12. Mario
12
MARIO
I stare out the jet’s window, rage building with every mile between Elena and me. Who the fuck does Seamus O’Connor think he is, summoning me like some errand boy? I’m Mario fucking DeLuca. I had Manhattan crime families trembling at my name before O’Connor ever offered his “sanctuary.”
The memory of owing anyone anything burns like acid in my throat. Five years ago, I needed O’Connor’s protection, his resources, his connections. But I’ve more than repaid that debt with blood and loyalty.
Now he treats me like a trained dog, expected to come running at his whistle.
My hands itch for a gun, for the satisfaction of violence. Instead, I watch Boston’s coastline emerge through clouds, its old money mansions and historic architecture a poor substitute for New York’s grandeur.
Everything about this city feels like exile—which, I suppose, was the point.
The car waiting on the tarmac delivers me straight to the O’Connor compound in Beacon Hill. The mansion sprawls across two acres of prime real estate, its red brick walls rising three stories behind wrought iron gates that could stop a tank.
Where the Calabreses flaunt their wealth with gaudy excess, the O’Connors hide theirs behind historic preservation and old-world sophistication. Guards patrol the immaculate grounds in tailored suits that barely conceal their weapons, while state-of-the-art security cameras track every movement from behind classical cornices.
The driveway curves past manicured gardens where I know landmines are buried beneath prize-winning roses. The garage alone could house thirty cars, though Seamus prefers to display his vintage collection in a separate building that used to be a carriage house. Everything about the compound screams old money, old power, old blood.
Patrick Lynch materializes in the marble foyer like the fucking cockroach he is. O’Connor’s second-in-command stands just under six feet, but his bantam rooster attitude makes him seem smaller. That perfectly styled red hair and those cold green eyes—so like his cousin Seamus—broadcast his family connection, while the expensive suit can’t quite hide his dockworker’s build.
A badly healed broken nose mars what might otherwise be handsome features, a souvenir from his days running protection rackets on the waterfront.
“Finally decided to grace us with your presence?” His accent is thick with disdain. “The Boss has been waiting.”
“Careful, Patrick.” I smile, letting him see the violence behind it. “Wouldn’t want to test my patience today.”
“Big man in New York, were you?” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of expensive scotch on his breath. “Playing house with your brother’s event planner while real work needs doing?”
My hand finds his throat before he can blink. “Say another word about her and they’ll never find all your pieces.”
Lynch jerks away, straightening his tie with shaking hands. A bruise is already forming where my fingers dug in, but his eyes still glitter with satisfaction. He knows he’s struck a nerve.
“The Boss is waiting in his study.” His smirk widens as he rubs his throat. “Try not to keep him waiting any longer…lackey.”
The word hits like a slap. Five years I’ve spent building my own power base here, making myself indispensable to O’Connor’s operation. Yet this dock rat still sees me as an outsider, a servant called to heel.
My fingers itch to show him exactly how sharp this dog’s teeth are.
But O’Connor’s waiting, and even my rage has limits. For now.
I adjust my Brioni tie before entering the lion’s den. Seamus’s office hits me with a wall of whiskey and Cuban cigar smoke, the scents as much a power play as the room itself. Dark wood panels line walls that have witnessed a century of violence disguised as business. A Monet hangs above a fireplace that’s seen more evidence burned than it has logs.
Seamus sits behind a desk that probably belonged to some British lord before finding its way here through bloody means. He looks exactly like what he is—a predator playing at civility. His steel-gray hair is perfectly styled, but his cold eyes hold all the warmth of a shark’s.
But it’s Siobhan who commands my attention. She perches on the edge of her father’s desk like a cat who’s found the cream, and something in her expression sets my teeth on edge.
I told Elena that Siobhan wouldn’t reveal her pregnancy, but watching that calculating smile, I’m less certain. Siobhan O’Connor is a loose cannon—the kind you can’t read until it’s too late. At least with Seamus, the violence is predictable.
I take a seat in one of the leather chairs facing the desk.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to sit, DeLuca,” Seamus growls.
I shrug, deliberately casual. “My feet are tired from all the running I do at your command.”
“Your little planner is proving quite interesting,” Siobhan drawls, tossing surveillance photos across her father’s desk. Elena entering doctor’s offices. Us in a compromising position against my car. Anthony’s men watching her from unmarked vehicles. Another of Anthony’s tongue down Elena’s throat, his hand cupping her ass.
That one makes my vision blur red.
“Pregnant with Calabrese’s heir while feeding you information. Quite the ambitious little thing, isn’t she?”
I keep my expression neutral even as my self-control splinters in my chest. “Elena’s involvement is tactical,” I say smoothly. “A means to an end.”
“Is it?” Siobhan’s smile turns cruel as she circles the desk. “Because our sources say Anthony’s not the only one sharing her bed these days.”
She moves closer, all elegance and deadly intent. “The question is…are you compromised, Mario? Letting a pretty face and clever mind distract you from our arrangement?”
“Enough games,” Seamus cuts in, his voice like gravel. “You’re here because you’ve forgotten your place, boy. Forgotten who owns your debt.”
“I’ve more than repaid any debt?—”
“You’ve repaid when I say you’ve repaid!” Seamus’s fist crashes against the desk. “The DeLuca empire falls. That was our deal. Instead, you’re fucking your brother’s event planner while my interests in Manhattan suffer.”
“ Your interests?” I can’t help but laugh. “Or your daughter’s? I hear the younger captains are quite taken with her…modernization efforts.”
Siobhan’s eyes flash. “Careful, Mario. Elena isn’t the only one who can disappear in this city.”
“Touch her and?—”
“And what?” Seamus’s smile is terrible. “You’ll break our arrangement? Go running back to the brother who exiled you? Whose wife has permission to put a bullet through you if you return? Or to the Calabreses who’d love to mount your head on their wall?”
He leans forward. “You’re mine, boy. Have been since you crawled to Boston with your tail between your legs. The only question is whether your little bitch pays for your disobedience.”
My hands curl into fists, but it’s Siobhan’s interest that truly terrifies me. I recognize that look in her eyes—the same one Johnny Calabrese wore before destroying his toys. That particular gleam of anticipation, like a child who’s found a new doll to dismember.
Her smile holds too many teeth, and those cold green eyes study Elena’s photos with the focused intensity of someone imagining all the ways to take something apart. It’s not just cruelty—Johnny had that in spades—it’s the clinical fascination of someone who wants to understand exactly how much pressure it takes to break something beautiful.
The look says: I could destroy this, and I’d enjoy learning how.
“The DeLucas will fall,” I say carefully. “You have my word.”
“Good.” Seamus sits back, seemingly satisfied. “Because if they don’t, Elena’s pregnancy might meet an unfortunate end. Tragic, really, how delicate women can be in their condition.”
It takes everything in me not to reach across the desk and tear his throat out.
I grit my teeth and nod sharply. Seamus dismisses me with a wave, like I’m some fucking errand boy instead of the man who’s kept his Boston operations running smoothly for five years.
But I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m outmatched. As an exile, I have no family backing, no one to avenge me if I disappear into Boston Harbor.
Patrick Lynch waits in the hallway, that fucking smirk still on his face. “How’s the leash feel, DeLuca?”
My control snaps. My fist connects with his jaw before he can blink, the satisfying crunch of bone worth whatever consequences come. “Fuck you, you Irish piece of shit.”
Back in my office overlooking the harbor, I try to focus on work, but rage keeps my hands shaking. I text Elena: Check in. Now. Then: Answer your fucking phone.
Nothing.
Growling, I shut the phone in my desk drawer. Boston’s gray skyline offers no comfort as I stare out the window, imagining all the ways I could make O’Connor pay for his threats.
The door opens without a knock. Siobhan stalks in, but she’s different now—gone is the arrogance from her father’s office. Now she vibrates with barely contained fury, her composure cracked around the edges.
“What the fuck do you want?” I growl, not in the mood for her bullshit.
“What the fuck was that?” she snarls, stalking to my desk. I barely recognize this version of Siobhan. Gone is the polished predator from her father’s office. Her perfectly styled red hair is slightly disheveled, like she’s been running her hands through it. That arrogant mask has cracked, revealing something raw and desperate underneath. “Bringing up my modernization efforts to my father? Are you trying to get me killed ?”
“Bit dramatic, even for you.” I lean back, studying how her hands shake slightly. Something’s off here. “Fair’s fair, especially since you told Daddy Dearest about Elena’s condition.”
“You fucking idiot!” She slams her hands on my desk hard enough to scatter papers. “You’ve put everything at risk—my life, Sean’s life—because you can’t keep your goddamn mouth shut!”
I shrug, uncaring. “Not my problem if daddy doesn’t approve of your little power plays.”
“Little power plays ?” She laughs, but it holds an edge of hysteria. “You think this is about impressing my father? About proving myself?”
She runs a hand through her hair, further destroying its perfect style. “This is about survival, you arrogant prick. About dragging this organization into the modern era before we all end up dead or in prison.”
“What’s so important about your modernization that’s got you this scared, Siobhan?” I ask, curious. I’ve never seen Siobhan like this before.
Her face goes carefully blank, but not before I catch real fear in her eyes. “Get fucked.”
My phone buzzes in the drawer. Probably Elena finally responding, but I’m not about to check with Siobhan here.
A terrible smile spreads across her face, and just like that, she’s transformed again—terror replaced by vicious satisfaction. “I wouldn’t expect that to be Elena,” she coos.
My head snaps up. Something shifts in her expression—that clinical fascination returning, but now mixed with something almost gleeful. Like she’s grateful for the distraction from her own fears.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask tightly, my heart hammering.
One perfectly sculpted red eyebrow rises. “You don’t know?” Her voice drips with false concern. “And here I thought you kept such close tabs on your… asset . All those careful arrangements, all that meticulous planning, and you still can’t protect what’s yours.”
I’m across the room in two strides, my hand around her throat as I pin her to the wall. “What the fuck did you do to Elena?”
Instead of fear, she digs her nails into my hand until I release her, drawing blood. “Poor Elena was whisked to the hospital an hour ago.”
She straightens her Prada blazer, looking far too delighted. “Seems you haven’t taught her proper security protocols. Opening strange envelopes like a rookie…” She tsks. “Especially when they’re filled with what appears to be anthrax.”
Siobhan’s words are like a slap to the face. Anthrax? Elena? The baby…
“You—”
“Oh no, not me.” She moves toward the door, that mask of controlled calculation sliding back into place. “I have much bigger concerns than your girlfriend. But perhaps if you’d kept your mouth shut about my operations, I might have warned her about the envelope.”
She pauses at the door. “Funny how actions have consequences, isn’t it?”
I’m frozen, unable to speak.
“Frightening how quickly some toxins can affect pregnant women,” Siobhan adds with a cruel smile before shutting the door behind her.
I nearly break the desk drawer yanking it open, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grab my phone. Please let her be lying. Please let this be another one of her fucking mind games.
But the buzzing notification wasn’t Elena. Just a fucking spam email about dick pills.
“No, no, no…” The word becomes a growl as I dial Elena’s number.
Straight to voicemail.
I try again. And again.
Nothing.
Anthrax. The word echoes in my head.
With trembling fingers, I call Dante. I don’t even wait for him to say anything. “Get the jet ready. Now.”
“Boss?” Confusion colors his voice. “O’Connor made it crystal clear?—”
“I don’t give a FUCK what O’Connor made clear!” The roar tears from my throat as I sweep everything off my desk. Glass shatters. Papers flutter. “Get the fucking jet ready. I’m going back to New York.”
Dante sucks in a deep breath. “Mario, he’ll kill you?—”
“Permanently.” The word comes out like a death warrant. “I’m done being O’Connor’s bitch. Done playing these fucking games. Get the jet ready or I’ll fly commercial.”
There’s a long pause as Dante tries to make sense of what I’m saying. “Mario, what happened?”
“Elena…” My voice cracks. “Someone sent her anthrax. She’s…I need to?—”
“Fuck.” Dante understands immediately. “I’ll have the jet ready in forty minutes. But Boss? This means war with O’Connor.”
I think of Elena opening that envelope. Of the baby growing inside her. Of all the ways I’ve failed to protect them both. “Let them come.”