13. Elena
13
ELENA
T he hospital room is sterile white and oppressively quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. I close my eyes, but all I can see is that white powder settling on my skin like death made tangible.
The last three hours replay in my mind like a nightmare. The powder exploding outward, coating my hands, my clothes, floating in the air around me. The note fluttering to the ground. My hands shaking so badly I could barely dial 911.
“Please,” I begged the operator, my voice breaking. “I’m pregnant. There’s white powder everywhere.”
What followed was like something from a disaster movie. First responders flooding my building within minutes. The screech of sirens, the flash of emergency lights turning Fifth Avenue into a carnival of red and blue. Men in hazmat suits materializing in my hallway like astronauts, their voices muffled behind protective masks as they ordered me not to move, not to touch anything.
“Try not to brush off the powder,” one had instructed while another took photos. “Keep your hands away from your face. Breathe normally.”
Breathe normally. Right. With potentially lethal powder coating my skin and a baby to protect.
James the doorman’s face had been ghost white as they evacuated the building. “Miss Santiago…” he’d started to say, but hazmat-suited figures had pushed him back. I watched my neighbors being hurried out—the hedge fund manager from 12B still in his silk pajamas, the society widow from 9A clutching her Pomeranian.
All of them staring at me like I was already dead.
The ambulance ride felt like a blur of terror and clinical questions. Paramedics in protective gear asking about my medical history, my pregnancy, any symptoms. “How far along are you?” one had asked, her eyes kind behind her mask.
“Ten weeks,” I’d whispered, tears finally breaking free. “Will my baby…?” I couldn’t finish the question.
Now, hours later, that fear claws at my throat. If this is anthrax, what does that mean for my child? The doctors speak in careful terms about “monitoring the situation” and “preventative antibiotics,” but I see the concern in their eyes when they look at my chart.
“Is there anyone we should call? Family?” A nurse asks me.
Mario’s face flashes in my mind immediately. My hand actually twitches toward my phone before I stop myself. I can’t call him. Not with O’Connor’s threats hanging over his head. If he comes rushing back to New York, Matteo will know within hours. The DeLucas have eyes everywhere—in hospitals, police stations, even emergency dispatch.
One call to Mario could be his death.
“Ms. Santiago?” The nurse prompts gently. “Perhaps Mrs. DeLuca? We have her listed as your emergency contact.”
My throat tightens. Bella would come immediately, dropping everything to be here. But she’d bring Matteo’s protective fury with her, and then would come the questions—about the envelope, about the note mentioning Sophia.
Questions I’m not ready to answer. Questions that could get us all killed.
As for my biological family…I cut them off years ago. They’re dead to me, just like I’m dead to them. The nurse’s suggestion about contacting them almost makes me laugh. They wouldn’t come anyway.
“No,” I manage. “There’s no one to call.”
The lie tastes bitter, but it’s safer than the truth. Safer than admitting I’m carrying Anthony Calabrese’s child while sleeping with his enemy. Safer than explaining why someone might want to send me anthrax in the first place.
The nurse’s expression holds pity as she notes “No family contacts” in my chart. If she only knew that my real family is too dangerous to involve. That the people I love most are the ones I have to protect by staying away.
My hand drifts to my stomach. Somewhere inside me, a child grows—a child who might already be in danger because of my choices, my games, my lies. Tears slip down my cheeks before I can stop them.
For the first time since I started playing this dangerous game, I feel truly alone.
My solitude lasts exactly twenty-eight minutes before Bella bursts through the door like an avenging angel, Matteo’s tall frame filling the space behind her. My heart plummets.
Of course HIPAA means nothing when your best friend is married to one of New York’s most powerful men.
“Elena!” Bella rushes forward, her face pale with worry. “Why didn’t you call me? Are you okay? Have the test results?—”
“Don’t.” Matteo’s command stops her inches from my bed. His eyes never leave my face, cold and calculating. “Step back, piccola . We don’t know if it’s anthrax yet.”
“I feel fine,” I say quickly, hating how my voice shakes. “No symptoms. It’s probably nothing?—”
“Anthrax symptoms can develop over days.” Matteo’s tone is icy. “Sometimes weeks.”
Bella wrings her hands, and guilt churns in my stomach. “The doctors are running tests,” I tell her. “But really, I’m okay.”
“What I want to know,” Matteo cuts in, moving to stand at the foot of my bed, “is why someone would target my wife’s best friend with a biological weapon.”
The question hangs heavy in the air. I force myself to meet his gaze. “I don’t know.”
“No?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then perhaps you can explain how they got past your building’s security. Or why you didn’t immediately call us when you arrived at the hospital.”
“I didn’t want to worry anyone?—”
“Bullshit.” The word cracks like a whip. “You’re hiding something, Elena. The only question is what.”
“Matteo,” Bella warns, but he continues.
“First the disappearing acts. Then the missed calls. Now this?” He leans forward, his hands gripping the bed rail. “What game are you playing?”
My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he can hear it. “No game,” I manage. “I was just…scared.”
“Elena.” Bella’s voice is soft, hurt. “We’re family. You should have called us.”
Family. The word feels like a knife twisting in my chest. If they knew about Mario, about the baby, about all my lies…
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and at least that’s not a lie. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Matteo studies me for a long moment. “Antonio,” he calls, and his captain materializes in the doorway. “Post guards. No one in or out without my approval.”
“That’s not necessary—” I start, panic rising.
“It wasn’t a suggestion.” Matteo’s tone brooks no argument. “Someone targeted you, which means they targeted my family. Until we know why, you don’t leave our sight.”
The words feel like a prison sentence. Or a death warrant, if Mario tries to come to me now.
The doctor returns hours later with results that make my knees weak with relief. Not anthrax—just powdered sugar mixed with chalk dust. A scare tactic, not a death sentence. I nearly burst into tears.
“Follow up with your primary care physician,” he says, carefully not mentioning my pregnancy. “But you should be fine to go home.”
“She’ll be coming home with us,” Matteo interjects smoothly. “For monitoring and safety.”
“Like hell I will.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “I’m going to my own home.”
Matteo’s expression could cut glass. “That wasn’t a request, Elena.”
“And that wasn’t an acceptance, Matteo,” I respond coolly.
The doctor looks between us, clearly sensing the mounting tension. “I’ll…just get those discharge papers ready.” He practically runs from the room. Coward.
A knock interrupts our standoff. One of Matteo’s men appears, his face grim. “Boss, there’s a young woman here. Claims she’s Ms. Santiago’s cousin.”
Cousin? My heart skips. I’m an only child, my mother was an only child, and we never saw my father’s side?—
A girl bursts into the room, all wild brown curls and huge doe eyes. She can’t be more than nineteen, dressed in ripped jeans and a cropped NYU sweatshirt. Before anyone can stop her, she’s at my bedside.
“Oh my God, Elena!” Her words tumble out in a rush of tears and relief. “We were so worried! The hospital called Mom and she completely freaked out, saying we needed to bring you home right away. Why didn’t you call us?”
I stare at her face—heart-shaped, earnest, those big brown eyes silently pleading with me to play along. Something in her expression makes me trust her, though I couldn’t say why.
“Jenna,” I manage, though I’m certain that’s not her name, but I know it’s a distant cousin’s name. “Tell your mother I’m fine. Really.”
“I thought you didn’t have any family,” Bella says slowly, confusion evident in her voice.
“Jenna” turns to face Matteo’s scrutiny. “My mother is her father’s sister,” she says smoothly. “We lost touch after Uncle Richard died, but?—”
“Convenient timing,” Matteo cuts in, his eyes narrowed. “Showing up now.”
“Not convenient,” she counters, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Family.” She produces a driver’s license that looks perfectly real, the name Jenna Santiago clear beneath her photo.
Something about her composure, her careful answers…this girl is more than she appears. But right now, she might be my only chance at avoiding Matteo’s fortress.
“Elena’s coming home with me,” Jenna announces, gathering my belongings.
“Absolutely not.” Matteo’s voice is forbidding. “She’s coming to the compound where we can protect her. We haven’t even verified your identity.”
Jenna rolls her eyes before turning to me. “Who the fuck does this guy think he is?”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Nobody talks to Matteo DeLuca like that.
“Elena,” Bella interjects quickly, sensing danger. “ Please . It would be safer with us until we figure out who tried to hurt you.”
But I’ve made my decision. Whatever game this girl is playing, it’s better than being under Matteo’s thumb. “I’m going with my cousin.”
Jenna beams triumphantly. The hurt that flashes across Bella’s face makes me hate myself, but I can’t take it back now.
“Nobody leaves until we verify her identity.” Matteo’s tone brooks no argument.
“Fine by me.” Jenna drops into a chair, crossing her ankles with exaggerated patience. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”
It takes less than an hour for Matteo’s men to confirm that Jenna Santiago exists and is, apparently, actually related to my father through his sister. I keep my face carefully blank at this news.
“Finally,” Jenna sighs. “Can we leave now?”
The discharge process seems to take forever. Before I can escape, Bella pulls me into a careful hug. “Call me, okay? Promise?”
“I promise,” I whisper, the lie tasting like ash.
Matteo catches my arm as I pass. “Whatever game you’re playing,” he says softly, his blue eyes cold, “remember that my wife considers you family. If anything happens to her because of your…choices, there won’t be anywhere safe for you to hide.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I’d never hurt Bella.”
“No?” His smile is cruel. “You already are.”
His words are like a knife to my chest, but I keep my face impassive, cold. Professional. I jerk my arm from his grip and walk away, refusing to let him see how deeply that cut.
The air slaps my face as we exit the hospital, making my eyes water. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I blink back tears. A sleek black SUV idles at the curb, its dark-tinted windows reflecting the hospital’s harsh fluorescent lights. A broad-shouldered man in tactical gear sits in the driver’s seat, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings through mirrored sunglasses.
Jenna—or whoever she is—collapses into the leather seat beside me with a dramatic sigh. “Take us away, Manolo,” she says, and the car jerks slightly as it pulls away from the hospital.
The innocent, bubbly cousin act vanishes as she pulls out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen with fierce concentration.
The transformation is jarring.
“Cut the shit.” My patience snaps like a brittle twig. “Who are you and why did you just risk your life lying to Matteo DeLuca?”
She winks, those innocent doe eyes suddenly sharp with intelligence. “Sofia Renaldi. And Mario DeLuca sent me to get you to the safe house in Tribeca.”
My heart stops. “Mario?—”
“My brother Marco is one of his closest friends.” She grins, looking pleased with herself. “Pretty good act, right? Though I thought that DeLuca asshole was going to have me disappeared when I rolled my eyes at him.”