Sinful Bride

Chapter One
Elena

The crystal chandeliers overhead catch the light from a thousand angles, throwing prismatic reflections across the marble floors of the Capetti estate's grand ballroom. I watch the patterns shift and dance as guests move beneath them, their laughter rising above the string quartet playing Vivaldi in the corner. The air smells of expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and the thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers scattered around the ballroom, their scent so heavy it's almost cloying.

I adjust the diamond bracelet on my wrist, feeling the familiar prick of the prongs against my fingertips. Everything about tonight is familiar—the same faces, the same conversations, the same careful dance of politics that's been choreographed since before I was born. I've been attending these parties since I was eighteen, standing beside my father with a champagne flute while I learned to smile and nod and say exactly the right thing to exactly the right people.

Now, at twenty, I don't need my father beside me anymore. I move through the crowd easily, accepting compliments on the midnight-blue silk of the evening dress I chose for tonight,  and making small talk with the wives and daughters of Chicago's most dangerous men.

"Elena!" Gabriella Rossini catches my arm as I pass, her fingers cool and dry against my skin. "Come here. We were just talking about you."

Of course you were. I paste on a smile and let her pull me into the small circle of women gathered near the French doors that lead out to the terrace. Gabriella, Sofia Benedetti, and Lucia Moretti are the daughters of three of the most powerful families in the city. We've known each other since childhood, thrown together at events like this, bound by the understanding that we're all playing the same game.

"Your dress is stunning," Sofia says. I can hear the envy beneath the compliment. She's wearing red, which is a touch too bright for her very pale complexion. She should have chosen a more blue-based red, not orange. "Valentino?"

"Dior." I take a sip of my champagne, letting the bubbles fizz against my tongue. "Custom."

"Of course it is." Lucia rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Everything you wear is custom."

"Why settle for off the rack when you don't have to?" I glance around the ballroom, doing a mental inventory of who's here and who's not. My father's business associates, mostly. A few politicians who owe him favors. The Benedetti family is here in force, the Rossinis, the Morettis. And—

My gaze snags on a man standing near the bar, and I feel something tighten in my chest. 

"Who invited him?" The words come out a touch more sharply than I meant for them to. I shouldn't care so much, but this is the second time I've seen him at an event in as many weeks, and I don't like it. 

He doesn't belong here. But more than that, I don't like the way I feel when I look at him.

Gabriella follows my line of sight and laughs. "Oh, you mean Declan Murphy? Your father did, obviously. He's the head of the Irish mob now, Elena. He has to be here."

I know who Declan Murphy is. Everyone does. The man who came from nothing—literally nothing, from some motorcycle club in New York—and somehow ended up running the entire Irish operation in Chicago. It's a story that shouldn't be possible in our world, where bloodlines and legacy mean everything. Failing that, spilling blood does, and supposedly neither got Declan to where he is now.

"I heard he took it over from Lachlan Gallagher," Sofia says, leaning in conspiratorially. "They were best friends, apparently. Lachlan just... gave it to him."

"It's a ridiculous story." I tear my eyes away from Murphy to look at her. "You don't just give someone an entire criminal organization."

"Well, no, obviously there's more to it than that." Sofia waves her hand dismissively. "But that's the story. Lachlan disappeared—some say he's dead, some say he just walked away—and Murphy stepped in. Just like that." She snaps her fingers. "One day he's running a motorcycle club, the next he's sitting at the table with our fathers."

I look back at Murphy. He's taller than most of the men here, with copper-colored hair that's too long to be properly styled, falling across his forehead and curling at his nape in a way that suggests he doesn't spend much time in front of a mirror. He's wearing a suit, at least, but even from across the room I can tell it doesn't fit him quite right. Not tailored properly, maybe—or maybe he's just not used to wearing one.

"He doesn't look like he belongs here," I murmur.

"That's because he doesn't," Lucia says bluntly. "My father says he's rough around the edges. That he doesn't understand how things work in our world."

"Then why is he here?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Power is power, regardless of where it comes from. And Murphy has power now, whether he deserves it or not.

"Because your father wants to keep an eye on him," Gabriella says. "Everyone does. He's unpredictable. Dangerous."

Aren't we all? I think, but I don't say it out loud.

I watch Murphy as he accepts a drink from the bartender—whiskey, neat, rather than the champagne almost everyone else is drinking. There's something about the way he holds himself that suggests violence that's barely contained, like a wolf pretending to be a dog. He's scanning the room, taking in every detail, every face, every exit.

He's assessing threats. The realization sends a shiver down my spine that I refuse to acknowledge as anything other than distaste.

"I heard he killed three men from one of the gangs that works for the Bratva with his bare hands when he took over, after they fucked with one of the businesses under his protection," Sofia whispers. "Just walked into their clubhouse and—"

"That's ridiculous," I interrupt. "No one does that. He'd at least use a weapon."

"You don't know what motorcycle clubs are like," Lucia says. "They're animals. All of them."

I take another sip of champagne, trying to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth. I don't like the feeling that ripples over my skin at that, a hot prickle that I tell myself is disgust at the rumors.

But I can't stop looking at him.

He's moved away from the bar now, talking to one of my father's associates. Even in conversation, he looks uncomfortable. His shoulders are too tense, his jaw too tight. He doesn't belong in this world of crystal and silk and carefully orchestrated pleasantries. He belongs somewhere darker.

So why does my father want him here?

"Elena." Gabriella's voice pulls me back. "Are you even listening?"

"Of course." I'm not. "What were you saying?"

"I was saying that Sofia's brother has been staring at you all night." She nods toward the other side of the room, where Marco Benedetti is indeed watching me with undisguised interest. "I think he's going to ask you to dance."

God, I hope not. Marco is handsome enough, I suppose, in that generic way that many of the mafia sons are handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, sharp jaw, smooth skin, muscled body, expensive suit. But he's boring, and predictable. I've known him since we were children, and I've never once heard him say anything interesting.

But then again, boring might be what I want. I know I can't escape the attention of men forever, and I want my life to change as little as possible. So maybe a boring mafia son is exactly what I need.

Just not right now. And not him.

"Let him stare," I say. "I'm not interested."

"You're never interested," Sofia says. There's an edge to her voice. "You know you're going to have to marry someone eventually, right? Your father won't let you stay single forever."

My fingers tighten around the stem of my champagne flute. "I'm twenty years old. I have time."

"Not as much as you think." Lucia's voice is almost pitying—for me or for herself, I'm not quite sure. "My father's already talking about arranging something for me. I'll probably be engaged by the end of the year."

The thought makes my stomach turn. Not marriage itself—I've always known that was inevitable—but the idea of being arranged, like a business deal. Like a merger. I want to choose, even if my choices are limited to the men in this room, the sons of families my father approves of.

I know that likely won't be the case. And I know that if I want to choose, I should be encouraging the men I'm interested in to approach my father. But the thought of marriage, and everything that comes after it, makes my stomach churn until I wonder if the champagne is going to make a reappearance.

"Well, I'm not you," I say, more sharply than I intend. "And I'm not getting engaged to anyone right now."

Before any of them can respond, the music shifts. The quartet begins playing a waltz, and couples start moving toward the center of the ballroom. I see my father dancing with Mrs. Benedetti, his hand at her waist, his expression pleasant and empty. He's good at the performance of civility, the pretense that we're all just normal people at a normal party.

"Elena Capetti."

The voice that comes from behind me is low and rough, with an Irish accent softened by years in America. I turn, and find myself looking up and up, into Declan Murphy's face.

He's even taller up close. Definitely a few inches over six feet, if I had to guess. His suit is charcoal gray, well-made but not custom, and I can see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from beneath his collar. His face is hard angles and sharp edges, making me wonder if the rest of him is as carved from stone as that, with reddish stubble darkening his jaw as if he didn't bother to shave before he came out tonight. Those green eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Mr. Murphy." I keep my voice cool and controlled. "I didn't realize you were here."

It's a lie, and we both know it.

"Your father invited me." His gaze flicks to the other women, then back to me. "I was hoping you'd dance with me."

I can hear the attempt at confidence in his voice. It's strange—there's some there, as if he's used to women wanting to be close to him, but with enough uncertainty bleeding into it that I know I'm not the type of woman he usually gets close to. 

I should refuse him—make an excuse and go find Marco or one of the other acceptable men in this room. But something stops me.

Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's the way Gabriella is staring at me with wide eyes, clearly shocked that Murphy would approach me directly. Maybe it's the challenge in his expression, like he's daring me to say no. 

He's a grown man, dangerous and violent, but in this room he almost seems like a boy finding his footing. I almost feel a little bad for him, which startles me. 

Dancing with him would be gracious. Exactly the way the daughter of the host should behave, which is why I agree.

"Of course." I hand my champagne flute to Sofia and step forward, letting Murphy take my hand.

His palm is warm and calloused, not the soft hands of the men I usually dance with, who've never done manual labor in their lives. These hands are scarred and rough, and I feel a strange flutter in my stomach as his fingers close around mine.

He leads me onto the dance floor with surprising grace. For a man who looks so out of place, he knows how to waltz. His hand settles at my waist firmly, and I rest my left hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric of his suit. That hot prickle moves over my skin again, and I tell myself it's only distaste at being so close to someone so far beneath me.

We begin to move, and I'm acutely aware of how close he is, how much space he takes up. How his scent, clean and masculine, with a hint of whiskey, fills my lungs with every breath.

"You have a beautiful home," he says casually.

"Thank you." I keep my eyes fixed on his shoulder, not quite able to meet his gaze. "My father takes great pride in it."

"I'm sure he does." There's something in his tone I can't quite read. Amusement, maybe. "Must be nice, growing up in a place like this."

"It was. I've been very fortunate."

"Fortunate." He repeats the word like he's tasting it. "That's one way to put it."

I look up at him then, and immediately regret it. His eyes are too green, too intense. I feel like he's seeing too much of me, and I don't like it. "What would you call it?"

"Privileged." His hand tightens slightly at my waist. "Sheltered."

Now I don't feel like he's an uncertain boy any longer, and I don't feel sorry for him. The words sting. "I'm not sheltered."

"No?" His mouth curves into something that might be a smile, but there's no warmth in it. "You've never had to fight for anything in your life, have you? Never had to wonder where your next meal was coming from or whether you'd have a roof over your head tomorrow."

Heat rises in my cheeks. "That's not—"

"I'm not criticizing," he interrupts. "Just observing."

We turn, and I catch a glimpse of Gabriella and the others watching us. They're not even pretending not to stare. Everyone is watching us, I realize—the mafia princess dancing with the upstart from the motorcycle club. It's probably the most interesting thing that's happened at one of these parties in months.

"You don't belong here," I say. The words come out before I can stop them.

Murphy's expression doesn't change, but I feel him stiffen. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just surprised you would even be here." I keep my voice light, conversational, as if I'm commenting on the weather. "This isn't really your world, is it? All this—" I gesture vaguely at the ballroom, the chandeliers, the people in their expensive clothes. "It must be very different from what you're used to."

For a moment, he doesn't respond. We continue dancing, moving in perfect sync, but the air between us has changed, gone cold.

"You're right," he says finally. "It's not my world. I come from somewhere a lot more honest than this."

"Honest?" I can't keep the skepticism out of my voice.

"Yeah. Honest." His eyes bore into mine. "Where I come from, if someone has a problem with you, they say it to your face. They don't smile and make polite conversation while they're thinking about how much they despise you."

My heart is beating too fast. "I don't despise you."

"Don't you?" He leans in slightly, and I catch the smoky scent of whiskey again. "You've been looking at me all night like I'm something you scraped off the bottom of your shoe."

"That's not—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"It's fine." His voice is emotionless. "I know what you think of me—what all of you think of me. The biker who got lucky. The nobody who doesn't know which fork to use at dinner."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to." He releases me abruptly, stepping back. The music is still playing, but we're no longer dancing. "Thank you for the dance, Miss Capetti. It was... enlightening."

He turns and walks away before I can respond, cutting through the crowd with long strides. I stand there in the middle of the dance floor, suddenly aware of how many people are watching me. My face is burning, my hands trembling slightly.

What just happened?

I force myself to walk back to where Gabriella and the others are waiting with expressions of shock and barely concealed glee. "Oh my God," Sofia breathes. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing," I bite out. "I didn't say anything."

But that's not true, is it? I said exactly what I was thinking, and he heard every word beneath the polite veneer. He saw right through me, saw the disdain I was trying to hide, and called me out on it.

And the worst part is that he was right. I was looking at him like he didn't belong. Like he was beneath me. 

Because he is, isn't he? He's not one of us. He doesn't have the breeding, the education, the legacy. He's an outsider who stumbled into power through luck, not even violence, and he'll never truly be part of this world, no matter how many suits he buys or how many parties he attends.

So why do I feel like I'm the one who just made a mistake? 

A gracious hostess wouldn't have said any of those things. That was my mistake. I stopped playing the game for a few minutes, because something about him made me want to say exactly what I thought and felt.

In this world, that's almost always a mistake. 

I watch him across the room as he retrieves his coat from the attendant near the door. He doesn't look back and acknowledge me or anyone else. He just leaves, and I'm left standing with my 'friends,'  with the ghost of his touch still burning on my waist and his words echoing in my head.

Where I come from, if someone has a problem with you, they say it to your face.

Well, that's what I did, didn't I?

I take a shaky breath and reach for another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. The bubbles taste bitter on my tongue.

"Well," Gabriella says, her voice bright with barely suppressed laughter. "That was certainly interesting."

"It was nothing." I drain half the glass in one swallow. "He's just... sensitive. And he doesn't belong here. You all said it yourselves."

"We said it to each other," Sofia points out. "Did you say it to his face?"

I finish my champagne and set the empty glass down on a nearby table with more force than necessary. "I need some air."

I don't wait for their response. I just walk away, heading for the French doors that lead out to the terrace. The cool night air hits my face and I breathe it in gratefully, trying to clear my head.

The terrace overlooks the gardens, which are lit with strategically placed lights that make the hedges and flower beds look like something out of a fairy tale. It's beautiful, perfect. Everything in its place, everything exactly as it should be.

So why do I feel so unsettled?

I lean against the railing, the stone cold beneath my palms. Inside, the party continues without me. The music plays, the guests laugh and drink and dance, and no one notices that I'm gone. Or if they do, they don't care.

This is my world. This is where I belong. These people, this house, this life—it's all I've ever known, all I've ever wanted. And all I want from my life going forward is for as little to change as possible.

Isn't it?

I close my eyes and see Declan Murphy's face. Those hard, knowing green eyes. That rough voice saying things no one else would dare say to me. The way he looked at me like he could see past the expensive dress and the diamond bracelet and the carefully constructed facade.

It was unsettling. Uncomfortable. Thrilling.

No. I shake my head, pushing the thought away. I'm not interested in Declan Murphy. He's crude and rough and completely unsuitable. He doesn't understand our world or the rules we live by. He's dangerous, and not just because of the violence he's capable of, but also because of the way he makes me feel.

And the fact that he plays by none of the rules.

I open my eyes and stare out at the gardens, the carefully manicured perfection of it all. And for the first time in my life, I wonder what it would be like to step outside the lines. To do something unexpected, be someone other than Elena Capetti, the perfect mafia princess who always says the right thing and never makes waves.

But that's ridiculous. I am Elena Capetti. This is who I am, who I've always been. And Declan Murphy is just a man who got lucky and stumbled into power he doesn't deserve and will probably lose just as quickly.

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. Stop thinking about him.

I take one last breath of cool air, then turn and walk back inside. The party is still going strong, and I have a role to play. The perfect hostess, the dutiful daughter—a woman who belongs in this world of crystal and silk and carefully orchestrated lies.

I can do this. I've been doing it my whole life.

And as long as I keep doing it, I can remain as happy as it's possible to be, and nothing has to change.