Page 1 of Sinful Bride

1

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."