4. Mario
4
MARIO
T he surveillance photos spread across my desk like evidence of betrayal. Elena leaving Anthony’s penthouse, that red Versace now wrinkled in ways that tell their own story.
Her perfectly styled hair is mussed, lipstick smeared just enough to confirm what happened behind those penthouse doors.
In one photo, she’s adjusting the strap of her dress where it had clearly been hastily fixed. Another shows Anthony’s hand on her lower back as he escorts her to the waiting car, his fingers splayed possessively against the silk.
Something dark and primitive rises in my chest. The desire to fly to New York and put a bullet between Anthony Calabrese’s eyes is almost overwhelming.
I know this was the plan—hell, I encouraged her to gather intel through whatever means necessary. But seeing the evidence, imagining his hands on her…
A knock at my door breaks through the red haze of my thoughts. “What?” I snarl.
Dante Moretti enters, managing to look both perfectly put together and casual in his Armani suit. My most trusted enforcer since my exile, he’s the only one who knows the full scope of my plans. He’s objectively handsome—all sharp angles and dark eyes—but I couldn’t care less about that right now.
“Your brother has increased security around the DeLuca compound,” Dante reports. “Isabella’s due date is getting closer.”
“How touching.” I shuffle the photos into a folder, but not before Dante catches a glimpse.
“The Calabrese heir seems quite taken with your asset,” he remarks wryly.
I shoot him a warning look. “What else?”
“Had to handle a situation with one of O’Connor’s men. Got too curious about our shipping operations through Boston Harbor.” Dante’s casual tone belies the implications. “He won’t be asking questions anymore.”
I nod approval, but my mind is still on the photos. On Elena in Anthony’s arms.
Another knock. This time it’s my lieutenant—one of O’Connor’s picks, which irritates me on principle. His presence is a constant reminder of my tenuous position here in Boston.
“The Irish want confirmation about the shipping routes,” he drones in that nasally voice I’ve grown to fucking hate.
“Get me the jet.” I’m already reaching for my coat. “Tell O’Connor I’ll handle it personally.”
My lieutenant splutters. “But Mr. O’Connor specifically requested?—”
“Get. Out.” I snap, and the glacial tone of my voice is enough to get the lieutenant to flee the room.
The private airfield is quiet at this hour, late fall wind whipping across the tarmac. My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing with messages from O’Connor’s people, but they can fuck themselves. I have more pressing matters to handle.
As we reach cruising altitude, I start reviewing intelligence reports on my tablet. Something catches my eye—a pattern in Sean Murphy’s movements that I hadn’t noticed before.
Over the past three months, he’s been making regular trips between Boston and Singapore, always staying at hotels known for their discreet handling of cryptocurrency transactions.
The timing aligns perfectly with large transfers moving through shell companies I know Siobhan controls.
I pull up older reports, comparing them with what I already know about Siobhan’s attempts to modernize the O’Connor empire behind her father’s back.
Sean isn’t just managing her shadow accounts—he’s building an entire parallel operation. Digital banking, crypto transfers, legitimate tech companies that could launder millions without leaving a trace.
If Seamus ever discovered the full scope of what his daughter’s planning…
The implications are fascinating. Siobhan’s not just trying to modernize—she’s preparing for a complete takeover. Sean Murphy isn’t merely her trusted captain; he’s the architect of her future empire.
Which makes him either a valuable ally or a dangerous loose end.
“We’re beginning our descent into New York, sir,” the pilot’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
I know I’m playing with fire coming back to New York. Matteo’s warning was explicit: stay the fuck away or face consequences. But Elena’s games with Anthony Calabrese have pushed me past caring about my brother’s threats.
I look out the window as the familiar skyline comes into view. Something in my chest tightens at the sight. New York. My city. My home.
Not that fucking mausoleum in Boston where Seamus O’Connor plays at being king.
The lights of Manhattan glitter like scattered diamonds in the darkness. Each borough, each neighborhood holds memories—both the ones I cherish and the ones I’ve spent years trying to forget.
Somewhere down there, Elena is probably still with Anthony, playing her role perfectly while gathering intel that could destroy us all. The thought makes my hands clench.
My driver is waiting when I deplane, the black SUV’s engine already running. Let Matteo’s spies report my movements. My brother’s threats mean nothing compared to the game Elena’s playing.
“The Midtown route,” I tell the driver. Then, because I’m feeling particularly reckless, “Actually no. First, go past the DeLuca compound.”
We drive through the city I still know better than my own heartbeat. Every street corner, every building holds echoes of who I used to be. Before exile. Before betrayal. Before I became the monster my brother always feared I would.
We leave the city and head towards the suburbs where old money rises with its stone walls and security gates.
The compound appears through the trees—Matteo’s fortress, where he plays happy family with his wife and unborn twins. Where Bianca probably still has nightmares about the warehouse where I held her at gunpoint.
The memory triggers another, older and sharper: being eight years old, Giuseppe’s latest “training session” about to begin.
“Family tradition,” Giuseppe said, his gold rings catching the light as he checked the ropes binding us to our chairs. The basement air was thick with fear and anticipation. “Every DeLuca son must learn to escape any situation. To survive any trap.”
Matteo sat in the chair next to mine, his face already set in that determined expression I’d grow to hate.
He was better at this—always had been. His fingers were longer, more nimble. He could work the knots faster.
“First one free gets this.” Giuseppe held up a thick envelope. “Second one…” His smile was cruel as he pulled out his belt. “Well, we need motivation, don’t we?”
The ropes were tight enough to cut off circulation. Professional knots, the kind Giuseppe learned in his less legitimate business dealings. I worked them until my wrists bled, but Matteo was already slipping free.
Always fucking Matteo, perfect son, perfect heir.
The belt came down and I didn’t scream. I never screamed. But later, in the darkness of the basement where losers spent the night, I promised myself that one day I’d make them all pay.
“Weakness must be burned out,” Giuseppe would say while training us. The bruises and broken bones were lessons, he claimed. Making us stronger. Better. Worthy of the DeLuca name.
But somehow, it was always Matteo who earned that worthiness. Matteo who got the praise, the rewards, the recognition. I got the basement, the belt, the constant reminder that I was second best.
We return back to the city and the car drops me at Elena’s Upper East Side building—all prewar luxury and old money pretension. The doorman’s too easy to get past; I’ll have to talk to her about security. The lobby’s Mediterranean stone floors reflect the glittering chandelier, wealthy residents in designer clothes barely sparing me a glance.
They have no idea a predator walks among them, wearing civilized clothing like a costume.
In the elevator, I study my reflection in the mirrored walls. I look like them, in my custom suit and Italian leather shoes. But underneath, I’m still that boy in the basement, turning pain into power, weakness into weapon.
But I see what they don’t—the street fighter Giuseppe DeLuca carved out of his bastard second son through blood and pain.
The elevator opens onto Elena’s floor. The hallway stretches out in elegant cream and gold, plush carpeting muffling my steps. Her door is ridiculously easy to breach—Giuseppe’s lessons still serve their purpose, even if thinking about him makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
Inside, the faint smell of Chanel No. 5 assaults my senses. My mother’s signature scent, before she decided being Giuseppe DeLuca’s mistress wasn’t worth the consequences and abandoned her bastard son to his tender mercies.
The legitimate Mrs. DeLuca—Matteo’s precious mother—had made sure I never forgot my place. The whore’s son. The mistake. Right up until the day of her “tragic accident.”
Giuseppe and Matteo never figured out who had tampered with her brakes. They blamed another family, launching a war that reshaped New York’s underworld.
By the time Sophia appeared in our lives, the blood had barely dried.
The apartment is exactly what I expected from surveillance photos—vast and bright, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Swedish furniture in cool grays and blues, original signed fashion photographs on the walls.
Very Elena—elegant but with hidden edges.
The Italian marble dining table catches my eye, specifically the bullet holes marring its surface. A souvenir from Johnny Calabrese’s failed attempt to use Elena as leverage.
Shame Bella got to him first—I would have made his death so much more creative.
I run my finger over the chips in Elena’s marble table, remembering how Matteo’s first wife had looked at me with the same contempt as his mother. Like mother, like daughter-in-law.
Both of them so certain of their position, their superiority.
Both of them equally dead.
I pour myself a drink from Elena’s bar and settle in to wait. Twenty minutes later, I hear her key in the lock.
She freezes when she spots me, but recovers quickly. Always so composed, my little planner.
“You’re supposed to be in Boston,” she says, kicking off her Louboutins, her toes grounding her into the floor.
“And you’re supposed to be gathering intelligence, not fucking the enemy.” The words come out harsher than intended, betraying an emotion I refuse to name. Anthony’s cologne still clings to her skin, making my fingers itch for a trigger.
Her blue eyes narrow at my tone, that brilliant mind already calculating my response. Understanding dawns in her expression, followed by something that looks dangerously like satisfaction.
“Jealous, Mario?” She moves closer, all feline grace and deadly perception. “I thought that wasn’t part of our arrangement.”
I catch her wrist before she can retreat, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Elena. Anthony Calabrese isn’t just another society playboy. If he discovers what you’re really after?—”
“Then what?” She doesn’t pull away, and the heat between us crackles like a live wire. “Isn’t that exactly what we want? For them to underestimate me? To see just another ambitious society girl?”
Her free hand comes up to trace the scar on my shoulder—the one my sister-in-law’s bullet left. “After all, isn’t that how you taught me to play with the big shots?”
Silence.
“You want to know what I learned last night?” Her voice drops to a whisper, taunting. “About the Vietnamese connections? About what your Irish friends are really planning?”
I snarl, pushing her against the wall before I can stop myself. “You have no idea what game you’re really playing, Elena.”
“Don’t I?” Her smile is razor-sharp. “Anthony was very…informative after a few drinks. He had quite a lot to say about the O’Connors. About Seamus’s daughter. About you.”
My hand tightens on her wrist. “Careful.”
“Or what?” She leans closer, her breath ghosting across my lips. “You’ll punish me? Like Giuseppe punished your mother? Like you punished Matteo’s?—”
I catch her throat with one hand before she can finish that sentence. “You’re playing with fire, little planner.”
“Good.” Her pulse races under my palm, but her eyes are triumphant. “I was starting to think Boston had made you soft.”
Her words hit their mark. She knows exactly how to push my buttons, how to use my hatred of exile against me. Just like she knows mentioning my mother, mentioning Matteo’s mother, will make me lose control.
The jealousy churning in my gut is a weakness Giuseppe would have beaten out of me.
But then again, Elena has always had a way of making me forget my careful controls.