9. Elena
9
ELENA
T he Vitucci mansion glitters like a fever dream, tiered chandeliers casting diamond light across marble floors. I’ve outdone myself with the decorations for tonight’s charity gala—benefiting children’s cancer research, because even Mafia families need good PR. White roses cascade from golden vessels, their perfume making my already queasy stomach roll.
The ballroom could rival Versailles, though I doubt Marie Antoinette had to deal with five different crime families’ security protocols.
My Dior gown—midnight blue silk that falls like water—hides how I’ve lost weight this past week, morning sickness turning every meal into a battle. I look perfect on the outside, even as I’m dying inside.
The specially ordered caviar station nearly made me vomit earlier, and now the scent of five thousand roses isn’t helping.
Anthony, mercifully, is in Singapore closing a deal with potential “investors”—his code for expanding trafficking operations into new territories. His absence feels like being able to breathe properly for the first time in days.
Still, I notice his cousin’s watchful gaze following me from across the room. The Calabrese family never leaves anything unobserved.
The Vituccis have spared no expense—the string quartet plays Vivaldi on instruments worth small fortunes, while waiters circulate with champagne vintages that would make sommeliers weep. Old Andrea Vitucci himself holds court near the grand staircase, his white hair gleaming like his diamond cufflinks as he discusses “import businesses” with the Rossetti underboss.
Both men’s security details maintain a careful distance, close enough to intervene but far enough to pretend this is just another society gathering.
Through the crowd of designer gowns and family crests masquerading as legitimate business empires, I spot Siobhan O’Connor holding court near the champagne fountain. She moves through the space like she owns it, her Alexander McQueen dress a masterpiece of understated power. Old guard captains who would never take orders from a woman bend closer to hear her whispered comments.
She’s modernizing the Irish mob whether her father likes it or not, one perfectly orchestrated social interaction at a time.
The Moretti brothers cluster near the French doors—young Enzo’s hand trembling slightly as he reaches for another drink. Their father’s recent “heart attack” has left them scrambling for control of the family’s gambling operations. The older brother, Carlo, watches the room with sharp eyes while pretending to admire the flower arrangements. His wife Anastasia drips in Van Cleef & Arpels, but her nervous glances toward the Rossetti underboss tell their own story.
Security is a delicate dance tonight. Each family’s personal detail maintains their designated zones—the Vituccis near the main entrance, the Rossettis by the east wing, the Morettis covering the garden access.
I’ve positioned the DeLuca men strategically around Bella, though they’re good enough to make it look casual. The Irish contingent stays close to Siobhan, despite her obvious irritation at her father’s outdated protocols.
My own security team—handpicked professionals who think they’re just protecting an elite event planner—monitor the general space. They have no idea they’re actually running interference between five different Mafia families’ private armies. The art is making it all look effortless, like this is just another charity gala rather than a powder keg of ancient grudges and modern ambitions.
Through it all, I catalog every detail, every interaction. The way the younger Rossetti son’s hand lingers too long on a Moretti cousin’s back. How the Vitucci heir keeps checking his phone while his father negotiates territory lines disguised as property investments. The subtle shifts in alliance and loyalty that play out beneath dimmed lights and classical music.
But even my professional pride in orchestrating this spectacular event can’t quite suppress the constant nausea. Five thousand roses might look stunning, but right now they’re testing every ounce of my self-control.
“Elena!” Bella’s voice cuts through the crowd. She looks radiant in emerald-green Valentino, her baby bump prominent. Matteo hovers nearby in a black Tom Ford suit that makes him look like a model, watching his wife like she might shatter.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Bella says, gesturing to the spectacular decor. “Though I’m not sure the Vituccis deserve your talent.”
“You’re biased.” I smile, noting how pregnancy has given her skin a luminous glow. The emerald dress makes her look like a Renaissance painting come to life. “How are you feeling?”
“If one more person asks me that, I might scream.” Bella rolls her eyes, but her hand instinctively rests on her bump. “Between Matteo and Bianca, I can barely breathe without someone documenting it.”
“We’re concerned,” Matteo’s deep voice joins our conversation. His hand settles protectively on Bella’s lower back. “After the scare last week?—”
“I’m fine,” Bella cuts him off, but leans into his touch. “The doctors said moderate activity is good for me. Besides, Elena’s here if anything happens.”
I feel Matteo’s eyes on me—that calculated DeLuca stare that seems to see through every lie. Instead of looking away, I meet his gaze. Let him look. Let him wonder.
“How’s the security tonight?” he asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “I noticed the Rossettis brought extra men.”
“Everything’s under control,” I assure him, fighting back a wave of nausea as a waiter passes with something that smells like seafood. “The Vituccis agreed to my recommended protocols.”
“Just like Anthony Calabrese agreed to your recommended guest list for his last event?” Matteo’s voice remains pleasant, but there’s an edge beneath it that makes my skin prickle. “Antonio tells me you’ve been…consulting…quite extensively with the Calabrese family lately.”
Bella shoots her husband a warning look, but Matteo continues, his eyes never leaving my face. “Interesting timing, considering their recent shipping expansion. And their newfound interest in Irish partnerships.”
I feel trapped under Matteo’s gaze, the one that can reduce hardened criminals to confessions. But before I can craft a suitable response, a waiter glides past with a tray of stuffed mushrooms in a heavy truffle sauce. The smell—rich and earthy and absolutely revolting to my currently sensitive stomach—hits me hard.
“I need to check on something,” I manage, already stepping back. My mouth floods with saliva in that telltale way. “The florist mentioned an issue with?—”
“Elena?” Bella’s voice holds genuine concern.
“Just a small crisis,” I lie, trying not to gag. “You know how these events are.”
I catch Matteo’s expression as I turn away—thoughtful and dangerous, like he’s assembling a puzzle he doesn’t quite like the shape of.
But I can’t focus on his suspicions right now. Not when my stomach is threatening immediate rebellion.
I flee down the marble hallway, my Louboutins clicking against stone as I search desperately for a private bathroom. Not the main powder room—too many socialites comparing jewelry and sharing gossip. I need somewhere private, somewhere I won’t have to explain why New York’s most sought-after event planner is vomiting at her own perfectly orchestrated gala.
Please, let there be another bathroom. Please, let it be empty.
I barely make it to a private bathroom before violent nausea overwhelms me. My knees hit hand-painted Italian tiles as I retch, each heave making my body shake. The caviar station, the roses, the truffles—everything I’ve been fighting to keep down comes up in painful waves until I’m left with nothing but bile and regret.
When it finally passes, I stay kneeling for a moment, hands trembling as I reach for toilet paper to wipe my mouth. My throat burns, and I can feel cold sweat beading at my temples. The lavish sconces cast merciless light as I slowly pull myself up, using the gold-plated towel rack for support.
My reflection makes me wince. My face is ghost pale except for two fever-bright spots on my cheeks, mascara smudged beneath my eyes. So much for the two hours my makeup artist spent perfecting this look.
“That won’t do,” I murmur. I dig through my Bottega Veneta clutch for lipstick and concealer, determined to salvage what I can of my appearance.
The door opens, admitting three women I recognize from the Rossetti inner circle. Their voices bounce off marble walls as they cluster around the mirrors.
“Did you see Siobhan O’Connor with the youngest Vitale brother?” one stage-whispers, adjusting her décolletage. “That dress must have cost a fortune—way too good for a simple family dinner.”
“Daddy’s money,” another sniffs, reapplying her lipstick. “Though I heard she’s been meeting with Sean Murphy more than business requires, if you know what I mean…”
I resist rolling my eyes as I touch up my own makeup. Their gossip is amateur hour—missing all the actually interesting details about Siobhan’s expanding influence among the younger captains.
The bathroom door swings open again, and the temperature drops ten degrees. Siobhan O’Connor stands in the doorway, resplendent in Alexander McQueen, her smile sharp as a blade.
“Ladies,” she purrs, making the word sound like a death sentence. “Don’t let me interrupt. You were saying something about my dress? Or was it my…business meetings?”
The women freeze like rabbits scenting a wolf. One actually backs up a step, clutching her Hermès bag like a shield.
“Though if you’re so interested in my personal life,” Siobhan continues, examining her manicure, “perhaps you’d like to discuss it with your husbands? I’m sure they’d be fascinated to hear how their wives spend their time spreading rumors about an O’Connor.”
They scatter like startled birds, nearly tripping over their Louboutins in their haste to escape.
Silence falls as Siobhan moves to the mirror beside me. I continue fixing my makeup, hyperaware of her presence. She’s close enough that I can smell her perfume—something exclusive and French.
“That shade of Dior suits you,” she says casually, as if she hadn’t just terrorized three women into fleeing. “Though you’re looking a bit peaked around the edges.”
I meet her eyes in the mirror, my pulse quickening. Siobhan O’Connor doesn’t do casual conversation. Every word from her is calculated, even if I don’t yet understand the equation.
“The hazards of event planning,” I reply carefully, watching her adjust her already perfect lipstick. “Everyone wants everything to be flawless.”
“Flawless,” she repeats, something bitter in her tone. “Like good daughters should be, yes? Perfect little ornaments for powerful men to display.”
Her words hit closer to home than I’d like. I think of Anthony’s possessive touches, the way he parades me at events like a prize thoroughbred.
“Though some of us,” Siobhan continues, turning to face me directly now, “are tired of being ornamental. My father still calls me his ‘little colleen,’ you know.”
Her laugh carries pure ice as she smooths her dress. “Even while I manage half our legitimate enterprises. Men like him and Anthony—they’ll never see us as more than decorative accessories.”
There it is. The real conversation beneath the pretense. I study her reflection carefully. “Then let them underestimate us.”
“Has that worked well for you?” Her smile turns predatory. “Carrying Calabrese’s heir while playing a much bigger game?”
Her words hit me like a blow to the face. The O’Connors know.
It’s bad enough that Mario knows, but if Seamus O’Connor’s daughter knows about my pregnancy…My fingers grip the marble sink before I can stop myself.
Siobhan tracks the movement, a sly smile playing at her perfectly painted lips, and sudden horror washes through me. Had she just been fishing? Did I just confirm her theory with my reaction?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.
“No?” Siobhan’s smile widens. “The way you’re gripping that sink suggests otherwise.”
Another wave of nausea hits, more violent than before. I try to swallow it back, but Siobhan must see me struggling because she makes a thoughtful sound.
“You should probably let yourself vomit,” she says casually. “It’s not good for the baby to fight it, you know.”
The horror spreading through me can’t compete with my rebellious stomach. I barely make it back to the toilet before I’m retching again, my body betraying every secret I’ve tried to keep.
Strong hands gather my hair back, and Mario’s familiar cologne mingles with the metallic taste in my mouth. Of course he’s here. He’s always watching, always one step ahead.
“How”—I gasp between heaves—“did you get past security?” The Vitucci mansion is supposed to be impenetrable. I personally vetted every guard, planned every patrol route.
The British royal family has less protection than this gala.
“You call this security?” Mario scoffs, his fingers cool against my neck. “A blind grandmother with a cane could breach the east garden entrance. Honestly, little planner, I expected better from you.”
I want to kill him for that criticism, but another wave of nausea takes precedence.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I gasp “Your brother?—”
“Is too busy hovering over his pregnant wife to notice me.” Mario’s voice holds none of its usual edge, his fingers stroking down the back of my neck.
“Well,” Siobhan drawls from behind us, “this has been enlightening. Do try to keep your…liaison…discreet. Though I suspect that ship has sailed.”
She pauses at the door. “Oh, and Elena? When you’re ready to have a real conversation about the future of our organizations, you know where to find me. Assuming the morning sickness allows, of course.”
The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a threat.
I rest my cheek against the cold porcelain, my face burning from the combination of vomiting, embarrassment, and fear. “She knows,” I whisper, the words barely audible. “Mario, she knows I’m pregnant.”
His jaw tightens, but his hands remain gentle as he produces a monogrammed handkerchief, the DeLuca crest mocking me with its promise of family loyalty. “Siobhan knowing changes nothing,” he says, though something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “She’s playing her own game.”
“A game where she holds all the cards.” My voice cracks. “If she tells Anthony?—”
“She won’t.” His certainty makes me look up. “Siobhan O’Connor doesn’t waste leverage this valuable on petty revelations.”
He guides me to sit on the marble counter, his hands lingering on my waist. The bathroom’s soft lighting catches the silver at his temples, highlighting his resemblance to Matteo—that same protective instinct barely masked by calculated control.
“The Irish are moving weapons through Anthony’s shipping routes,” I report, trying to change the subject, trying to ignore how his proximity makes my pulse race. “Using the legitimate business as cover for—” Another wave of nausea cuts me off.
Mario’s hand finds my lower back, rubbing slow circles that somehow ease the churning in my stomach. The gesture feels startlingly intimate—more so than any of our heated moments or calculated encounters.
“The baby comes first,” he says quietly. “Before intel, before revenge, before everything.”
“Why?” I meet his eyes in the mirror, seeing something there that makes my breath catch. “I’m just another asset. A way to get information about your brother’s empire.”
His other hand comes up to my neck, thumb brushing my pulse point. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself, little planner?”
“Mario—”
“When are you going to admit that this stopped being just business a long time ago?” His voice drops lower, making heat pool in my stomach despite my nausea. “That maybe there are some games worth losing?”
His fingers brush my stomach, sending electricity through my body. “Some games change the players as much as the rules,” he murmurs, his voice a husky growl.
I turn to face him, our faces inches apart. “And what happens when everyone realizes you’re playing a different game entirely?” I whisper.
The sound of approaching voices and clicking heels in the hallway makes him pull back with a curse. “We’re not done with this conversation.” His dark eyes scan the bathroom before landing on the narrow window near the ceiling. “I’ll find you later.”
“How are you possibly—” But he’s already moving, using the towel rack as leverage to reach the window with graceful efficiency that would be impressive if it weren’t so infuriating.
“By the way,” he adds, pausing at the window, turning his head back just enough so I could see an infuriating smirk on his lips, “tell my brother his security protocols need work.”
Then he’s gone, slipping away like a shadow just as the bathroom door begins to open.
I stare at my reflection, wondering when exactly this game stopped being just about revenge, and why that terrifies me more than anything Siobhan O’Connor might do with her newfound knowledge.
Later, as I coordinate with security about an overcrowded valet situation, I catch Siobhan watching me from across the room.
She raises her champagne glass in subtle acknowledgment before turning back to her father’s business associates. I file away the interaction, knowing every alliance and observation could matter in the months to come.
But Mario’s touch still burns on my skin, and for once, the game feels secondary to something far more dangerous—something that feels disturbingly like hope.