5. Elena
5
ELENA
T he tension between us coils like a serpent ready to strike. Mario’s hand is still clamped around my throat, his grip possessive rather than painful. In the dim light of my apartment, he looks exactly like what he is—dangerous, devastating, and barely controlled.
His pupils are blown wide, turning his eyes almost black. A muscle ticks in his sharp jaw, and his suit can’t hide the predator beneath. He’s beautiful in that distinctly DeLuca way, but where Matteo’s looks are classical, Mario’s features have a rougher edge that makes my pulse race.
I open my mouth to push him further, to see just how far his jealousy will drive him. I want to tell him exactly what Anthony whispered in my ear last night, how his hands felt on my skin, how?—
Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood” shatters the moment. Bianca’s ringtone.
Mario’s grip loosens just enough for me to reach my phone. “B? What’s wrong?” I ask, if not a bit breathlessly.
“Bella’s in labor,” his niece’s voice carries barely contained panic. “Dad’s losing it. We need you at Mount Sinai. Now. Bella needs you.”
My heart stutters. It’s too soon. “How far apart are the contractions?”
“Too close. Elena, please . Dad’s about to fucking tear this place apart, and Bella won’t stop crying about it being too early.”
“I’m on my way. Try to keep your father from terrorizing the hospital staff,” I say hurriedly, already planning my route to the hospital.
“Hurry.”
I end the call and meet Mario’s intense gaze, knowing he heard the entire conversation. “Bella’s in labor. The twins are coming early.”
He releases me immediately, stepping back with fluid grace. We move in perfect synchronization as I head to my bedroom, years of event planning making me efficient even in crisis. I’m already dialing the hospital’s chief of staff—a man who owes me several favors—while letting the red Versace pool at my feet.
“Enjoying the show?” I ask as Mario follows me into the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the space.
“Just making sure you don’t waste time reapplying that lipstick Anthony smeared off.”
My pulse jumps at his tone. I step into a simple black Stella McCartney dress, deliberately ignoring how his eyes track every movement as I quickly fix my hair into a sleek ponytail.
He doesn’t offer to leave, and I don’t ask him to. Instead, he shadows me to my car. His hand reaches the door handle just as mine does, and electricity crackles between us as our eyes meet.
“You can’t come with me,” I say, hating how breathless I sound.
His dark eyes study me for a moment, something dangerous flickering in their depths. “No,” he agrees, voice low and intimate. “But I’ll be watching. I always am.”
He walks away, leaving me unsettled and off-balance—exactly as he intended.
The city blurs past my windows as I drive like a woman possessed. Guilt churns in my stomach, mixing with the remnants of whatever just happened with Mario. Bella trusts me, loves me like a sister, and here I am sleeping with her family’s enemy—the nephew of the man who killed her mother and father—while feeding information to her husband’s exiled brother.
The same brother who once held her stepdaughter at gunpoint.
But it’s more complicated than that. The intelligence I gathered from Anthony last night, combined with what I overheard from Siobhan O’Connor…Something bigger is happening. Something that could destroy everything Bella and Matteo have built.
I take the corner onto Fifth Avenue too fast, my thoughts racing faster than my car. The Vietnamese shipping connections, the Irish modernization efforts, the way Siobhan watches everything from the shadows while her father clings to outdated methods.
And Mario, always Mario, pulling strings I’m only beginning to understand.
The hospital rises before me, its imposing facade a stark reminder of what’s at stake. The twins weren’t supposed to come for another two and a half months. If anything happens to them, to Bella…
The hospital corridor feels endless as I rush toward the maternity ward, my Manolo Blahniks clicking against sterile tiles. Antonio materializes from the shadows, his presence a reminder that even here, the DeLuca empire never sleeps.
He buzzes me through security, and I find the waiting room full of tense DeLucas. Matteo paces like a caged predator, his usual control fractured around the edges.
His tie is loosened, dark hair disheveled from running his hands through it. He looks exactly like what he is—one of New York’s most dangerous men, stripped of his power by something he can’t control.
“Dad, please,” Bianca pleads, her face tight with worry. “The doctors said?—”
“Which room?” I cut in.
“307,” Bianca says, relief evident in her voice. “Thank God you’re here.”
Matteo’s eyes lock onto mine, studying me with an intensity that makes me wonder if he somehow knows about Mario’s visit. But there’s no time to analyze his suspicions.
I find Bella’s room easily, but nothing prepares me for the sight of my best friend in pain. Her face is flushed, those artist’s eyes bright with tears and trust I don’t deserve.
“Elena,” she sobs, reaching for my hand. “It’s too early. The twins—they can’t come yet.”
“Hey, hey.” I squeeze her hand, pushing down my guilt. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’ve got the best doctors in New York.”
“I kicked Matteo out,” she confesses between pants. “He was driving me crazy with his hovering.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Only you would dare kick the great Matteo DeLuca out of anywhere.”
“He was counting my contractions like he was timing a hit.” A weak smile crosses her beautiful face. “I told him if he didn’t stop, I’d name both babies after Mario just to spite him.”
The joke hits too close to home, but I force myself to smile. “That’s my girl. Always knowing exactly where to stick the knife.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers, squeezing my hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Elena. You’re the sister I never had.”
Before guilt can choke me completely, Bella’s face contorts in pain. The monitors start screaming, and suddenly the room is full of doctors and nurses.
Matteo bursts in, his face thunderous, but I barely notice.
A nurse practically shoves me out of the room as more medical staff rush in. My whole body trembles as I lean against the wall, praying to a god I stopped believing in years ago.
Please, not Bella. Not the babies. Not when I haven’t had the chance to make things right.
The sound of medical equipment and urgent voices continues to filter through, muffled but no less frightening.
My heels seem to mock me now, their confident click-click against the linoleum floor transformed into something uncertain and faltering. The hallway stretches before me like a tunnel, its fluorescent lights casting everything in that particular shade of hospital green that makes even the healthy look sick.
A janitor’s cart stands abandoned near the wall, the smell of industrial cleaner mixing with the ever-present antiseptic that seems to seep from the very walls.
I pass Room 305, where a young mother cradles her newborn, her family’s soft cooing and congratulations drifting out. Room 306 holds another woman in labor, the rhythmic beeping of fetal monitors a stark reminder of what’s at stake.
Each step feels like walking through water, my body moving on autopilot while my mind races with possibilities I can’t bear to consider.
A nurse hurries past, her scrubs brushing my arm, and I press myself against the wall to let her pass. The contact jolts me back to awareness—to the weight of my phone in my jacket pocket, to the way my hands won’t stop trembling, to the copper taste of anxiety in my mouth.
I realize I’ve been biting my lip hard enough to draw blood.
I continue walking, each step a reminder of how far away I am from being able to help. I’m good at solving problems, at making things happen, at pulling strings and calling in favors.
But here, in this sterile corridor with its too-bright lights and whispered prayers, none of that matters. I can’t plan or manipulate or scheme my way out of this. I can only walk, one foot in front of the other, back to where Bianca waits.
A cleaning cart squeaks past, and I catch my reflection in its metal surface—my carefully applied makeup still perfect, my black dress unwrinkled, my ponytail sleek and professional. I look exactly like what I am: someone playing a part, wearing clothes made of designer labels and perfect poise.
Someone whose best friend is fighting for her babies’ lives while carrying the weight of too many secrets.
The waiting room appears ahead, its uncomfortable chairs and old magazines a tableau of suspended anxiety. Bianca’s figure comes into view, and the sight of her—so young, so scared, trying so hard to be strong—makes my chest ache. She looks up as I approach, and I force my face into something resembling composure.
For all her attempts at being a hardened DeLuca, right now she’s just a terrified eighteen-year-old. Her clothes—the Saint Laurent leather jacket she probably borrowed from Bella’s closet—can’t hide how young she looks huddled in the uncomfortable hospital chair.
“What’s happening?” Her voice cracks. “I heard the monitors, and Dad…I’ve never seen him move so fast.”
I can’t lie to her. Not about this. “There were complications. The monitors started screaming, and?—”
“No.” Bianca covers her face with trembling hands. “Dad can’t lose them. He can’t lose Bella.”
She looks up at me, suddenly seeming so young. “You don’t understand, Elena. I’ve never seen him like this—happy, actually happy . Our house finally feels like a home.” Her voice catches. “It finally feels like I have a real family.”
Tears well in my eyes, but I blink them back. My phone buzzes with a text from Anthony: Missing you already. Dinner tomorrow? I have something special planned.
I ignore it, irritation flaring. Like I care about his plans when my best friend could be losing her babies.
“I’m getting us coffee,” I declare, needing to feel useful.
Bianca stares at me, as if unable to comprehend the sentence I just uttered. “The coffee here is shit,” she finally manages to get out.
“I don’t care,” I respond, marching away.
The fluorescent-lit hallway stretches endlessly, the squeak of nurses’ shoes and beeping monitors creating a symphony of anxiety. I pass other dramas unfolding—worried families huddled in corners, doctors delivering news both good and bad, a young mother crying over a newborn. The sharp scent of antiseptic can’t quite mask the underlying smell of fear.
I find the coffee machine and quickly pour us two cups in white Styrofoam containers before walking back, keeping my eyes straight ahead.
Bianca accepts the terrible coffee wordlessly. Now we wait.
I pull out my phone, needing distraction. An encrypted email catches my eye—communications between Sean Murphy and several major fintech companies that my tracking algorithm flagged.
Interesting.
He’s been meeting with legitimate banking institutions, discussing blockchain integration and digital payment systems. There are references to Singapore accounts, cryptocurrency wallets, everything needed to move millions without leaving a trace.
These aren’t just modernization efforts; they’re a complete overhaul of how the Irish handle their money. If Murphy succeeds, it could change everything about how we track their operations.
No wonder Siobhan trusts him so completely.
Time crawls by until finally, after what feels like years, Matteo emerges. His tie is completely undone now, hanging loose around his neck. I’ve never seen New York’s most feared don look so utterly drained. The invincible Matteo DeLuca suddenly seems…human.
Bianca and I jump up simultaneously.
“Bella?” I ask weakly, my heart pounding.
“She’s stable,” he says, voice rough. “They stopped the labor. She’ll need to stay a few days for observation, then strict bed rest until she’s closer to term.”
Bianca launches herself at her father, sobbing into his chest. The relief flooding through me is so intense I have to grip the chair to stay upright.
But the hollow feeling in my chest won’t leave. The weight of secrets and lies suddenly feels suffocating.
“I need air,” I mumble, already moving toward the exit.
Mount Sinai’s garden is one of those hidden Manhattan treasures, tucked away from the chaos of Fifth Avenue. Stone pathways wind between carefully maintained beds of roses and hydrangeas, their blooms stubbornly holding on despite the chill in the air.
A small fountain trickles nearby, its gentle sound almost masking the city noise beyond the hospital walls.
I find a quiet corner near a cluster of white roses, letting the evening air clear my head. The sun is setting behind the hospital building, painting the garden in soft golds and lengthening shadows. For a moment, I try to sort through the tangle of emotions choking me—relief about Bella and the twins, guilt about my deceptions, that electric tension with Mario that won’t leave my skin.
Movement catches my eye as I drift deeper into the garden. Of course he’s here. Mario leans against one of the garden’s stone pillars, cigarette smoke curling like accusation in the air.
I should be surprised to see him, but I’m not. He’s always watching, always one step ahead.
“Playing the devoted friend?” His tone holds something almost gentle. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of how complicated loyalty becomes when you’re betraying the people you love.
“She trusts me,” I whisper, the words tasting like ash. “They all trust me.”
Except maybe Matteo.
Mario’s laugh rings hollow as he stubs out his cigarette. “Trust is weakness in our world, little planner. You know that better than most.” But when he moves closer, his hand coming up to cup my face, there’s nothing weak about the electricity that surges between us. “The question is…do you trust me?”
The kiss that’s been building between us all evening hovers like smoke in the air. I lean forward, drawn by that magnetic DeLuca pull I’ve been fighting for months. His breath fans across my lips, and?—
“Elena?” Bianca’s voice cuts through the garden like a blade. “Dad’s asking for you. Something about the security protocols…”
I step back from Mario as if burned, straightening my jacket with hands that don’t quite shake. His knowing smile follows me back into the hospital, a promise or a warning of what’s to come.