Page 97 of Sinful Bride

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—"