11. Elena
11
ELENA
I wake to unfamiliar sheets that smell like Mario’s cologne. My body aches deliciously, evidence of last night’s desperation mapped across my skin in bruises and bite marks. The safe house is exactly what I’d expect from a DeLuca bolt-hole—floor-to-ceiling windows with bulletproof glass, sleek furniture positioned for optimal sight lines, everything a perfect balance of luxury and tactical consideration.
My mind drifts to that first encounter in Anthony’s study days ago. The way Mario claimed me on that desk, papers scattering like confetti around us. How perfectly right it felt, how completely he consumed me.
I’d slipped back to Anthony’s side afterward, lipstick carefully reapplied, not a hair out of place, playing the devoted mistress while still feeling Mario between my thighs.
“Stay tonight,” Anthony had suggested—ordered, really—his hands possessive on my waist. But after having Mario, Anthony’s touch felt hollow.
“Early meeting tomorrow,” I’d demurred, playing shy. “Rain check?”
Mario was waiting at my apartment, and we’d spent the rest of the night claiming each other against every surface. The kitchen counter, the shower wall, the Italian marble table with its bullet holes—nowhere was safe from our hunger.
Since then, it’s like a dam has broken. We’re insatiable, meeting wherever and whenever we can. His car in underground parking garages, empty offices during charity galas, once in a private box at the opera while the Calabrese family sat unaware in their usual seats below.
I find his shirt on the floor and slip it on, the fabric cool. His scent envelops me—expensive cologne, coffee, that underlying hint of danger that makes my pulse race.
The kitchen doorway frames him like a painting of a fallen angel. Shirtless, dangerous, perfectly at ease as he makes coffee I can no longer stomach.
Scars map his broad back—bullet wounds, knife marks, a burn that spans his left shoulder blade. The scratches I left last night stand out red against olive skin, making something primal surge in my chest.
He turns at my approach, and his eyes darken at the sight of me in just his shirt. I can’t help but stare—he’s all lean muscle and deadly grace, more scars scattered across his chest telling stories I’m afraid to ask about. A tattoo in Italian script curves along his ribs, partially hidden by an old knife wound.
He reaches for a second coffee mug but I shake my head, my stomach already protesting the smell.
His chuckle is low and knowing as he produces a cup of ginger tea instead. “Thought this might sit better, little planner.”
The gesture—so thoughtful, so domestic—creates an awkward tension I hate. We’ve crossed every line imaginable. I’m carrying Anthony Calabrese’s child, betraying my best friend’s family in ways that would get me killed if discovered. And yet…
Mario studies me over his coffee cup, those dark eyes probing beneath my skin. “What?” I ask, defensive.
“Come to Boston with me.”
The teacup nearly slips from my fingers. “What?”
“Not permanently,” he clarifies, something dark flashing in his eyes. “But O’Connor’s breathing down my neck, and I need to handle some business there. You could work remotely for a few days, gather intel on the Irish operations firsthand.”
The practical suggestion doesn’t match the intensity of his gaze. This is about more than intelligence gathering, more than our careful game of strategy.
But admitting that would make this real in ways neither of us is ready to face.
Mario’s hand finds my stomach, the gesture more intimate than anything we did last night. I force myself not to lean into his touch, even as warmth spreads from where his palm rests against me.
“Anthony’s getting suspicious,” he says, his voice low. “He’s been asking questions about where you disappear to.”
God, don’t I know it. Finding excuses not to see Anthony has become increasingly difficult. I’ve stopped sleeping with him entirely—I can’t stomach it anymore, not after Mario. Even if it means losing access to vital intelligence, the thought of Anthony’s hands on me makes my skin crawl.
As if summoned by the thought, my phone buzzes with Anthony’s ringtone. The sight of his name makes bile rise in my throat—or maybe that’s just morning sickness.
I’ve been playing this game for months, letting him think he’s claiming something precious while I steal his secrets. But now…
“Bella’s watching too,” I admit, remembering our encounter at the opera three nights ago.
I’d slipped away from the Calabrese family box, making some excuse about needing air. Mario was waiting in a darkened corridor, and within moments he had me pressed against the wall, thrusting into me while Puccini’s aria soared in the background.
I’d been heading back to the box, still trembling from our tryst, when Bella emerged from the powder room. The look in her eyes stopped me cold.
“Elena?” Those artist’s eyes had taken in everything—my flushed cheeks, the slight disarray of my hair, the way I couldn’t quite meet her gaze. She reached out, adjusting the strap of my dress that had slipped. “What’s going on with you lately?”
I’d made some excuse about feeling warm, needing air, but I saw the understanding in her expression. The hurt. Those eyes that see too much, that understand too well.
She’d grabbed my wrist as I tried to pass. “Whatever you’re involved in with Anthony…please be careful. You can come to me with anything. You know that, right?”
If she only knew.
“Then we need to be more careful.” Mario moves behind me now, his chest solid against my back as his arms cage me against the counter. “No more risks. No more close calls.”
But we both know it’s too late for careful. The evidence grows inside me, a ticking time bomb of complicated loyalties and dangerous choices.
Every day that passes makes it harder to hide—from Anthony, from Bella, from the world. Soon, everyone will know I’m carrying a Calabrese heir. The thought makes panic rise in my throat.
What happens when Anthony finds out? When he realizes I’ve been sleeping with someone else while carrying his child? When Bella discovers I’ve betrayed not just her trust, but her entire family?
The DeLucas and Calabreses have killed for less.
When Mario’s lips hover just behind my ear, I feel a shiver run through me, like electricity crackling between us. His breath is warm against my skin, a soft, steady rhythm that stirs a heat deep inside me. It’s a dangerous thing, how close he is, how easily he seems to ignite something in me that I’ve tried so hard to keep buried.
I want to pull away, to remind myself of the weight of everything that’s at stake, but my body betrays me, leaning into him instead.
The moment his lips press softly to that sensitive spot just below my earlobe, a quiet moan escapes before I can stop it, my chest tightening in response to the intimate caress. His lips move against my skin, featherlight at first, sending waves of heat cascading through my body. He knows exactly where to touch, where to tease, and how to make me forget every damn thing except the feel of him.
I can feel the faint press of his chest against my back, his breath hot and steady in the curve of my neck as his arms tighten around my waist, holding me there. I let myself fall into the moment for just a second, letting his warmth and his touch erase the world around us.
The weight of our lives, the secrets we carry, the betrayals and the choices—they all blur into the background as his lips brush along my skin, sending another shiver down my spine.
His hands tighten, pulling me impossibly closer, his body pressing against mine in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the undeniable chemistry between us. I tilt my head slightly, offering him more of my neck, more of me, feeling the tension build between us with every inch closer he draws me. The warmth of his lips deepens as he kisses me there again, his tongue grazing the soft skin at the curve of my ear.
It’s a slow burn, the kind of touch that makes my pulse race and my breath catch in my throat, reminding me of how easily I’ve surrendered to him.
But even as my body craves more, my mind is at war. Anthony’s claims, Bella’s suspicion—they flash in the back of my mind, haunting me, reminding me of the danger we’re in.
But for now, for this one, stolen moment, I let everything else slip away. It’s just him. Just his lips against my skin, his warmth surrounding me, making everything else feel irrelevant.
Mario’s driver drops me at my apartment building as evening shadows stretch across Fifth Avenue.
The memory of Seamus O’Connor’s voice still echoes in my head from Mario’s earlier phone call, each word dripping with barely contained violence.
“You test my patience, boy,” O’Connor had snarled through the speaker. “I didn’t give you sanctuary just to watch you fucking play house in New York.”
“I’ll be on the next flight,” Mario had replied, his jaw tight. “The situation here needed handling.”
“The only situation you need to handle is the one I’ve assigned you. Or have you forgotten our arrangement? Forgotten who owns you?”
The threat in O’Connor’s voice had made even me shiver. I’d watched Mario’s face darken, his fingers white-knuckled around the phone. For a moment, I thought he might shatter it.
My own phone hasn’t stopped buzzing since this morning. The texts from Anthony grow increasingly demanding:
7:15 AM: Missing you, beautiful. Dinner tonight?
9:45 AM: Elena, at least answer my calls.
11:30 AM: Are you feeling unwell? I can send my doctor.
1:45 PM: This isn’t like you.
3:20 PM: I don’t like being ignored, cara .
4:15 PM: We need to talk about your recent…disappearances.
The last one makes my stomach clench. Bella’s text feels like a lifeline in comparison: Dinner tonight? Just us girls. I feel like I never see you anymore.
I text back a quick yes to Bella but continue ignoring Anthony. I’m not in the mood to deal with him. Maybe the radio silence will give me time to figure out how to handle this growing complexity.
“Good afternoon, Miss Santiago.” The doorman tips his hat—James, who’s worked here for twenty years and still brings me coffee some mornings. I can’t help but smile, remembering Mario’s scathing assessment of my building’s security.
“A blind grandmother with a cane could breach this place,” he growled during one of his recent visits. “The doorman doesn’t even carry a fucking weapon. The security cameras have three blind spots in the lobby alone. And don’t get me started on the service entrance.”
I take the elevator up, my mind already on a hot shower and maybe a nap before dinner with Bella. My feet ache from the Louboutins, and morning sickness has left me exhausted. But when I step out onto my floor, something makes me pause.
A cream-colored envelope lies in front of my door, my name written in elegant calligraphy. No return address. Curious, I pick it up, sliding my finger under the flap.
White powder explodes outward, coating my hands, my clothes, floating in the air around me. A note flutters to the ground:
Enjoying your game with both DeLuca and Calabrese? Ask Sophia how that worked out for her. Some games leave permanent scars.
The powder settles on my skin like a death sentence.