6. Mario
6
MARIO
T he hospital garden fades into background noise as I watch Elena disappear back inside, her Stella McCartney dress a flash of black against institutional white. The ghost of her skin beneath my palm lingers—soft but electric, like everything about her. The cool air carries a bite that does nothing to cool the heat she left behind.
Her scent stays with me too, something expensive and subtle that makes my blood heat. Not Chanel No. 5, thank fuck. She’s too smart for that particular mistake. Too smart to wear the same perfume as half the society wives in Manhattan, the same scent my mother wore.
Elena’s is something uniquely her own—lavender and danger and promises she’ll probably break.
I shouldn’t still be here. It’s too risky, too close to the family that cast me out. But something about the way she almost kissed me keeps me rooted in place. Even through the hospital’s tinted windows, I can imagine her now—smoothing my brother’s ruffled feathers about security protocols while hiding how her hands still tremble from our almost moment.
Ever the efficient event planner, even with her pulse racing beneath her perfect facade.
A security guard passes nearby, his eyes sliding over me without recognition. Good. I paid enough to ensure the hospital’s head of security would conveniently forget to patrol certain areas of the hospital. The same way Elena ensures certain guest lists mysteriously change at the last minute, certain conversations happen in exactly the right places.
A flash of memory hits me hard: another hospital, another night. Twelve-year-old Bianca unconscious in a warehouse, my gun pressed to her temple.
The weight of the Glock 19, the smell of sea salt from the shipping containers, the way her small body felt so fragile against my chest.
Giuseppe would have been proud of how steady my hand was.
The look in Matteo’s eyes when he found her in that shipping container—that mix of rage and terror that proved blood meant nothing compared to chosen family.
My own brother was ready to put a bullet between my eyes to protect a child that wasn’t even his.
The same look I saw in Elena’s eyes tonight, watching Bella trust her completely while knowing she’d betrayed that trust a thousand times over.
Fascinating, really. As much as Elena plays the game, she’s still soft inside. That guilt will eat her alive if she’s not careful. I felt no such remorse holding Bianca at gunpoint. Giuseppe taught us early that sentiment was weakness, and for once, the old bastard was right.
Our father made sure both his sons understood that power was the only currency that mattered.
Matteo rejected those lessons. Found himself a new family, built something almost legitimate. But I learned them too well, carved them into my bones along with the scars from Giuseppe’s cigars and belts.
Time to leave while I have the chance. The O’Connors will be expecting updates, and Matteo’s security has probably already reported my presence. Let my brother rage about territorial violations—I have more pressing concerns. Like how Elena’s skin felt beneath my touch, how her breath caught when I moved closer…
Fuck. I need to focus. The Irish situation is getting complicated, especially with Siobhan’s quiet rebellion against her father’s methods.
Seamus O’Connor clings to tradition while his daughter builds something new in the shadows.
Smart girl. Smarter than her father realizes.
And Elena’s intelligence about Anthony’s shipping operations suggests something bigger brewing beneath the surface.
The Vietnamese connections, the cryptocurrency movements, the way certain accounts keep linking back to Singapore…It’s all connected, if I can just see the fucking pattern clearly.
Numbers and codes dance behind my eyes—blockchain transactions, shipping manifests, bank accounts that appear and dissolve like smoke. Somewhere in that digital maze is the key to everything Siobhan’s building.
I cut through the hospital’s service corridor, muscle memory keeping me away from security cameras. The smell changes from antiseptic to motor oil and concrete dust as I approach the parking structure. My Italian leather shoes make no sound on the utilitarian flooring—a habit ingrained since childhood.
Giuseppe might have been a bastard, but he taught us well: silence is survival.
The garage entrance yawns before me, a cathedral of concrete and fluorescent light. The evening shift is ending, creating a steady stream of medical staff heading to their cars. Perfect cover.
I blend in with practiced ease, just another shadow among many. The garage holds that particular cocktail of urban scents—exhaust fumes, dried oil stains, the metallic tang of emergency stairwells, and underneath it all, that peculiar damp concrete smell that all parking structures share.
A doctor’s Range Rover chirps as it’s locked. An ambulance siren wails in the distance. The sounds echo off concrete pillars, creating a symphony of urban white noise. Level P2 is quieter, the lights spaced further apart, creating pockets of darkness perfect for someone who doesn’t want to be seen.
That’s when I catch the movement—a flash of black fabric, the whisper of expensive heels.
Elena.
She glides like silk through the shadows, seeking refuge between two concrete pillars. Even here, in this utilitarian space, she carries herself like royalty. The emergency lights cast blue-white shadows across her face, turning her into something almost otherworldly.
I adjust my stride, making each step silent despite the concrete floor. An art perfected in warehouse raids and midnight executions, now used to stalk a different kind of prey. But it doesn’t matter how quiet I am—she’s already sensed me. I watch her spine straighten, her shoulders squaring in that familiar way. Like a queen preparing to pass judgment, even with her back turned.
The distance between us crackles with electricity. She doesn’t move, doesn’t turn, but I can see the slight tension in her neck, the way her fingers curl at her sides.
Prey recognizing predator.
Or maybe predator recognizing predator—with Elena, it’s hard to tell sometimes.
My little planner, who plays both sides so perfectly. Even now, probably calculating angles and exits, weighing risks and rewards. I’ve watched her do this dance for months through surveillance photos and encrypted messages. But nothing compares to watching her in person, especially when she thinks she’s alone.
“You should be in Boston,” she says without turning, but her voice holds none of its usual control. The slight tremor betrays her—desire or fear or both.
With Elena, it’s always both.
I almost smile. Such bravado from my little planner, especially after our confrontation in her apartment, after our moment in the garden. The memory of her throat beneath my palm makes my fingers itch to touch her again.
“You shouldn’t be playing games you can’t win.” I move closer, drawn by that magnetic pull that’s been building since she first caught my eye outside her office. Back when she was just an event planner, before I recognized the predator behind her perfect smile.
“Anthony Calabrese, the Irish mob, my brother’s empire—you’re juggling lit matches, little planner.”
She spins to face me then, and the fire in her eyes steals my breath. Gone is the polished professional who manages New York’s elite. This is the real Elena—dangerous and desperate and so fucking beautiful it hurts.
“I learned from the best,” she spits, closing the distance between us. Her perfume hits me again, mixing with the lingering scent of hospital antiseptic. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? Someone on the inside, someone they’d never suspect?—”
I cut her off with a kiss that’s been six months in the making.
There’s no preamble, no hesitation—just pure, raw need. Our lips crash together like a storm breaking, her sharp gasp swallowed by my hunger. It’s not gentle; it’s a battle of dominance, all teeth and tongue and unspoken emotions that have simmered for too long.
Her lips are soft but unyielding, matching me stroke for stroke, her hands fisting in my hair as though she’s as desperate to taste me as I am to devour her.
I press her against the cold concrete wall, the unforgiving surface contrasting with the blazing heat between us. Her gasp sends a shiver down my spine, but I’m too far gone to slow down. My hands slide down to her hips, gripping them tightly as though she might vanish if I let go. The expensive fabric of her dress clings to her curves, moving against my skin as I explore every inch of her.
She tastes like cheap hospital coffee, the kind you choke down just to survive, but beneath that, there’s a flavor that’s all her own—dangerous and addictive, like the sharp sting of whiskey on a cold night. Something primitive in me roars at finally claiming what I’ve been watching for so long. Her body fits against mine perfectly, all soft curves and sharp edges.
When I bite her lower lip, dragging my teeth slowly across the plump flesh, she moans, a low, throaty sound that echoes in the empty space around us and nearly undoes me. Her nails dig into my scalp, sending sparks of pleasure-pain through me as she pulls me impossibly closer, her body molding against mine like we were made for this moment.
Her legs shift, brushing against mine, and I take the hint, lifting her effortlessly until her thighs are wrapped around my waist. She gasps against my mouth, her chest heaving as I press into her, pinning her firmly in place with the weight of my body.
My lips trail fire along her jawline, down the column of her throat. Her pulse thrums beneath my tongue, wild and frantic, matching the pounding of my heart. I drag my teeth against her skin, not hard enough to mark but enough to leave her trembling. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, pulling me closer, as though she can’t bear even an inch of distance between us.
“Elena,” I growl against her skin, the sound rough and unrecognizable even to myself.
Her fingers tug me back up, and our mouths collide again, fiercer this time, more desperate. Her lips are swollen now, her taste darker, richer, like something forbidden. The rhythm of our kiss turns chaotic, a mess of tongues and teeth and ragged breaths, but neither of us cares.
Her body arches into me, her curves pressing against every hard edge of mine. I grip her tighter, my fingers tracing the curve of her waist and the dip of her spine, committing her to memory as though I could forget. She moans again, softer this time, a sound that vibrates through my chest and sets my nerves on fire.
When we finally break apart for air, she’s a mess of contradictions—her cheeks flushed, her perfect ponytail disheveled, strands falling around her face like a halo. Her eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with desire, and her lips—those perfect lips—are kiss-swollen and glistening.
“This wasn’t part of the plan,” she manages, but her body betrays her as she pulls me closer.
My laugh is dark against her throat. “Plans change, little planner. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
She shivers as I nip at her pulse point, her heart racing beneath my lips. This woman, who plays both sides so perfectly, who manipulates everyone around her with calculated grace, comes undone so beautifully under my touch.
The taste of her, the feel of her body against mine, the way she responds to every touch—it’s better than any intelligence she’s ever gathered, more valuable than any territory we might claim. Her hands clutch at my shoulders as I trail kisses down her neck, each gasp a victory.
This wasn’t part of my plan either, but plans are made to be broken. And Elena Santiago might just be worth burning everything down for.
She pulls back slightly, those intelligent eyes studying my face. Looking for lies, for manipulation, for the game beneath the game. “Your brother will kill us both,” she whispers, but there’s a hint of excitement in her voice. The same thrill I hear when she passes along classified information, when she plays both sides against the middle.
“My brother,” I murmur against her skin, “has forgotten what real power looks like.” I capture her lips again, softer this time but no less hungry. “But you haven’t, have you, little planner? You see exactly what’s coming.”
Her hands slide inside my jacket, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. “The Irish modernization, Anthony’s shipping routes, Siobhan’s quiet coup…” She gasps as I nip at her ear. “It’s all connected.”
“Smart girl.” My fingers trace patterns on her hip, and she shivers. “But you’re missing one piece of the puzzle.”
She pulls back, eyes sharp despite her swollen lips and messy hair. The strategist replacing the lover, just like that. “What piece?”
I smile against her throat, breathing in that intoxicating scent. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
A car door slams somewhere in the garage, the sound echoing off concrete walls. Elena tenses beneath my hands, reality crashing back. We break apart slowly, reluctantly, like magnets fighting their natural pull.
She smooths her dress, fixes her hair with practiced efficiency. Within seconds, she’s put herself back together—the perfect event planner, trusted confidante to New York’s most dangerous family.
Only her lips, still swollen from my kisses, betray what just happened.
“I should get back,” she says, voice steady now. “Bella will be asking for me.”
I step back, letting her slip past. But I catch her arm at the last moment, pulling her close one more time. “Watch your back with Anthony,” I murmur against her ear. “He’s not as stupid as he pretends to be.”
She pulls away with a smile that promises trouble. “Neither am I.”
I watch her walk away, heels clicking against concrete, back straight and head high. My little planner, playing both sides like a virtuoso. The taste of her lingers on my tongue, a reminder of promises we’ll both probably break.
The garage feels colder without her. I light another cigarette, watching the smoke curl in the fluorescent light. Somewhere above us, my brother paces hospital corridors while his wife fights for their unborn children.
Somewhere in Boston, Siobhan O’Connor plays her own dangerous game. And somewhere in Manhattan, Anthony Calabrese thinks he’s about ten steps ahead of everyone else.
Let them all play their games. I’ve got the only piece that matters—the queen who can move in any direction she chooses.
The only question is whether Elena will burn everything down herself, or if I’ll have to do it for her.