Page 18 of Sinful Bride

"I know that." I run a hand through my hair, frustration building in my chest. "But marriage? To a woman who hates me? Who thinks I'm beneath her? Fuck, I don't even wanna get married." I don't say more. These men don't know me well enough to get to know about my past and the pain that's buried deeply within me, deep enough that it doesn't bother me anymore most days. But this is bringing it back up again.

"Arranged marriages are common in this world," Lachlan says quietly. "You know that."

"Knowing it and being all right with it are two different things."

"True." He sits across from me. "But you need to think strategically here, Declan. This isn't about what feels right. It's about what keeps you alive. What keeps your men alive."

He's right, and it's the same thing I've been thinking all the way here. War means casualties. It means losing men I'm responsible for. It means blood and violence and a fight I might not win. Probably won't win.

"He's right," Finn says, his voice gruff. "An alliance with the Capettis would legitimize you. Show the other families that you're not just some upstart who got lucky. You'd have their backing, their connections. It would change everything."

"You'd have a seat at the table," Rian adds. "Real power, not just what you inherited. The respect that comes from being part of the old families."

I want to argue, tell them that treating a woman like a bargaining chip is fucked up, that I didn't leave the motorcycle club to become the kind of man who trades in human lives. But I can't. Because they're right, and I know it.

"She's going to hate this," I say quietly. "She's going to hate me more than she already does."

"Maybe." Lachlan's voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "Or maybe she'll surprise you. People adapt. They find ways to make things work when they have to. She's a mafia daughter who understands duty." Lachlan leans back, his expression thoughtful. "Elena Capetti was raised for this, Declan. She knows how this world works. She knows what's expected of her. This won't be a shock to her system the way it is to you."

"That doesn't make it right."

"No," Lachlan agrees. "It doesn't. But I don't see that there's much of an option. You're the leader now, Declan. You make the calls. But I think you know what the right one is."

Decisions. Calls. Necessary choices… like Elena is medicine I have to swallow, a bitter pill that will keep me alive even if it makes me sick.

I think about the warehouse. The bodies of my men I couldn't protect. The weight of leadership that sits on my shoulders, pressing down until I can barely breathe. I think about what war would mean—more bodies, more funerals, more men looking to me to keep them safe when I'm not sure I know how.

And I think about Elena at the party, and the way she looked in that dress, elegant and untouchable. The way she felt in my arms when we danced, and that spark of something I couldn't name. The way she looked at me like I was an intruder in her world.

"If I do this," I say slowly, "I do it my way."

"What does that mean?" Rian asks.

"It means I'm not going to pretend this is some romantic fairy tale. But I'm also not going to treat her like property." I look at each of them in turn, making sure they understand. "She's going to be my wife. That means respect and protection. A partnership. Everyone treats her that way, and so will I. This will be a real marriage, and I'm not just going to shuffle her off into a corner after the wedding. I'm going to treat her like she matters to me, even if this is just a business decision."

"Partnership?" Cormac raises an eyebrow. "You think a mafia princess is going to want to be your partner?"

"I hope so." I finish my whiskey, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. "Because I'm not doing this alone. If we're getting married, we're in it together. For better or worse."

Lachlan chuckles. "Then you've made your decision."

"Yeah." I stand, pushing away all the doubts still lingering in my mind. "I have."

—

I call Enzo to accept his terms before midnight. He sets a date a week from now, which seems impossibly fast to me, but he insists that this needs to be done quickly, in light of the events that set this in motion. Then, the next day, I inform my men. Some of them seem unsure. My marrying the daughter of the family that attacked us isn't the vengeance they were promised, but they all seem to understand when I lay it all out—how unprepared we are for a war, the amount of connections the Capettis have to leverage versus what we have. Some of them seem to think I'm getting off easy, which I find bitterly hilarious… nothing about this is easy for me.

And then, when I've explained and mollified as much as I can and answered all the questions they have, I go to buy a ring.

I stand in a jewelry store that afternoon, staring at rows of diamonds that all look the same to me. The salesman is hovering nearby, eager to help, but I wave him off. I need to think.

A family heirloom would be traditional. The kind of thing a real mafia boss would give his bride—something with history and meaning, generations of family behind it.

But I don't have a family heirloom. I don't have generations of history and tradition to draw from. My father was a motorcycle club president who died before I was twenty in an accident. My mother left when I was ten. I earned my place through blood and loyalty and sheer fucking stubbornness.

When it comes to the mafia, I'm a first-generation leader. A man without a legacy.

I look at rings in every shape and size, in every color of gold, rings that are big and small, covered in diamonds, more and more elaborate with every case that I look through. But what I finally settle on is a simple oval diamond set in platinum. It's simple, elegant, and I think it suits the woman who danced with me the other night. She's elegant and sleek and poised. Even her dress was expensive and beautiful, but simple. This looks like something she would wear, I think.