Page 61 of Sinful Bride

"I'm just tired of being looked at like I don't belong."

"They're testing you." She glances at me. "That's what they do. They test everyone. Even people who were born into this world."

"You weren't tested."

"Yes, I was." Her voice is soft, almost sad. "When my mother died, my father expected me to step into her role immediately. To host dinners, to manage the household, to represent the family at events. I had no idea what I was doing, and I made mistakes. Lots of them."

I study her face, trying to imagine her as a twelve-year-old girl thrust into a world of adult expectations. "What kind of mistakes?"

"I used the wrong fork at a formal dinner. Called someone by the wrong title. Wore the wrong dress to a funeral." She shakes her head. "Every mistake was noted and judged, used as evidence that I wasn't ready. That I wasn't good enough."

"But you figured it out."

"Eventually." She turns to face me fully now. "But it took time, and practice. And a lot of humiliation along the way."

The admission surprises me. Elena always seems so composed, so perfectly in control. The idea that she struggled, that she felt inadequate, doesn't fit with the image I have of her.

"How did you get through it?" I ask.

"I watched and learned." She pauses. "And I stopped caring what people thought of me. Or at least, I pretended to stop caring. Eventually I got good enough at my role that I didn’t need to pretend any longer."

It makes me see her a little differently. Not just as the mafia princess who looks down on me, but as someone who's fought her own battles to belong.

"You're doing better than you think," she says again. "Tonight, you held your own. You didn't let them intimidate you."

"It doesn't feel like it matters."

"It does." She holds my gaze. "You're not like my father. You're not like the other bosses. You care about your people. That's worth more than knowing which fork to use."

The words are unexpected. I don't know what to say, how to respond to this version of Elena who's defending me and seeing me as something other than an enemy.

"Thank you," I manage finally.

She nods and looks away. "We should go back inside. People will notice if we're gone too long."

"Right."

But neither of us moves. We stand there on the terrace, the cold air between us, until finally, Elena turns toward the door. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

I follow her back inside, and for the first time tonight, the weight on my chest feels a little lighter.

—

The next few days pass in an uneasy truce. Elena and I move around each other carefully, like we're both trying to figure out new boundaries. She doesn't undermine me, or make cutting remarks, or question my decisions in front of my men. Instead, she focuses on the household, managing the details that I don't have time or inclination to handle. I focus on business.

We eat breakfast together most mornings and dinner some nights. The conversations are careful and polite. We talk about logistics and schedules, neutral topics that don't require us to acknowledge what happened between us. It's not comfortable, but it's not hostile either.

Two days later, I'm in my office when my phone rings. It’s Elena's father.

"Enzo," I say, keeping my voice neutral.

"Declan." His voice is cold and clipped. "We need to talk about Dante Moretti."

My jaw tightens. "What about him?"

"He's one of my men. Was one of my men. And now he's working for you." There's an edge to his voice, anger barely contained. "You're poaching my people."

"I didn't poach anyone." I lean back in my chair, trying to keep my irritation in check. "He came to me and said he wanted to work for someone who respected him. I'm not going to turn away a man who believes in my leadership."