Page 40 of Sinful Bride

I lean back against my desk and cross my arms. "Explain."

"I've been with the Capetti family for fifteen years," he says. "I've seen a lot of bosses come and go. I've seen a lot of ways of doing things. And I've learned that the old ways aren't always the best ways."

"The Capettis would disagree."

"The Capettis are stuck in the past." There's conviction in his voice, and it rises a bit, a hint of passionate belief there. "They think tradition is more important than progress. They think bloodlines matter more than ability. They think a man like you—a man who came up through a motorcycle club, who doesn't have the right last name or the right connections—can't possibly be worthy of leading an organization."

"And you think differently."

"I know differently." He meets my eyes. "I've watched you since you took over from Lachlan. I've seen how you handle things. You're not afraid to do things your own way. You're not afraid to challenge the status quo."

I pause, trying to be clear-headed about this, rather than pulling this stranger into a brotherly hug. Hearing someone say it who isn’t Lachlan or one of the men I’m already close to feels like a weight lifting off of me, because that's exactly what I've been trying to do. That's exactly what I've been struggling with. I don’t want to become another one of these two-faced men in suits, when my whole life has been built on being honest about who I am and what I want, whether that’s peace or violence. But none of the bosses I’ve dealt with here agree. Everyone thinks I’m less than them—even my wife thinks I'm beneath her because I don't fit the mold of what a mafia boss should be.

I take a breath, shaking off the feeling. "The Capettis sent you." I let the disbelief creep into my tone, so he knows he’ll have to convince me otherwise.

"No." He shakes his head. "I came on my own. This is my own decision. I won’t be welcomed in the Capetti household any longer, but it’s worth it.”

Fuck, I want to believe him. I'm struggling on two fronts right now—the other families are undermining me, questioning my legitimacy, waiting for me to fail. And my wife is undermining me in my own house, making me feel like I'm not good enough, like I don't belong. Having someone come to me like this—someone who believes in me, who sees value in what I'm trying to do—is tempting. So fucking tempting.

Maybe too tempting.

"You understand I'll need to verify everything you're telling me," I say carefully. "I'll need proof you're not a plant. I'll need to know you're not feeding information back to the Capettis."

"I understand." He doesn't flinch. "I'll give you whatever you need to prove my loyalty."

I study him for a long moment, looking for tells, signs he's lying. For any indication that this is a trap. But I don't see any. What I see is a man who's tired and who's disillusioned with his family. A man who wants to work for someone he respects.

A man like me.

"Cormac will set you up with a room in this building," I say finally. "You'll stay here until I can verify your story. You don't leave or make any calls. You don't contact anyone. Understood?"

"Understood."

"And if I find out you're lying to me and that this is some kind of trap, I'll kill you myself."

He nods. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

I gesture to Cormac, who escorts Dante out of the office. The door closes behind them, and I'm alone again, with the nagging feeling that I just made a mistake.

But I also feel an odd flicker of hope. Maybe this man is telling the truth. Maybe he does believe in me. Maybe I'm not as alone as I thought.

Maybe I'm not failing as badly as it feels.

I pour a whiskey and try to ignore the voice in my head that says I'm being played—that says I'm so desperate for validation I'm willing to believe anything.

That says I'm weak.

No.

I'm not weak. I'm doing my due diligence. And if Dante Moretti is telling the truth, I just gained a valuable asset.

If he's lying, I'll deal with it.

—

The next few days are a blur of work and frustration, and Elena's continued campaign to drive me insane. She's everywhere. In the kitchen making coffee when I come down in the morning, in the hallway when I'm heading to the gym, at the dining table going through options for household decorating, and always perfectly composed and perfectly dressed. Always looking at me like I'm something she has to tolerate. Looking at her, you’d never know I caught her masturbating and broke her vibrator in a fit of anger while detailing all the lurid things I could do to her still-virgin body.

And it's killing me.