3. Elena
3
ELENA
I study my reflection in the floor-length mirror, adjusting the drape of my red Versace dress. The silk clings like a lover’s touch, the neckline revealing just enough to be enticing while maintaining sophistication. My Cartier diamonds catch the light—a birthday gift from Bella last year that sends another stab of guilt through me.
Anthony Calabrese doesn’t deserve this effort, but appearances matter in our world. Every dinner, every carefully orchestrated “chance” encounter is a move in a larger game. I’ve been sleeping with him for months, not because I feel anything when he touches me, but because his pillow talk reveals more than any surveillance ever could.
He’d asked me to dinner a few days ago. I’d texted Mario about it, testing him, wanting…something. A reaction. A sign that this thing between us is more than strategy. But Mario had remained frustratingly professional, so I’d initially declined Anthony’s invitation.
Then Anthony had been persistent, sending roses to my office, leaving messages that walked the line between charming and demanding. And Mario had gone radio silent for days.
So here I am, spending an obscene amount of time perfecting my smoky eye and ensuring every strand of my blonde hair falls exactly right.
My phone buzzes—the car service is here. I grab my Chanel clutch, checking that both phones are inside. The burner Mario gave me, and my regular iPhone that connects me to my legitimate life. Such as it is.
The elevator descends to the lobby of my Upper East Side apartment building, and I check my reflection one final time in its mirrored walls. There’s been a cold front in New York and I shiver. The doorman holds the door as biting wind whips down the street.
I pull my fur-trimmed Fendi coat tighter as I step into the waiting black SUV. The streets gleam wet from an earlier rainfall, reflecting the city lights like scattered diamonds. Through the tinted windows, I watch well-heeled couples hurrying into restaurants and theaters, living their normal lives, untouched by the darkness that flows beneath this city’s glittering surface.
My mind drifts to the files I discovered last week—young women arriving on tourist visas that were never used for departure, modeling agencies with more outgoing transfers than incoming profits. The pieces are there, if you know where to look. And I’ve spent years learning exactly where to look.
The driver’s appreciation is obvious as I slide into the back seat, and I allow myself a small smile. I know exactly how good I look. The Louboutins on my feet—a Christmas gift from Matteo that I try not to think about too much—cost a small fortune. The red soles flash with each step like a warning sign.
Another buzz from my clutch. Mario this time: Playing with fire tonight, little planner?
My heart thrums treacherously, blood heating just from those few words. Three days of silence and now this? I resist the urge to respond immediately, instead watching the city lights blur past my window.
Eleven Madison Park rises before me, its Art Deco grandeur softened by evening shadows. Inside, the restaurant is a study in understated luxury—soaring ceilings, elegant lines, and the subtle perfume of wealth that comes from knowing you never have to discuss prices.
The restaurant’s Michelin stars and impossible-to-get reservations make it the perfect setting for Manhattan’s elite to see and be seen.
Anthony chose well—the Calabrese heir making a statement by dining here with the best friend of Giovanni Russo’s daughter.
The ma?tre d’ greets me by name, but Anthony hasn’t arrived yet. I head toward the restroom, my Louboutins silent on the thick carpet. The hallway curves past private dining rooms, each one a potential setting for deals and betrayals disguised as business dinners.
I’m about to round the corner when voices drift from the alcove ahead. I stop short, recognizing that cultured accent despite never having heard it in person before.
“The traditional methods are leaving us exposed, Sean.” Siobhan O’Connor’s voice carries clear frustration. “The Vietnamese connection alone could be traced through the wire transfers. We need to move to cryptocurrency, create a digital infrastructure that?—”
I press myself against the wall, barely breathing. Even with her back to me, Siobhan O’Connor is instantly recognizable—that signature red hair, the Chanel suit. She’s arguing with someone—Sean Murphy, I realize, remembering Mario’s intelligence about her trusted captain.
“Father won’t listen to reason,” she continues, pacing the small space. “He’s so focused on maintaining the old fucking ways that he can’t see how vulnerable they make us. The DeLucas have already started digitizing their legitimate operations. If we don’t adapt?—”
She stops abruptly, and I slip into a shadowed alcove just as she turns. Through the ornate screen that separates the space, I watch her run a hand through her perfectly styled hair—a gesture of frustration that seems startlingly human for someone I know has ordered deaths as casually as ordering dinner.
“Just…keep working on those accounts,” she says finally. “And Sean? Be careful who you trust with this. Father has eyes everywhere.”
The call ends and Siobhan stares at her phone for a long moment. I recognize that look—the same one I see in my mirror some mornings. The face of a woman trying to prove herself in a world that sees her as decorative at best, dangerous at worst.
I wait until Siobhan’s heels fade down the hallway before slipping into the bathroom, mind racing. Her conversation with Sean Murphy was…fascinating. Not just the obvious conflict with her father, but the implications beneath.
The O’Connors are modernizing their operations—or at least, Siobhan’s trying to—which means the patterns I’ve been tracking in the Calabrese records might have an Irish connection after all.
But something doesn’t add up. Mario said Seamus O’Connor was old-school, preferred handling things with violence rather than innovation. Yet the financial trails I’ve been following are sophisticated, modern.
Could Siobhan be operating without her father’s knowledge? And if she is, what does that mean for the brewing war between the families?
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t immediately register the bathroom door opening and closing. But the distinctive click of the lock sliding home has me whirling around.
Siobhan O’Connor leans against the door, looking every inch the predator who’s just cornered her prey. The smile on her face looks friendly, but there’s nothing soft about her. Those green eyes are pure ice.
“Elena Santiago,” she says, my name rolling off her tongue like she’s savoring it. “New York’s most valuable event planner to the criminal elite. Though that’s not all you are, is it?”
My heart pounds but I keep my voice steady. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Please.” Her laugh is musical but holds no warmth. “Don’t insult us both by playing dumb. You’re much more interesting than that.”
She moves closer, the click of her heels echoing off marble. “Mario’s little sparrow, gathering secrets for the exiled DeLuca. Anthony’s latest obsession. And of course”—her smile sharpens—“Bella DeLuca’s trusted best friend. My, my…you do like to play dangerous games.”
Ice slides down my spine. How the fuck does she know about me and Mario? We’ve been so careful.
“The thing about eavesdropping,” she continues casually, “is that you never know what other predators might be watching you while you’re focused on your prey.”
No point denying it. “You knew I was there.”
“Of course I did. Just like I know about the discrepancies you’ve been investigating in the Calabrese shipping records.” She examines her manicure—Louboutin rouge, I notice absently. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. But you’re looking at the wrong pieces of the puzzle.”
“And you’re going to tell me the right ones?” That would be too easy, but I can’t help but ask.
Her smile is all teeth. “Now why would I do that? Although…” She steps closer, and it takes everything in me not to back away. “I will give you some free advice: be very careful which games you choose to play, Elena. Some of them have rules you don’t understand yet.”
“Is that a threat?”
“More like…professional courtesy. After all, we’re not so different, you and I. Both of us trying to prove ourselves in a world dominated by men. Both of us willing to do whatever it takes to claim what we deserve.”
She moves to the door and unlocks it, but pauses before leaving. “Oh, and Elena? When you figure out what’s really happening with those shipping manifests…well, let’s just say I’ll be very interested in what you decide to do with that information.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow sounds like a warning.
I stare at my reflection, noting how pale I’ve gone beneath my perfect makeup. Siobhan O’Connor just confirmed that something bigger is happening—something that connects the Calabreses, the Irish, and God knows what else.
But her warning felt less like a threat and more like…an invitation? A test?
My phone buzzes with another text from Anthony, asking where I am. I take a deep breath, check my lipstick, and straighten my shoulders.
Time to get back to work.
Anthony rises from his table near the window when he spots me, and my breath catches despite myself. He’s beautiful in that polished, privileged way that defines the next generation of Mafia heirs. Nothing like Mario’s dangerous edge or Matteo’s controlled power.
He’s inherited his uncle Johnny’s devastating good looks but none of his obvious cruelty—which somehow makes him infinitely more dangerous. His Brioni suit speaks of refinement rather than flash, and his smile holds just enough warmth to be disarming.
“You look stunning as always,” he murmurs, dark eyes appreciating how the Versace hugs my curves. I allow myself a calculated blush, even as Mario’s warning echoes in my mind: “Be careful with the Calabrese heir. He’s more shark than his uncle ever was.”
But I need this—need the intelligence only Anthony can provide about the Irish mob’s movements, about the whispers of trafficking operations that don’t quite add up.
The ma?tre d’ guides us to an intimate corner table overlooking Madison Square Park. Anthony’s hand rests possessively on my lower back as he pulls out my chair. His dark eyes—almost black in the restaurant’s dim lighting—appreciate my body as I sit.
“I took the liberty of arranging the tasting menu,” he says, adjusting his Calabrese pinky ring—a gesture I’ve noticed he makes when asserting authority. The ring catches the light, eighteen-karat gold with the family crest, a not-so-subtle reminder of his position. “Chef’s adding some special touches just for us.”
“How thoughtful.” I deliberately widen my eyes, playing into his need to impress. “You always think of everything.”
A sommelier materializes at Anthony’s elbow. I watch Anthony’s performance, the way he examines the label of the 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild with practiced expertise. Everything about him is a study in careful cultivation—from his precisely styled dark hair to the perfect cut of his suit.
Even his cruelty is refined, wrapped in layers of sophistication his uncle Johnny never mastered.
“The ’82 is showing beautifully,” he explains, swirling the deep red liquid with practiced ease. “Notes of cedar, graphite, and black currant. Though I doubt you know much about fine wine.”
I hide my irritation behind a practiced laugh. “That’s why I have you to teach me.”
The first course arrives—osetra caviar on a cloud of crème fra?che, dotted with gold leaf.
“The caviar’s from a small producer in Iran,” Anthony explains condescendingly. “We handle their export business, among other things. The Irish have been particularly helpful with certain shipping routes.”
I lean forward, letting my dress dip just enough to be distracting. “That sounds complicated. Dealing with so many international interests.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” He waves away my concern with the casual arrogance of a man who’s never heard the word no. “Though the Irish can be…challenging. Especially now, with their internal politics. Seamus O’Connor’s daughter is making waves, trying to modernize their operations.” He sounds disgusted at the idea.
I file away this confirmation of Siobhan’s activities while pretending to be fascinated by the next course—butter-poached lobster with shaved black truffle.
“You make everything sound so exciting,” I say, letting my hand brush his as I reach for my wine. “Though it must be dangerous, dealing with families like the O’Connors.”
“You don’t need to worry your pretty head about that.” He squeezes my hand patronizingly. “I keep my business interests…carefully segregated.”
The courses flow like the wine—wagyu beef aged for 120 days, duck breast with cherry gastrique, each dish more extravagant than the last. I play my part perfectly, laughing at his jokes, hanging on his every word, while mentally recording every hint about shipping routes and Irish connections.
“The Vietnamese connections are proving particularly lucrative,” he mentions over the cheese course. “Though dealing with multiple ports requires…creative documentation.”
“I can’t imagine managing all those details,” I say, noting the reference to Vietnam—another piece of the trafficking puzzle clicking into place.
“That’s why I have people for that.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Speaking of which, I’m hosting a gathering next week. Several international partners will be there. You should come.”
I recognize the opportunity—and the danger—in the invitation. “I’d love to, but you know how busy I am with events this time of year…”
“Make time.” His tone holds just enough edge to remind me who he is. “I want to show you off.”
The dessert arrives—a gold-leafed chocolate creation that looks ridiculously expensive. Anthony places his hand over mine, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist.
“Would you like to continue this evening at my place?” His dark eyes hold that perfect mix of desire and warmth. “I have an excellent bottle of Macallan 25 I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”
I pretend to consider it, biting my lower lip in calculated hesitation. “Well…I really should be getting home…”
“Please?” He brings my hand to his lips. “I’ve missed you these past few days.”
I give him my best coy smile, ignoring the way my stomach churns at his touch. “Well, when you ask so nicely…”
He signals for the check, never taking his eyes off me. I can feel his security team shifting into position, preparing to escort us to his penthouse. If he notices how my hand trembles slightly as he helps me with my coat, he probably attributes it to anticipation rather than the adrenaline of being so close to information I need.
Let him think I’m just another society girl dazzled by his power and charm. It’s safer that way.
Hours later, in his penthouse overlooking Central Park, I let him think he’s seducing me while memorizing every detail of the papers visible on his desk.
As Anthony’s hands move over my body, his touch is precise, methodical, but somehow detached, as if following a routine he’s done countless times before. He peels off my clothes with efficiency, as though stripping away layers of fabric rather than barriers between us. The way his fingers glide over my skin lacks any spark, any warmth—just a mechanical motion. There’s no tenderness in his gaze, just a calculated focus, as if he’s performing a task that has nothing to do with me.
I try to push aside the thoughts of Mario, but they sneak in like an electric current, reminding me of the connection I crave, the way his texts make my heart race, the anticipation that builds with every word he types.
A single message from Mario sends a surge of energy through me, making my pulse quicken in a way that Anthony’s touch never has.
When Anthony lifts me effortlessly onto his desk, I can’t help but stiffen slightly at the abruptness, the lack of care. The wood is cold against my back, the sharp edges of the desk pressing into my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth I long for. His lips finally find mine, but the kiss is clinical, without the urgency or the heat I yearn for. It’s as though he’s following a script, just another step in a process rather than a genuine expression of desire.
I need this access to Anthony. Three weeks ago, I discovered discrepancies in the Calabrese shipping manifests—luxury clothing imports that didn’t match any known designer’s production schedule, travel agencies with more outgoing flights than incoming ones, modeling contracts that led to dead ends.
The patterns were subtle, but they reminded me of something I’d seen in the DeLuca records before Mario’s exile. The same careful misdirection, the same gaps that looked random unless you knew exactly what to look for.
The Irish mob’s movements are tied to it somehow. Mario’s mentioned the O’Connors have been expanding their operations, but their old-school methods don’t align with the sophisticated financial trails I’ve been tracking.
Someone’s modernizing their approach to human trafficking, hiding it behind legitimate businesses, and I need to know who. The DeLucas would never be involved in trafficking—it’s one of Matteo’s hard lines—but the Calabreses have no such scruples.
I’ve got a job to do—one that might finally prove I’m worth more than just planning parties and playing peacemaker. If only the guilt about betraying Bella’s trust didn’t feel like it was choking me with every fake moan, every calculated arch of my back.
My burner phone buzzes in my discarded clutch. I already know it’s Mario, probably watching through his network of surveillance. Let him watch. Let him see exactly what this game costs.
Anthony’s hands grip my hips, pulling me closer as he enters me with a slow, deliberate force. The world outside of this room fades, and all I can focus on is the lack of heat between us, the rhythm of his movements as he claims me. I try to drown out the lingering thoughts of Mario, but every kiss, every touch from Anthony is an empty echo compared to the wild connection I felt in just a few words from Mario.
I close my eyes, pretending it’s someone else’s touch lighting up my skin. Someone with dangerous grace and knowing eyes, who saw past my perfect facade from the very beginning.
“Some games burn everyone who plays them,” Mario had warned me.
Good thing I’ve always liked playing with fire.