15. Elena
15
ELENA
I grip the arms of the waiting room chair, my Cartier bracelet catching fluorescent light as another wave of anxiety hits. The private clinic Mario arranged is a study in understated wealth—all cream walls and mahogany trim, abstract art worth small fortunes hanging above Italian leather chairs. The kind of place that treats gunshot wounds without police reports and writes prescriptions for people who don’t officially exist.
The reception desk is staffed by women who look more like models than medical professionals, but their eyes hold the sharp intelligence of people who know how to keep secrets. A man in an expertly tailored suit sits in the corner, pretending to read The Wall Street Journal while actually watching the door. Private security, clearly—the gun beneath his jacket making that extremely evident.
Still, my heart races every time the door opens, expecting Anthony’s men or worse—Bella. I can’t shake her hurt expression from yesterday, or Matteo’s cutting words: “You’re already hurting her.”
“Ms. Santiago?”
The nurse—middle-aged and elegant in clean scrubs—calls my real name rather than one of my carefully crafted aliases. Mario’s influence, no doubt. I rise on shaky legs, surprised when a familiar hand steadies my elbow.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, even as something warm unfurls in my chest at Mario’s presence. He looks devastating in a casual Armani charcoal suit, the material molding to his broad shoulders like a lover’s touch. With his dark hair slightly tousled and those dark eyes intense, he plays the role of supportive partner perfectly.
“We already discussed this,” I whisper furiously. “It’s not safe for you to be seen here. If Anthony, Matteo, and O’Connor have people watching?—”
“I told you last night,” he murmurs, his hand warm on my back as he guides me forward. “I’m done hiding.”
“This isn’t about hiding,” I insist. “It’s about survival. You can’t just?—”
“I can’t, huh?” His smile holds an edge. “Too bad, little planner. You’re stuck with me.”
“Mario—”
“Shut up and let me do this,” he growls, but his hand is gentle at my lower back as we follow the nurse down a hallway lined with more expensive art. Each door we pass is numbered in discreet gold lettering, no names, no specialties listed. A place designed for people who need to disappear.
The nurse leads us into an examination room that looks more like a luxury hotel suite than a medical facility. The ultrasound machine is plated in gold, and even the examination table is covered in what looks like Egyptian cotton.
“The doctor will be right in,” the nurse says, closing the door with practiced discretion.
“You’re insane,” I tell Mario, but my hand finds his anyway. “Being here together…it’s like painting a target on both our backs.”
His fingers interlace with mine. “Let them try.”
My phone buzzes and I fish it out of my Chanel clutch, grimacing when I see Anthony’s name on the screen. I hit decline before stuffing it away again.
With everything that happened yesterday, I completely forgot about Anthony. Probably not my smartest move.
“Who was it?” Mario’s voice is deceptively casual.
“Anthony.”
His face darkens, jaw tightening in that way that makes his scar more prominent. The muscle in his cheek ticks—a tell he probably doesn’t realize he has. Jealousy looks good on him, though he’d rather die than admit that’s what this is.
Something warm and smug unfurls in my chest. It’s nice to feel wanted.
My phone starts dinging rapidly—the sound of multiple incoming texts. I pull it out again, biting my lip as I read:
Where are you? I heard about the hospital.
Answer your phone Elena.
My men saw you leave with a girl claiming to be family.
We both know you don’t have family.
You’re making dangerous choices, cara .
Remember what happened to the last person who betrayed my trust.
No one disappears from me without consequences.
I will find you. And we’ll have a long discussion about loyalty.
“What’s he saying, Elena?” Mario’s voice has gone dangerously soft.
“None of your business,” I retort, moving to put the phone away.
“Like hell it isn’t.” He snatches the phone from my hand before I can react.
“Don’t you ever,” I snarl, fury making my voice shake, “grab my phone without permission again. I’m not one of your soldiers to command.”
His eyes scan the messages, and I watch something lethal awaken in his expression. His whole body goes preternaturally still—the kind of stillness that precedes violence.
“He’s threatening you,” he says, each word precise and sharp as a blade. “Making promises about loyalty lessons.”
“Give. Me. My. Phone.” Each word drips with ice. “I’ve handled Anthony Calabrese for months without your help. I don’t need you to?—”
We’re on the verge of nuclear war when a knock interrupts us. The doctor enters—tall, blond, looking like he walked off a soap opera set in designer scrubs. His easy smile falters slightly when he catches the tension crackling between us, no doubt recognizing the particular brand of danger radiating off Mario.
“Ms. Santiago?” he says carefully, looking between us like he’s calculating the odds of violence erupting in his examination room. “I’m Dr. Matthews. Should we…perhaps reschedule?”
I take a deep breath, smoothing my expression into something professional. “No need to reschedule, Dr. Matthews. Someone,” I shoot Mario a pointed look, “just needs a lesson in boundaries.”
The doctor’s gaze flicks between us again. I hop onto the examination table, flashing him my most dazzling smile—the one that gets me past security checkpoints and into private files. “Besides, I’m sure you’re very busy. We wouldn’t want to waste your valuable time.”
Mario’s jaw ticks at my obvious flirting. Good.
“So,” Dr. Matthews pulls up my chart, “I understand there was an incident yesterday involving potential toxic exposure?”
“Just a scare,” I assure him. “The substance turned out to be harmless.”
“Nevertheless, we should run a full panel.” He glances at Mario. “And this is…?”
“Not the father,” I say loudly, satisfaction blooming at Mario’s barely concealed flinch. “Just a…friend.”
“I see.” The doctor’s expression remains professionally neutral. “Would you prefer to continue the examination privately?”
Some petty part of me wants to say yes, to punish Mario for grabbing my phone, for thinking he can control me like one of his people.
But then I look at him—the way his shoulders are rigid with tension, how his fingers grip the arm of his chair just a little too tightly. For all his dangerous grace, there’s something almost vulnerable in the way he’s trying so hard to appear calm.
“He can stay,” I finally say.
Something flickers across Mario’s face—a crack in that perfect mask of control. His eyes, when they meet mine, hold something that makes my chest tight.
“Alright then,” the doctor says, reaching for the ultrasound equipment. “Let’s check on your little one. This might be cold.”
I inhale sharply as gel hits my stomach, my heart racing as the wand moves across my skin. For a moment, there’s nothing but static, and then?—
On the monitor, a grainy black and white image appears. The most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard fills the room. Quick, strong, like galloping horses or hummingbird wings.
My baby’s heartbeat.
“Is that normal?” I ask anxiously as the heart continues its rapid flutter. “The heart rate?”
“Perfectly normal,” Dr. Matthews assures me. “Would you like to know the sex? Our equipment can detect it earlier than standard machines.”
I nod, unable to form words. A sharp intake of breath draws my attention to Mario, who’s standing, transfixed by the monitor. He moves closer, his eyes never leaving the screen, until he’s standing beside me. His usual predatory grace is gone, replaced by something almost reverent as he watches this tiny life dance across the screen.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor announces.
A daughter. The word echoes in my chest like a bell. I’m having a little girl. Emotions I can’t even name surge through me—fierce love, bone-deep terror, wild joy. I imagine a tiny face, wonder whose features she’ll have. Will she have Anthony’s dark eyes? My blonde hair?
Will she be as calculating as her father, as ambitious as her mother?
Dr. Matthews points out her features—the dark curve of her head, the bright spot of her beating heart, tiny arms and legs that look like delicate butterfly wings.
She’s still so small—barely over an inch long—but already I can see she’s perfect. As we watch, she shifts position, her tiny legs kicking out in a flutter of movement that makes my eyes burn with unexpected tears.
“That’s her spine,” the doctor says, tracing a curved line. “And here—” he moves the wand slightly, “you can see her profile. That’s her nose, her forehead. At ten weeks, she’s starting to look more like a tiny baby.”
Mario’s hand finds mine, his fingers intertwining with my own. When I look up, I see his carefully constructed walls crumbling. The dangerous man who makes hardened criminals tremble looks utterly undone by this grainy image of new life. His throat works as he swallows, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of raw emotion in his eyes before he can hide it.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Mario DeLuca look afraid.
The baby shifts again—a complete somersault this time, like she’s showing off for her audience—and his grip on my hand tightens.
I understand his fear. This little girl, barely formed but already so real, will be born with a target on her back. A Calabrese heir. The child of a woman who betrayed her father. The daughter of a man who would burn the world to claim what’s his, being watched by another man who would die to protect her despite having no claim to her at all.
“Would you like to hear the heartbeat again?” Dr. Matthews asks softly, clearly reading the emotion in the room.
I nod, and that magical sound fills the space once more. Mario’s hand trembles slightly in mine, and I pretend not to notice when he quickly wipes his other hand across his eyes.
Dr. Matthews prints out several ultrasound photos, each one capturing my daughter from different angles. “Take it easy,” he instructs, handing me the prints. “Prenatals daily, moderate exercise, and—” his eyes flick to Mario with something like recognition, “try to keep stress levels down.”
I tuck the photos into my clutch, promising to follow his instructions. The moment he leaves, silence fills the room.
But I catch Mario’s eyes darting toward my bag for the third time in as many minutes. Something warm and liquid unfurls in my chest, like honey spreading through my veins. The dangerous Mario DeLuca, who made his name putting bullets in people’s heads, wants to see baby pictures.
I undo the clasp of my clutch. “Would you like one?” I ask softly. “To keep?”
He startles, though he covers it quickly with that practiced DeLuca control. “Why would I want photos of another man’s child?”
But there’s no bite to his words, no real resistance. I saw his face when that tiny heartbeat filled the room. Saw how his hands shook when she moved on screen.
I roll my eyes and select one of the clearer images—the one where you can see her profile perfectly, her tiny hand raised like she’s waving. Moving deliberately, I cross to where he stands and pull open his suit jacket.
“Elena—” he warns.
I slip the photo into his breast pocket, but leave my hand there, pressed against his heart. It’s racing beneath my palm, betraying everything his carefully blank expression tries to hide. His cologne mingles with the antiseptic smell of the clinic, and this close, I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate as I lean in.
“Tell me again,” I whisper against his jaw, “how you don’t want pictures of her.”
His hand comes up to cover mine, pressing the photo more firmly against his heart.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his heart still racing beneath my palm. For a moment, I think he might kiss me—his eyes darken in the way that usually precedes him backing me against the nearest surface. But then he clears his throat, and the DeLuca mask slides firmly back into place.
“We should get back to the safe house,” he says shortly, hand finding the doorknob.
I roll my eyes at his attempt at coldness. This is what Mario does—retreats behind walls the moment vulnerability threatens to crack his perfect control. But I saw his face when he heard my daughter’s heartbeat.
He can play the untouchable don all he wants, but I know better now.
We’re halfway to the lobby when movement outside the window catches my attention. A flash of tactical gear that’s too high-end for regular security, too precise in their movements to be random. I recognize the formation—it’s how Anthony’s elite team operates, the way they fan out to cover exits.
The same pattern they used when eliminating the Russian faction last spring.
“Mario,” I warn, but he’s already seen them. His body shifts subtly, transforming him from the man who just got emotional over ultrasound photos into something deadly. My hand moves instinctively to my stomach as he positions himself between me and the window.
“Time to go, little planner,” he says softly, fingers flying over his phone as he alerts his security team. “Seems we’re not the only ones interested in your appointment today.”