10. Mario
10
MARIO
I should be halfway to Boston by now. O’Connor’s been blowing up my phone for hours, and Siobhan’s cryptic text sits like poison in my inbox: Congratulations on the impending addition to the DeLuca dynasty. Though I suppose it’s technically the Calabrese line that’s being continued…
Fucking Siobhan. Always too clever for her own good.
Instead of dealing with the Irish mess, I’m in Elena’s apartment. The city lights paint patterns across her floors, and I find myself counting the minutes until she returns, like some lovesick fool instead of the exiled son I’m supposed to be.
The lock turns, and Elena enters—still in that midnight blue Dior that makes her look like something out of a Raphael painting. All that pale skin against dark silk, her blonde hair coming loose from its elegant twist. Even exhausted from tonight’s performance, she moves flawlessly.
She doesn’t startle when she sees me, which somehow makes me want her more. “I assumed you’d be here,” she says, moving through her apartment like I’m just another piece of expensive furniture.
But I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she removes her diamond earrings.
“Help me with my zipper?” she asks over her shoulder, challenge clear in her voice.
I’m across the room before she finishes speaking. My hands find her back, fingers splaying across silk-covered skin. The zipper becomes a test of control—how slowly can I drag it down when everything in me wants to tear the dress apart?
The only sound is metal teeth parting and Elena’s breath catching as my knuckles brush her spine. She’s not wearing a bra, and the knowledge makes my blood heat.
“Careful,” she whispers as the zipper reaches the small of her back. “This dress is worth?—”
“I’ll buy you another one.” The silk parts like water under my hands, revealing inch after inch of pale skin. She’s playing with fire—we both are. My little planner, flying too close to the sun like Icarus, thinking her wax wings will hold.
The Calabreses will burn her just like they burn everything they touch. Just like I burned everything when I went after Matteo.
Her hands are the only thing keeping the dress from pooling at her feet. She turns slowly to face me, and something in my chest tightens. In this light, her eyes are more gray than blue, like storm clouds gathering. Even under her perfect makeup, I can see the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose—a reminder that beneath all her perfection, she’s still so young, so human.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, betraying how affected she is by my proximity.
“End it with Anthony Calabrese,” I say, my voice low and controlled despite the rage building in my chest. “It’s too dangerous, especially now that you’re”—I can barely force out the words—“carrying his child.”
One perfectly shaped eyebrow rises. “My, my…is the great Mario DeLuca jealous?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I step back, needing distance from her intoxicating presence. “You reminded me yourself—you’re an asset. And I need to ensure my assets are protected.”
Pain flashes across her face before ice replaces it. The look makes me feel like I’ve kicked a puppy—a new and distinctly unwelcome sensation.
“I’ve never taken orders from men before,” she says, voice arctic. “I don’t plan to start now. In fact, I’m attending a Calabrese family function tomorrow night. As Anthony’s special guest.”
Red clouds my vision. “Playing the whore suits you then?”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to catch them, stuff them back down my throat. Elena’s face crumbles for just a second before hardening into something terrible and beautiful.
“Get out.” Her voice could chill the sun.
“Elena—”
“What’s wrong, Mario? Worried your little asset is getting too close to the enemy?” She lets the dress fall slightly, revealing more skin. “Or worried that Anthony might not be the only one I’m playing?”
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I snarl, advancing on her. “You think Anthony won’t notice how often you study his papers? How convenient it is that you always need to fuck him in his office?”
“At least he doesn’t treat me like a chess piece,” she snaps.
“No, he treats you like a broodmare!”
Her hand cracks across my face. The slap echoes in the silence.
“Get. Out,” she says through gritted teeth.
“Gladly.” I move to the door but pause with my hand on the knob. “Just remember, little planner—when Anthony Calabrese shows you exactly who he is, don’t come crying to me. You chose this game.”
Her laugh is bitter music as she shakes her head, pieces of her golden hair moving in sync. “No, Mario. You chose it for me the moment you approached me outside my office. Now live with the consequences.”
I leave before I can say something else I’ll regret, but her words follow me into the night. She’s right—I set this game in motion. I just never expected to care who got burned
Manhattan spreads out beneath the safe house windows like a glittering chess board. The penthouse takes up the entire top floor of an unmarked building in Tribeca—all steel and glass and strategic sight lines.
No paper trail connects it to me, just like none of my properties have my name attached. Giuseppe taught us that lesson early: always have somewhere to hide that even family can’t find.
I stare into my coffee, black and bitter like my thoughts. I should be in Boston, dealing with O’Connor’s latest demands, but Elena’s apartment keeps pulling me back. The way her face crumbled before freezing over. The cruel words I can’t take back.
My phone rings. I answer without checking, still lost in memories of silk and skin and regret.
“Getting comfortable in New York?” Seamus O’Connor’s brogue turns the words into a threat. “Because last I checked, you fucking work for me in Boston.”
Goddammit. “I’m handling?—”
“You’re handling fuck all except your brother’s event planner.” Ice crackles in his voice. “Need I remind you who owns your debt, DeLuca? Who gave you sanctuary when your own blood cast you out?”
My grip threatens to shatter the coffee mug. “I remember.”
“Good. Then you’ll remember our arrangement. I need you back in Boston. Tonight. I have a job that requires your…particular insight into the DeLuca operations.”
“My brother’s security?—”
“Your brother’s security is precisely why I own you, boy. Or have you forgotten what happened the last time you tried playing both sides?”
The call ends, and rage explodes through me. The coffee mug shatters against the wall, dark liquid running down imported wallpaper like blood.
Fucking O’Connor, acting like he owns me. Like I’m still that desperate exile who showed up in Boston five years ago, burning with hatred and nowhere else to go.
But Elena’s words from last night echo louder than O’Connor’s threats: “I’m attending a Calabrese family function tomorrow night. As Anthony’s special guest.”
I can still see her standing there, dress barely held up by trembling hands, throwing those words at me like weapons. And they hit their mark—the thought of Anthony’s hands on her, of him parading her around his family like some prize, makes me want to burn his whole empire to the ground.
My phone buzzes. A text from Dante: Let me know when you want the jet.
I hit dial. “I need you to get me into the Calabrese function tonight,” I bark the moment Dante answers.
“Boss.” Dante’s voice holds carefully neutral concern. “O’Connor expects you back?—”
“O’Connor can fucking wait.” I move through the safe house, past the weapons cache hidden behind steel panels, toward the bedroom where a fresh suit awaits. “I have unfinished business here.”
“The event planner?”
Fucking Dante being too fucking perceptive for his own goddamn good.
“Get me the security details for the Calabrese estate.” I start laying out what I’ll need—a ceramic knife that won’t trigger metal detectors, garrote wire thin as silk. “Guest list, patrol routes, everything.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.” A pause. “Or worse, get her killed.”
“Just get me what I need.” I study my reflection as I knot my tie. “And Dante? Make sure my return ticket to Boston isn’t traceable. Wouldn’t want O’Connor getting any ideas about tonight’s…detour.”
“This is suicide.” But I hear him already typing. “The Calabreses have tripled security since Johnny’s death. Even the waiting staff are vetted?—”
“Then I guess we better make sure my credentials are impeccable.” I check the knife’s edge. “Send everything to my secure phone. I’ll be dark after 8 p.m.”
“Mario…” Dante rarely uses my first name. “Is she worth it?”
I think of Elena’s face when I called her a whore, of her trembling hands and steel spine. Of how she matches me move for move in this deadly game we’re playing.
“Just get me in, Dante. I’ll handle the rest.”
I’ve survived prison, exile, and Giuseppe DeLuca’s particular brand of lessons in control. But watching Elena play her role at this Calabrese gathering tests every ounce of that hard-won restraint.
Anthony parades her through the crowd like a prized thoroughbred, his hand possessively splayed across her bare back. Every touch, every whispered word in her ear is a calculated display of ownership.
Look what I have , his every gesture screams. Look who shares my bed .
She wears light blue silk that falls over her curves, the color making her look ethereal under the ornate chandeliers. The dress is a masterpiece of suggestion—modest from the front but dipping dangerously low in the back, leaving an expanse of creamy skin exposed to Anthony’s wandering hands.
Her bare arms are elegant, shoulders touched golden by late summer sun. She moves like a goddess among mortals, all dangerous curves and intentional elegance.
Getting into the Calabrese mansion was almost insultingly easy. A service entrance with lazy guards, security cameras with predictable blind spots—it’s almost amusing how these so-called crime families have gotten soft. The DeLuca exile slipping in right under their noses.
The mansion itself is exactly what you’d expect from new money trying to look old—marble everything, gold leaf dripping from coffered ceilings, artwork chosen for price tags rather than taste. Chandeliers bigger than cars hang over a ballroom that could fit a small army. Which it practically does tonight—for a “family function” there must be a hundred people here, all dripping in diamonds and designer labels.
I stick to the shadows near carved columns, watching. Always watching. Elena moves through the crowd like she was born to this world, but I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her smile never quite reaches her eyes. Anthony keeps her close, touching her constantly—a hand at her waist, fingers trailing down her spine, lips brushing her ear.
My teeth grind as she laughs at something he whispers, tilting her head to give him better access to her neck. He takes the invitation, nose skimming her bare shoulder in a gesture that looks intimate but feels possessive. Playing the besotted lover while his hands mark his territory.
The crystal tumbler in my hand cracks. Every touch, every false laugh, every moment she lets him claim her makes my blood boil. This is the game we chose—the game I taught her to play. So why does watching her excel at it feel like swallowing broken glass?
Through the crowd, I watch Elena lean close to Anthony, whispering something that makes him smile indulgently. Then she’s moving away with practiced grace, her blue silk dress a beacon in the gaudy splendor of the Calabrese mansion.
I follow, keeping to shadows, my feet silent on highly polished floors—another of Giuseppe’s lessons serving its purpose. Elena moves with purpose down ornate hallways, past Renaissance paintings probably bought with blood money, beneath sconces that cast her shadow in duplicate.
She stops at a heavy wooden door, glancing both ways before reaching beneath the neckline of her dress. My breath catches as she withdraws a key from God knows where. The lock clicks and she slips inside like a ghost.
I count to ten before following.
She’s alone in what must be Anthony’s study, her fingers dancing over file folders with practiced efficiency. “You shouldn’t take such risks,” I growl, emerging from the shadows.
Elena jumps, her body tensing as she spins to face me, her fingers freezing mid-motion over the stack of folders. Her eyes, wide with alarm, narrow as recognition replaces fear. Her chin tilts upwards, defiant even now.
“My condition is exactly why I can take these risks,” she counters, but there’s a tremor beneath her usual bite. Her gaze flickers to the space behind me, calculating exits, always ten moves ahead.
“And what the fuck are you doing here?” she snaps, though her voice loses its edge as I close the distance between us. “Shouldn’t you be back in Boston, wagging your tail for O’Connor?”
I ignore the jab, stopping just short of touching her. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Close enough to catch the faint notes of her perfume. “You shouldn’t take such risks,” I repeat, softer this time, the words laden with something I can’t quite name.
She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “Anthony would never suspect?—”
My control snaps like a wire under too much tension. Her words are cut off as I reach for her, unable to hold back another second. My hands close around her arms, pulling her to me, and my lips crash against hers with a ferocity that shocks even me.
There’s nothing restrained about this kiss, nothing calculated. It’s fire and desperation, need and fury, and she meets it all with equal force.
Her fingers twist in my hair, nails dragging deliciously across my scalp, and a low growl escapes my throat as I press her back against Anthony’s desk. The edge cuts into her hips, but she doesn’t seem to care—if anything, she arches toward me, her gasp soft and breathless against my lips. It’s all the invitation I need.
I grip her thighs, sliding my hands up beneath the silky fabric of her dress, relishing the warmth of her skin beneath my palms. Papers cascade to the floor in a chaotic flurry as I lift her onto the polished wood.
Her legs hook around my waist with a desperate urgency, pulling me close, her body molding to mine as if it’s where she’s always belonged. The scent of her—floral and faintly spiced—clouds my senses, and I’m lost.
“Tell me to stop,” I rasp, my lips brushing her ear before trailing down her jawline, tasting the salt of her skin. My mouth lingers on her throat, where her pulse flutters like a trapped bird, and I press open-mouthed kisses to the column of her neck.
Her response is immediate, a breathless command that sends a thrill through me. “Don’t you dare,” she whispers, her voice low and ragged, nails digging into my shoulders. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”
Her words ignite something feral in me. My hands slide higher, exploring the soft curves of her hips, her waist. With one sharp tug, her dress slips upward, pooling around her hips and baring her to my touch.
Fuck me. She’s not wearing underwear. The sight of her, disheveled and waiting, is enough to nearly unravel me.
Her hands work frantically at my shirt, pulling it free from my waistband. The scrape of her nails across my bare skin sends fire racing down my spine, and I groan as her palms flatten against my chest, exploring me with the same need I feel coursing through my veins.
The room fills with the sound of our mingled breaths, quick and shallow, and the whisper of fabric as it’s shed in haste. Her skin is soft beneath my hands, impossibly warm, and I take my time mapping every inch of her, savoring the way she gasps, the way her body moves beneath mine.
Elena moans and tips her head back which is all the encouragement I need. I yank her dress up even higher before removing it entirely, leaving her completely naked in front of me. Her body is flush with arousal and her nipples harden even further under my gaze.
She lets out a shuddering gasp when my hands return to her breasts. She arches her back, which has the unintended—but not unfortunate—side effect of pushing her breasts further into my hands. Bowing my head to her chest, I lavish hot, open-mouthed kisses on her body, starting on her sternum before moving towards her left breast.
“Mario,” she whimpers.
I have mercy on her, blowing over her sensitive nub before taking it into my mouth. The sharp contrast between the cool air of Calabrese’s office and my mouth causes Elena to cry in pleasure. I hum in approval at the noise, the animalistic side of me wanting to hear exactly what I’m doing to her.
The pleasurable sounds. The cries. The screams. I want to hear how good I am making her feel. Her hands find their way into my hair. One hand grips and tugs to make sure my mouth stays where it is, while her free hand strokes the hairs at the nape of my neck.
But that’s not allowed. I’m in charge. Growling, I reach out for her wrists, grabbing them and roughly pinning them against the desk.
To my delight, she is immediately pliant.
Satisfied, I gently scrape my teeth along her hardened nipple, from base to the tip. The shuddering gasps and moans of my name make it clear that she likes this. I detach my mouth from her left breast, kissing across her chest to lavish equal attention on its neglected twin.
My hips begin subconsciously rutting against the edge of the desk. Every pleasurable sound Elena makes goes straight to my dick, and I need some fucking relief.
But I hold myself back. I’m not fourteen anymore. I don’t want this to end before it even begins.
Elena protests when my mouth leaves her body altogether. She looks at me, her chest heaving, her erect nipples gleaming.
“Why did you stop?” she demands.
I smirk before forcing her legs open, leaving her utterly exposed to my hungry eyes. My fingers lightly dance around her thighs and lower stomach, always dancing closer to where she clearly wants me, but never quite there.
“Mario!” Elena gasps, her hips thrusting up.
I can’t resist my fingers taking an occasional teasing swipe at her clit, causing her to hiss in pleasure. Eventually, I stop my teasing as my right hand fully cups her entrance. I watch as she begins grinding herself against my hand, the heel of my hand providing the right amount of pressure and pleasure where it’s needed the most.
Elena spread her legs wider, exposing herself more to me. “Mario,” she exclaims in breathy moans, telling me that I was doing everything exactly right.
Slowly, I slip my index finger into her, groaning at the way she clenches around me straightaway. Fuck, she feels like heaven. Her hips move in time with me, guiding me. I curl my finger, teasing her G-spot and making her moan at the pleasure.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she pants, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the top of the desk. “Mario, please !”
Listening to her plea, I slide another finger inside of her. I take in the moans and gasps she releases as my fingers play her like a violin, moving deeper, finding spots that drive her fucking wild.
“Fuck, Elena, that’s it,” I groan when I feel her clenching around my fingers. “That’s it.”
But before she comes, I remove my fingers from her. I want—no— need to taste her. The scent of her arousal overwhelms my senses. I softly nip at her inner thighs before moving my mouth to where we both want it.
My tongue laps at her clit, tasting her juices, making me moan in pleasure at her taste. I close my lips around her clit, sucking gently.
“Mario!” Elena gasps again, her hips grinding against my mouth. “I’m going to—I’m going to?—”
With a shuddering cry, Elena’s thighs clench around my head, trapping me against her as she rides out her high. I work her through her climax, lapping at the bit of wetness that escapes. When she collapses against the desk, I carefully withdraw my fingers, sucking the leftover juice off them.
I will never get enough of her taste. I already want more.
Shedding my pants, I allow my aching cock to spring free. Elena leans up against her elbows, her eyes glittering as she takes me in.
I smirk. “Like what you see?”
Instead of answering me, she yanks me forward, capturing my lips in a searing kiss. I press the tip of my cock against her entrance and she moans again, grinding her hips against me in a way that makes me curse.
“Don’t fucking tease me,” she snarls against my mouth. “I need you.”
Those three words do me in— I need you .
When I finally enter her, the sound she makes is pure surrender—a broken cry that echoes through the dimly lit office, carving itself into my memory. I bury my face in the curve of her neck, my own restraint shattering as she meets me thrust for thrust, her body rising to mine like a wave cresting over and over again.
Her nails score my back, her legs tightening around me as if she’s afraid I’ll disappear, and the intensity of it all—the heat, the desperation, the way she moans my name like a benediction—drives me closer to the edge.
“Don’t stop,” Elena whimpers. “Faster, Mario. Faster!”
My hips stutter as I find a faster, more furious pace. The desk creaks and groans from the magnitude behind my thrusts. I feel and hear the telltale signs that she is approaching another orgasm. Her moans and cries become more and more pronounced.
Each movement feels like a claim, a vow made in the language of bodies, and I’m consumed by her—by us—until nothing else exists.
Grabbing her hand, I guide it down between us, growling, “I want to see you touch yourself.”
Elena moans at my command, immediately moving her hand further down to where we’re joined.
So much for her claim that she’s never taken orders from a man before.
I look down, watching as her slim fingers tease and rub her clit in time with my thrusts. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I hiss before I tug her back, causing Elena to fully arch under me as I mark her skin, claiming her as mine.
“Mario, I…” Elena’s voice cuts off with a cry, her body shuddering.
“Come for me, baby,” I growl into her ear. “Let me feel you.”
That is the permission she seemingly needs. Her whole body begins to shake as her orgasm overtakes her. Her legs tighten around me as I continue thrusting into her, seeking my own release. When it happens, I capture her lips in a kiss, my thrusts becoming sloppier as I ride out my high.
Afterward, the quiet hums with something heavy, something dangerous. I help her off the desk, helping her put her dress back into place, but my gaze lingers on the curve of her neck, the faint flush on her cheeks, the marks I’ve left behind.
She smooths her lipstick with a trembling hand, and her eyes meet mine in the dim light, sharp and unrelenting.
“This changes everything,” I say roughly, the words tasting like a vow as they leave my lips.
Her hand drifts to her stomach—a gesture that feels like a knife to the gut—and her laugh is soft, humorless. “Everything changed the moment you noticed me outside my office,” she murmurs, her voice calmer than it has any right to be.
She steps closer, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment before pulling away. “The question is…are you ready for what comes next?”
Her words hang in the air between us, a challenge, a promise, and I know—there’s no going back.