my own breathing. Three bodies on the floor. Blood pooling on the concrete. Elena is unconscious in the middle of it all, her dress soaked with someone else's blood.
I holster my gun and move to Elena, kneeling beside her and checking for a pulse.
It's steady and strong beneath my fingers, and her breathing is shallow but regular.
Whatever they used to knock her out, it's working, but it hasn't killed her.
The relief I feel is almost startling, considering what she did just last night. But I feel it, all the same.
I gather her into my arms, lifting her carefully. Her head falls against my shoulder, her hair spilling over my arm, and for a moment I just stand there, holding her.
Someone tried to take my wife. The question is who.
I carry her toward the exit, stepping over the bodies without looking at them. My men will handle the cleanup and make sure the staff doesn't find anything they shouldn't. They'll make sure this doesn't blow back on me. Right now, I just need to get Elena out of here.
The exit leads to a service alley, and I call the driver, watching for the car to come around.
I get her into the back seat and slide in beside her, pulling her against me so she doesn't slump over.
Her head rests on my shoulder, her breathing soft and even.
She looks peaceful, like she's just sleeping.
Like she didn't try to kill me less than twenty-four hours ago.
I tell the driver to take us home, and I sit in the back seat with my wife in my arms, trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do now.
She stirs about halfway through the drive.
A soft sound escapes her throat, confused and disoriented.
Her hand moves to her head, fingers pressing against her temple like she's trying to ease a headache.
Then her eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy.
"Declan?" Her voice is slurred. She blinks up at me, trying to make sense of where she is. "What—"
"Don't talk." My voice comes out harsh. "Just sit still."
She tries to sit up, but her body won't cooperate. She sags back against me, her hand clutching at my jacket for balance. "What happened? I was—there were men—"
"I said don't talk."
She goes quiet. I feel her tense against me the moment she realizes I'm not going to comfort her or reassure her or tell her everything's going to be okay. Because it's not. Nothing about this is okay.
She tries again a few minutes later. Her hand moves to my arm, her fingers curling around my sleeve. "Declan, please. I need to—"
I pull my arm away. "Save it."
Her hand falls back to her lap. She doesn't try to touch me again.
The rest of the drive passes in silence.
Elena sits beside me, her body still pressed against mine because she doesn't have the strength to sit up on her own, but there's a distance between us now that has nothing to do with physical space.
She's awake enough to understand that something is wrong.
That I'm not going to listen to whatever she wants to say.
We reach the penthouse, and I carry her inside, because she still can't walk on her own. The drug is wearing off, but she's unsteady, her legs shaking when I set her down in the living room. She grabs onto the back of the couch for balance, her knuckles white against the dark leather. "Declan—"
"Sit down." I move away from her, putting distance between us. "Before you fall down."
She sits slowly, like she's afraid her legs will give out if she moves too fast. Her dress is ruined, blood-soaked and torn at the hem where it dragged on the floor. Her hair is a mess, falling out of the elegant updo she wore to the gala. She looks like she's been through hell.
She looks like someone I should want to protect. But all I can see is the gun in her hand as she stood over me while I slept.
"What happened?" she asks quietly. Her voice is steadier now, more lucid. "At the gala. I was in the bathroom, and then—"
"You were attacked." I lean against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. "Three men. They drugged you and tried to take you out through a service exit."
Her face goes pale. "Did you—"
"I killed two of them. Knocked the other out."
She closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. I didn't do it for you."
"Then why—"
"Because you're my wife." The words taste bitter. "And if someone's going to kill you, it's going to be me. Not some hired thugs in a hotel bathroom."
She flinches like I've slapped her. "Declan, please. Let me explain—"
"Explain what?" I cut her off, my voice rising. "Explain why you had a gun pointed at my head? Explain why you were going to pull the trigger? Or maybe you want to explain why you're suddenly so concerned about who tried to kidnap you?"
"I think—" She stops and swallows hard. "I think it was my father."
The words hang in the air between us. I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. "Your father," I repeat slowly. "You think your father tried to have you kidnapped."
"Yes." She leans forward, her hands gripping the edge of the couch. "Declan, listen to me. When I—when I had the gun—I was supposed to kill you. My father told me to. And when he finds out I failed—"
"Stop." I hold up a hand, cutting her off. "Just stop."
"Declan—"
"You expect me to believe that?" I laugh. "You expect me to believe that your father—the man who arranged our marriage—suddenly decided to kidnap his own daughter because you didn't kill me?"
"It makes sense." Her voice is desperate, pleading. "Think about it. He wanted you dead. He wanted me to do it because I could get close to you, because he knew I wouldn’t be able to say no to him, even if I—"
"Enough." I move closer, looming over her. "I've had enough of your lies and your schemes. Enough of you trying to manipulate me into believing whatever bullshit story you've come up with this time."
"I'm not lying—"
"You had a gun pointed at my head, Elena." My voice drops. "You were going to kill me. And now you're trying to tell me that your father is the enemy? That he's the one I should be worried about?"
"Yes!" She stands, swaying slightly, and reaches for me. "Declan, please. You have to believe me. My father—"
I catch her wrist before she can touch me. "Don't."
She freezes and stares up at me with wide, desperate eyes. "Please. Just listen—"
"I'm done listening." I release her wrist and step back. "You're a liar. You've been lying to me since the day we met. And I'm not going to stand here and let you manipulate me into believing that your family is out to get you when the only person who's tried to kill me is you."
"That's not—" Her voice breaks. "Declan, I'm telling you the truth. I know you don't trust me, but—"
"You're right. I don't trust you." I turn away from her, moving toward the door. "And I'm not going to. Not anymore."
"Where are you going?"
"To make sure the situation is handled." I don't look back at her. "You're staying here. You don't leave this penthouse. You don't call anyone. You don't do anything without my permission. Do you understand?" He clenches his jaw. "I'll call a doctor to come check on you."
"You're confining me?" Her voice is small. "Declan, please—"
"Do you understand?" I repeat, my hand on the doorknob.
"Yes." She whispers the words, and I hear tears in it, but I force myself not to care. I shouldn’t care about this woman any longer, or anything she feels or does. She never cared about me, clearly.
"Good." I open the door.
"Declan—"
I close the door before she can finish and try again to convince me or make me believe that any of this is real.
Because it's not real. None of it is. The connection I thought we had, the intimacy, the moments where I believed she might actually care about me…
it was all a lie. All part of whatever game she's playing.
And I'm done being played.
I make it to the elevator before the anger gives way to something else that feels too much like grief. I lean against the wall, my eyes closed, and try to breathe through it.
I thought we were building something. I thought the past few weeks meant something. The diner. That night out that turned into what happened in the bathroom between us. All the little moments that started adding up, the way I made her laugh, the way she made me smile, the things we talked about…
I thought she was starting to care. But she wasn't. She was just waiting for the right moment to put a bullet in my head.
And now she's trying to claim her father is the enemy, that he's the one who orchestrated the kidnapping. That she's the victim in all of this. I think back to Dante, and how quickly Enzo put him down, almost as if he had something that he didn't want Dante to have a chance to say.
But my wife also tried to kill me. She says Enzo orchestrated it, but it's bullshit.
It has to be. Because if it's not—if she's telling the truth—then I've just made the biggest mistake of my life.
But I can't afford to believe her. I can't afford to let her manipulate me again.
I'm straightforward. I don't play games, and I don't scheme.
And I sure as hell don't trust people who've already proven they'll betray me.
So I'll keep her locked up and safe, away from whoever tried to take her tonight—probably some rival family trying to get to me through her. And I'll figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with a wife I can't trust and can't get rid of.
The elevator doors open, and I step inside. The doors close, and I'm alone with my thoughts and the hollow ache in my chest that won't go away no matter how hard I try to ignore it. I thought I was falling in love with her. I thought she might be falling in love with me.
But love doesn't hold a gun to your head while you sleep. Love doesn't lie and scheme and manipulate.
Love doesn't betray you.