Page 11 of Sinful Bride

There's the real insult, the question that's been hanging over me since the day Lachlan handed me everything and walked away.

"Lachlan chose me," I say, keeping my voice steady. "He trusted me to lead. To take care of his people."

"Lachlan abandoned his responsibilities," Enzo says, his voice hardening. "He walked away from an empire he built, handed it to a biker from New York, and disappeared. It left a power vacuum that's made the entire city unstable."

"I've kept things stable⁠—"

"Have you?" Enzo cuts me off. "I think you look like a man who's in over his head. A man playing dress-up, pretending he understands how this world works."

My jaw hardens. The words cut deeply, because that's exactly how I feel most days—like I'm pretending, like I'm one mistake away from everyone seeing through me.

But I can't let him see that.

"I understand enough," I say. "I understand that you attacked my warehouse because you think I'm weak. You think you can push me around and I won't push back. You're wrong."

"Am I?" Enzo's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Tell me, Mr. Murphy—how many allies do you have? How many families would stand with you if this turned into a full-scale war?"

I don't answer. We both know the answer is not enough. Possibly none, depending on who will honor Lachlan's decision. The other families are watching, waiting to see if I'll survive. If I'm worth their respect or their alliance.

"I have the Vitale family," Enzo continues, counting on his fingers. "The Rossinis. The Benedettis, the Morettis, and more. I have connections in New York, in Boston, in Philadelphia. If I wanted to crush you, I could do it in a week. Maybe less."

The threat hangs in the air between us. He's not bluffing. He could do it. He could call in favors, bring in soldiers from other cities, and overwhelm my organization before I could mount a defense.

I have to negotiate instead of what I want to do, which is get revenge for my men.

"You could," I agree, bluffing with as much confidence as I can muster, at the world's most dangerous poker table. "But you won't."

Enzo smirks. "And why is that?"

"Because war is expensive. And it draws attention—from the cops, from the feds, from everyone you don't want looking too closely at your operations. And even if you win, you'll lose men, lose money, lose stability." I lean forward slightly. "I'm offering you an alternative, even though I have every reason not to."

Enzo takes another sip of wine, considering. "I'm listening."

"Peace. Cooperation. We work together instead of against each other. We make money instead of corpses, and stay out of each other's territory."

"You want to negotiate?" Enzo's tone is mocking. "You want to sit down and draw lines on a map like civilized men?"

"Yes." I don't flinch from his contempt. "That's exactly what I want. It's what worked for me before, with my motorcycle club. We expanded, we thrived, and we made more money than we ever had working for the Santoros and for our own interests. I focused on building alliances instead of burning bridges, but…" I pause. "I wasn't afraid to commit violence when necessary, either. I'm no stranger to brutality, to get my point across. And that hasn't changed."

"Your motorcycle club." Enzo sets down his wineglass with a soft clink. "Mr. Murphy, do you understand the difference between a motorcycle club and a mafia family?"

"I understand⁠—"

"No, I don't think you do." He leans forward, his voice dropping. "A motorcycle club is a gang. A group of men who ride together, who make money together, and follow whoever's strongest at the moment. There's no history. No tradition. No honor."

The word honor lands like a slap. And it's also bullshit. I feel my jaw clench so tightly it hurts, my hands curling into fists. He's denigrating something he knows nothing about, spouting lies, and I want to shove them down his throat with my fist.

"The mafia," Enzo continues, "is a family. It's generations of blood and loyalty. It's traditions that go back centuries. It's a code that we live by, that we die by. You can't just walk into this world with your working-class biker mentality and expect us to respect you."

I can feel my neck heating. "I'm not asking for⁠—"

"You're asking for respect you'll never earn," Enzo interrupts. "Because you're not one of us. You never will be. Lachlan understood that. He was Irish, yes, but he understood the rules. He understood tradition. He knew how to move in our world. He took what he claimed with blood and forced others to understand the cost of ignoring him." His eyes bore into mine. "You don't."

I don't understand their world. I don't know the unspoken rules, the subtle hierarchies, the traditions that govern everything they do. I'm an outsider trying to force my way in, and they all know it. But I'm not giving up. I'm not going to disappoint Lachlan, who's my brother in every way but blood, or force him out of retirement because I can't humble myself and restrain my violent desire to slaughter this man.

The words I force out next taste like poison, but I think of how many more men will die if I don't say them. "Then help me understand."

Enzo blinks. "What?"