Page 2 of Declan

The air smells like money and power, but beneath that sheen of affluence is something far darker—a hunger, not for food or drink, but for control. You can taste it on your tongue, feel it in the way every gaze lingers a little too long, in the soft, polite conversations dripping with ulterior motives. And I’m supposed to choose a wife in this room. The thought alone makes me want to burn the whole place down.

Tonight isn’t just another gathering. It’s a fucking meat market, where the currency is bloodlines, loyalty, and obedience. And I’m expectedto pick out a wife like I’m choosing a goddamn suit.

“Declan,” Kian’s voice, smooth and full of mock seriousness, cuts through my thoughts. He leans casually against the bar,arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “See anything you like?”

Connor snorts, nudging Kian with his elbow. “Give him a break. The man’s just warming up. Gotta inspect the merchandise thoroughly, right, big brother?”

“Fuck off, Connor,” I mutter, scanning the room. They both chuckle, but I barely hear it. My eyes are fixed on the Morelli sisters, the ones I’m here to see, to choose from.

Before I stepped into this meat market of a party, I did my homework. Kian and Connor dug deep into these women’s lives, unearthing everything from their high school drama to their social media posts.

I know more about them than I ever cared to, but trust? That’s something I don’t hand out, especially not when it comes to Giovanni Morelli. The man is a snake, willing to do whatever it takes to claw his way up the power ladder, no matter who he steps on to get there.

And lately, the Morellis have been slipping, losing their grip on the docks—my docks. That shit isn’t going to fly.

The docks have been divided for years. Ten years ago, to be exact. A third for the Koslovs, a third for the Morellis, and the last piece for the Irish Consortium. It’s an uneasy peace, at best. But the Russians? They were never satisfied.

They wanted more, and that’s when the Dark Wars began. Explosions and fires tearing apart our docks, warehouses reduced to ash, and bodies fishing up in the river like trash.

My father led us through it—two years of bloodshed, with me, Kian, and Connor right by his side.

When the Koslovs shot our father, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t hesitate. I knew what had to be done. If you had even a whisper of association with the Koslovs, you were a dead man.

We turned the river red with their blood, one body at a time. Eventually, they retreated to the underground, and for years,there has been silence. No more Koslovs in the streets. No more bombs. Until two years ago, when they started creeping out of their holes again.

And now Giovanni’s feeling the pressure. His business is crumbling, his men too weak to hold the line. He pays us for every export, relying on our security to keep his docks intact. He needs us more than ever, but even knowing he needs us, the last thing I will ever is trust him? I’d sooner trust a starving wolf.

Then, out of nowhere, Giovanni makes a proposition. Marry one of his daughters.

Family ties, protection for him and his clan, and in exchange, I get the rest of his dock. With the Russians’ share already under our control, that would give the Irish Consortium complete dominance. Nothing would move in or out of the city without us knowing—without my say.

Giovanni came to me months ago, practically begging, tired of watching the Russians tear his business apart.

His desperation is clear. It’s a strange deal to marry for business, but my heart’s been locked up tight for years. Love? Feelings? That shit died with Elva. The only thing I need from a woman is a way to burn off steam.

But this? This is control. This is power. And that’s all I care about. My mansion’s big enough that I can live with a wife and not see her for weeks. So, I’ll take the deal. I’ll take the girl. But love? That’s not part of the equation.

All I need is a wife on paper and an iron grip on the docks.

Connor nudges my elbow, his eyes tilt, and there they are: Silvana and Bruna. They’re doing exactly what’s expected of them, playing the part of perfect, submissive daughters. Long dresses, high heels, sweet smiles. They’re like perfectly wrapped gifts—shiny on the outside, hollow on the inside. Predictable. Boring.

Silvana, the oldest, has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a beautiful, perfect face with just enough makeup to look elegant but natural. Every fella in this room looks at her with a smile; she’s fucking perfect. Her voice is soft, barely a whisper, always making little touches to the people she talks to. She sees me staring; her pink lips part into a smile. I just nod and lift my glass.

Her smile falters for a second, her face blushing. Bollocks. She’d break in a day.

On the other side of the room, standing as if she owned it, is Bruna Morelli. The youngest of the Morelli sisters, she is draped in a dress that clings to every perfect curve, her long legs on display like some kind of prize. Her honey-blonde hair falls in soft waves, catching the light just right, and those hazel eyes are sharp, calculating beneath the façade of sweetness. She has perfect skin and a perfect smile. She can melt ice with that smile, but I see through the act.

She smiles at me, too, just like her older sister. They’re playing their roles to perfection, every move calculated, like actresses gunning for an Oscar. Giovanni trained them well, no doubt.

Don’t get me wrong; they’re beautiful. Fun, maybe. But nothing more. They’re flawless in every sense of the word. But the thought of spending more than twenty-four hours with either of them? I’d be bored out of my mind. And boredom? That’s something I don’t have patience for, not in this life, not with everything at stake.

I need more than that. I need fire, something that’ll push me, that’ll challenge me in ways that won’t feel like I’m just going through the motions. And that? That’s not going to come from someone who answers questions like a trained parrot. It’s not going to come from some perfect little princess who thinks herrole is to sit there and look pretty. That’s not what I’m after. Not anymore.

Then there is her.

Viviana Morelli. She leans against the bar, legs crossed at the ankle, swirling a drink in her hand like she’s daring the room to judge her. Her short black dress clings to her curves edged with gothic lace that catches the light. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t mingle, and doesn’t even bother pretending she cares about the whispers or stares.

She doesn’t belong here. At least, not in the way everyone else does. While the others play their parts, all prim and proper, Viviana doesn’t waste her time. She stands out because she doesn’t need to try.

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