17. Mario
17
MARIO
M arco guides the boat through the choppy water while I watch the chaos unfold on the bridge. Through the mist of water and gun smoke, I spot Matteo. He stands at the railing like the devil himself—his black coat whipping in the wind, hair wild, hands gripping the metal barrier.
Even from this distance, I can see the cold fury in his eyes, the way his mouth is set in that particular line that always meant someone was about to die.
He looks exactly like Giuseppe in that moment, and my stomach bottoms out.
“Get us out of here,” I tell Marco, already pulling out my waterproof phone to arrange another car. The Clinton house is still our best bet—it’s the one safe house Matteo and O’Connor don’t know about. “We need transport at point Charlie.”
Elena shivers beside me, her wet clothes clinging to curves that would be distracting if I wasn’t so focused on getting us to safety. I move closer, offering body heat while I coordinate with my team.
“You doing okay?” I ask, noting how her lips have started to turn blue.
The look she gives me could chill the sun. Water drips from her ruined hair, mascara runs down her cheeks, and she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Also possibly the most pissed off.
“Let me think,” she says through chattering teeth. “In the past hour, I’ve been shot at, chased through Manhattan, and driven into the Hudson River. My phone is probably crushed on some street, my Louboutins are somewhere at the bottom of said river, and this outfit?” She plucks at the soaked Versace. “Was couture .”
I shrug off my jacket—also ruined, but at least it’s dry on the inside—and wrap it around her shoulders over the blanket to provide her some additional warmth. “I’ll buy you new shoes.”
“That’s not the point and you know it.” But she burrows into the blanket and jacket anyway, her shoulder pressing against mine. “Your brother is going to hunt us down.”
“If he can find us.” I keep my eyes on the bridge where Matteo still stands, his figure growing smaller as Marco guides us downstream. My brother’s stance is pure Giuseppe—the way he holds himself, like violence barely contained in an expensive suit. “We’ve got bigger problems.”
“Bigger than Matteo DeLuca?” Elena asks dubiously.
“Anthony won’t stop until he has you back.” I try to keep my voice neutral, but something must show because she turns to study my face. “And O’Connor…well, let’s just say Boston’s about to get very interesting.”
Marco calls back from the helm. “Car’s waiting two clicks south. But Mario? We’ve got company on the water.”
Sure enough, the distinctive rumble of police boats echoes across the river. Because this day just keeps getting better.
“Any chance those are regular harbor patrol?” Elena asks without much hope.
“Not with my brother making calls.” I check my weapon—waterlogged but still functional. “Marco?”
He grins, hitting something on the console that makes the boat’s engine roar to life with new purpose. “Hold onto something.”
Marco opens up the throttle and the boat leaps forward like a living thing. The police boats fall behind as he expertly weaves between cargo ships and river traffic, using the larger vessels as cover.
“Just like Monaco,” he shouts over the engine’s roar, taking us through a turn that sends spray everywhere.
“Except with fewer supermodels,” I call back, steadying Elena as she sways. Her face has taken on a greenish tint that has nothing to do with fear.
“Very James Bond, wouldn’t you say?” I can’t help teasing her. “You make quite the Bond girl.”
She shoots me a look that could curdle milk. “If you’re Bond, we’re all definitely going to die. And I’m nothing like those idiots who fall for his bullshit.”
“Says the woman who just drove into the Hudson with me,” I shoot back.
“If you two are done flirting,” Marco cuts in, “we’ve got company.”
Another police boat appears ahead. Marco just smirks and cuts the engine, letting us drift into the shadow of a container ship. The patrol boat roars past, missing us completely.
“Your sister is going to be pissed she missed this,” I tell Marco as he restarts the engine.
“Already got six angry texts.” He takes us through another series of moves that has Elena looking decidedly ill. “Says this beats anything she did at the hospital.”
Finally, we reach the pickup point—a discreet dock tucked away from prying eyes. A black Mercedes waits in the shadows, engine idling.
“You good from here?” I ask Marco as we climb out.
He waves me off. “Heading to Jersey, then ditching the boat. Already got my exit planned. This is the most fun I’ve had since that thing in Prague.”
Elena stumbles slightly as we make our way to the car, her wet skirt hampering movement. “Where exactly are we going?”
“Clinton house,” I say shortly as I open the car door.
“And Matteo doesn’t know about this one because…?”
I help her into the backseat before sliding in beside her. “Because I bought it with money Giuseppe left me. The old man had accounts even Matteo didn’t know about.”
She raises a brow. “And O’Connor?”
“Let’s just say there are some things I kept to myself.” I give the driver an address as we pull away from the dock. “Even demons need backup plans.”
My phone rings—Dante on the secured line.
“Tell me you’re not dead, you stupid fuck,” he demands the moment I pick up.
“Would I be answering the phone if I was dead?” I ask dryly.
Elena snorts and covers her mouth, turning to look out the window. Even through the phone, I can hear Dante’s teeth grinding.
“You’re a jackass.” A pause. “How the hell did you get away from both families?”
I detail our escape, earning an appreciative whistle from Dante. “Fucking Marco saving the day,” he responds laughingly.
The three of us go way back. We’ve shed blood together, buried bodies together.
“How bad is it in Boston?” I ask, changing the subject.
Dante’s voice goes grim, all traces of amusement gone. “Bad. I told you that O’Connor’s gone nuclear. Already called in markers from Philadelphia to Montreal. He’s got a million-dollar bounty on your head. Two million if they bring you back breathing so he can kill you himself.”
“Charming.” A bead of water trails into my eye and I impatiently wipe it away.
“He’s burning every connection looking for you. Says no one walks away from him, especially not his pet Italian.” Dante lowers his voice. “But that’s not the interesting part. Got some intel about Siobhan you need to see. Already sent it over.”
I pull up the files on my phone. Surveillance photos show Siobhan holding court at Murphy’s Pub—the real seat of Irish power in Boston. She’s surrounded by younger captains, all of them leaning in like moths to flame. Her red hair glows under vintage lights, her father’s cold eyes scanning the room as she speaks.
The timestamps catch my attention. Three weeks of late-night meetings, increasing in frequency. Always the same core group, but with new faces being added strategically.
“They’re calling it modernization talks,” Dante reports. “But it looks more like succession planning. She’s gathered most of the younger leadership—Sean Murphy, the O’Brien cousins, even old man Flaherty’s grandson.”
I study the hungry look in those young faces—the same expression I used to see in the mirror during Giuseppe’s reign. That particular mix of ambition and resentment that breeds revolution.
“And Seamus?” I ask carefully.
“Blind to it. Still running things like it’s 1980.” Dante’s voice holds dark amusement. “She’s transformed her father’s social club into a war room. While he’s focused on traditional smuggling routes, she’s building a network of tech-savvy operators. Cryptocurrency, digital money laundering, cybersecurity.”
Elena shifts closer, clearly listening. Her wet hair drips onto my shoulder as she studies the photos with sharp interest.
After more details about Siobhan’s power plays, I end the call. Elena’s been quiet, but I can practically hear her mind working.
“A million-dollar bounty,” she says finally. “That’s quite the price tag.”
“Worried about me, little planner?”
“I’m worried about the fact that the O’Connors and Calabreses will work together now,” she says, rolling her eyes. “They both want the same thing—you dead and me back with Anthony.”
“Don’t forget my brother.” I watch her face in the passing streetlights. “Matteo would make a deal with the devil himself if it meant getting rid of me for good.”
She doesn’t like that—I can see it in the way her jaw ticks.
The car turns onto a quiet street in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn, pulling up to what looks like a restored brownstone. But the historic facade hides cutting-edge security that would make the CIA jealous. I guide Elena through three separate checkpoints before we reach the main floor.
Inside, it’s all clean lines and tactical considerations masked as luxury. Sight lines to every entrance, reinforced walls hidden behind expensive art, weapons caches disguised as modern decor. The furniture is minimal but high-end, everything positioned for maximum defensive advantage.
I nod toward the stairs. “Shower’s up there if you want it.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to wear after a shower?” She gestures at her soaked Versace. “Planning to have me parade around in my underwear?”
“I wouldn’t object,” I answer honestly.
She scowls, throwing my wet jacket at my head. “You’re impossible.”
“There are clothes upstairs you can use.”
One perfect blonde eyebrow rises. “You have women’s clothes in your secret safe house? Interesting for someone who’s supposed to be in exile.”
“First of all, they’re my clothes. And second,” I can’t help but smirk, “did you really think I spent five years actually staying away from New York just because my brother said so?”
“You’re impossible,” she repeats, but I catch her smile as she heads upstairs.
Once Elena disappears upstairs, I look down at the jacket she threw at me. The ultrasound photo. My heart lodges in my throat as I thrust my hand into the breast pocket, already knowing what I’ll find.
The photo comes out in pieces, the river water having turned it into wet pulp. The image of that tiny profile, those butterfly-wing hands, now just a ruined mess of paper and ink.
Something in my chest constricts painfully.
It shouldn’t matter—it’s just a photo, and not even of my child. But seeing it destroyed hits harder than any of Seamus O’Connor’s threats.
Fucking Matteo. Fucking Anthony Calabrese. Always destroying everything they touch.
The stench of the Hudson suddenly hits me—a lovely mixture of industrial waste and God knows what else. I grimace, realizing I smell like I took a swim in Satan’s bathtub.
The sound of the shower in the master bath cuts off, and unbidden images of Elena fill my mind—water running down her curves, her wet hair slicked back, droplets trailing down her throat…
I curl my hand into a fist, nails biting into my palm. No. I can’t go there right now. Not with the enemy closing in from all sides, not with her carrying another man’s child, not with the memory of that ruined ultrasound photo burning a hole in my pocket.
I force myself toward the guest bathroom, away from temptation. Away from the dangerous way she makes me feel things I can’t afford to feel.
After a shower and change of clothes, I feel human again. Black slacks, charcoal cashmere sweater, Italian leather shoes—a DeLuca never looks anything less than perfect, even in a safe house. Even in exile.
I head to the master bedroom to check on Elena and stop dead in my tracks. She’s wearing one of my old Columbia T-shirts, the soft gray fabric falling to mid-thigh. Her freshly washed hair falls in dark gold waves as she runs a towel through it, making her look younger, more vulnerable somehow.
Something catches in my chest at the sight of her in my clothes, in my space. She must hear my sharp intake of breath because she looks over her shoulder, those blue eyes bright without makeup, questioning.
“Is this okay?” she asks, gesturing at the shirt. “I know you said I could use your clothes, but I probably should have asked which ones and?—”
I cross the room in three strides, drawn like a magnet. “Elena.”
She bites her lip. “Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
I cup her face in my hands and kiss her, pouring everything I can’t say into it. All my fears about O’Connor, about Anthony, about this baby that isn’t mine but that I already want to protect. She melts into me, her hands sliding up my chest, into my hair, and for a moment, nothing else matters. Heat burrows its way through the space between my ribs and pools at the center of my chest.
Elena pulls back and scowls at me. “I’ll talk whenever I damn well please. And I sure as hell don’t take orders from you .”
Her expression is furious and glorious.
“Orders?” I can’t keep the dark delight from my voice, wouldn’t even if I tried. “Careful, little planner. I can think of some orders you might enjoy.”
She only glares, her fingers tugging sharply at my hair—and the pain sends electricity down my spine, making me instantly hard.
“Unless you’d rather go back to Anthony,” I say, voice trailing off—no longer caring how obvious my want for her is, because the fire in her eyes is intoxicating. Like the finest whiskey, burning through my veins.
“Shut up,” she snarls through her teeth.
My hands rise to anchor themselves on her hips. As my fingers slide under the T-shirt to brush against bare skin, she slowly releases my hair, her wrists draping around my neck.
“Then turn around, little planner,” I growl. My fingers curl around her waist, and I push so that she begins to turn. “And put your hands flat on the dresser.”
She scoffs, but she plants her feet apart as I gently press her towards the dresser with a hand on the small of her back. She rolls her eyes but then deliberately raises one hand to set it upon the dresser. The other in front of her.
I wrap myself around her, chest against her shoulder blades and her arms bracketed by mine. I tuck my chin into the curve between her shoulder and neck, eyes falling to where my hands cover hers, and our fingers interlock.
Elena sighs, leaning back against me, and then my lips drag across her neck, desperate to coax out more of that sound. My tongue sweeps across her pulse and she leans her head to the side, allowing me more access.
“Good girl,” I whisper, voice falling across the bit of skin glistening in front of my lips.
One of my hands drifts—two fingertips tracing up over the back of her hand, her wrist, up her arm until it meets her elbow, and then wraps around to her waist. I gather the fabric of her shirt in one hand, teeth and tongue scraping across her neck and the corner of her jaw, and I begin to lift her shirt up.
Elena’s hand jerks, going to help me pull at the hem of her shirt, but then I press my teeth into the side of her neck. Just enough that the heel of her palm falls back down against the surface of the dresser. I continue, this time using both hands, and inch my fingers beneath her shirt. Across her stomach. The fabric bunches up around my wrists as I lift them higher.
My fingertips have just touched the underside of her breasts when a low whimper bursts from her lips, unbidden. Her hands are shaking from just how hard she is pressing the pads of her fingers into the wood.
I scrape my thumb along the line of her ribs, and when she shivers, I press my hips forward. Her mouth falls open in a gasp.
“Let me touch you,” she rushes out. She turns her head, trying to catch my eye, but my lips are still pressing against her neck, my eyes downcast. Watching as one of my fingers trails up the center of her body towards her breasts.
“I sure as hell don’t take orders from you,” I whisper, throwing her words back at her.
She either glares at me or rolls her eyes but then my hand curves around her bare breast, fingers brushing over the peach-colored nipple and a freckle just beneath it. I grind my hips against her ass again, and she groans.
Beneath my touch, her nipple hardens and then both my hands are over her breasts, kneading them while my mouth lavishes attention to her neck. Her hips begin to roll, ricocheting off the edge of the dresser and back against me. My pants are uncomfortably tight as my dick hardens.
I can almost feel it—a thread fraying and all too close to snapping. I’d come in my pants if I don’t get myself under fucking control soon.
But control is an unattainable thing. I’m growing feverish, my thoughts increasingly more difficult to decipher and I feel sure that my grip on her breasts is bruising. But Elena certainly doesn’t seem to mind by the way she is moaning.
I have her voice in my ears, the taste of her on my tongue, her breasts in my hands, and it still isn’t enough.
I lift one hand, roughly grabbing her chin to jerk her head to the side and then press my mouth against hers to capture the sounds of her pleasure. Still rolling her nipple between my fingers, I grind my cock against her ass but now I swirl my tongue in her mouth.
And it’s fucking indelicate and messy, but I keep kissing her. Until I can’t breathe and my head is spinning and I have to tear my mouth away.
I stare down at her, panting as she looks up at me, her chest heaving. Lips swollen and red and her lashes wet. But her hands don’t move. Her back is arched against me, and my hand falls from her chin to curve gently around the front of her throat before moving them up to her mouth.
Pressing my two fingers against her bottom lip, my lips curve into a smirk. “Suck.”
Eyes flashing, Elena takes my fingers into her mouth as her tongue swirls around the digits, her cheeks hollowing out. She releases my fingers with a pop and when they fall back against her nipple, her eyes close and she has to bite down on her lip to keep herself from moaning.
“Good girl,” I whisper into her ear. “Just like that.”
I trail my wet fingers over the curve of the top of her breast, down her sternum and towards her navel. And that’s when I realize she’s wearing a pair of my boxer briefs.
She notices where my gaze is and her face flushes. “I couldn’t just rewear my old underwear,” she protests. “They were disgusting.”
Her hands begin to slip towards the edge of the dresser and she twists like she’s trying to face me.
I tear my hands off her again and slam them down against hers, pressing them back into the dresser.
“Mario—”
Instead of answering her, I roll my hips forward, pressing myself against her, but it offers no relief. My hands move to her hips, pulling her back against me each time my hips roll forward.
“That’s good, Elena,” I say, watching as her eyes begin to close again. I sigh, my own eyes sliding shut as I press my forehead against her shoulder. “So good.”
I let loose one, shuddering sigh before I sink to my knees. Elena is panting above me, feet shifting as she tries to look down to see me, but with my arms on either side of her and her hands on the dresser, she can’t quite get a glimpse of me.
Which is for the best because I can feel my eyes going wide, tongue swiping out to wet my lips. I’m ravenous, and my hands go to the backs of her legs, pressing my palms to her calves and coasting up. My thumbs trace circles on the backs of her knees.
“This is fucking rude ,” Elena hisses. “You’re taunting me.”
“Such a fast learner,” I murmur, hands rising to curve over her ass. I squeeze at the rounded curve in front of me before I hook my fingers into the briefs and slowly tug them down.
“That’s not fair,” Elena says breathlessly. “You still have your pants on.”
“Life isn’t fair,” is all I say before I get up and grab her, moving her towards the bed. She shrieks and clutches onto me, but it’s not long before I’ve crossed the room and deposited her onto the king-sized mattress.
She’s bare in front of me, her thighs spread. I lower myself again onto my knees, my mouth on the inside of her thigh. My lips inch up towards the juncture of her thigh as her hips begin to shift.
I press a soft kiss against her before allowing my tongue to stroke up against her clit. Elena gasps, heels digging into the bed as she almost jolts away from the contact, but my arm wraps around her one thigh and the other comes down across the front of her stomach to keep her still.
The light smack from the impact sends my pulse into a frenzy.
Fuck, she tastes so good. Nothing has ever come close to this, to lapping at the very stars with the blade of my tongue as I begin to pleasure her with my mouth.
Flicking my tongue across her or sucking at her clit, I didn’t care as long as I could get that exact moan from her again. My cheeks are wet as I let go of her thigh to use my fingers to spread her even further. So I can press my face closer.
Her thighs squeeze against both sides of my head as I slip a finger back inside her. I look up so I can see her. She has a hand over her mouth as she writhes underneath my touch.
That won’t do.
“Let me hear you,” I say, removing my mouth from her.
Elena’s heels dig into my shoulders as she lifts a shaking hand from her mouth and thrusts it through my hair. She pulls so hard that it smarts but the sound of a trembling moan from her mouth is reward enough so I place my mouth back on her pussy.
She bucks up into me, hips rocking against my face as I stroke my fingers inside her, my tongue swirling against her. The sound of her moans is dulled by her thighs pressing against my ears, but it’s so good . The taste of her and the feel of her makes me feel like I’m drowning in a sea of stars.
My hips begin to thrust against the bed as if I’m no fucking better than a teenager. All I want is more, would gladly suffer my own destruction if it tastes this sweet.
I keep licking at her until her voice breaks and her head is thrown back. I can’t keep my eyes off her as her thighs begin to shake around me and her back arches off the bed.
Elena comes, and even as my fingers slow inside her and I rake my tongue over her to taste her orgasm all I can think is that I want to see it a million more times.
Her head snaps up as I reluctantly pull away from her, and she looks down at me. Her chest heaves from her breaths, and I smooth my hands over her thighs as her breath returns to a normal rate.
“Stop smiling,” she orders, but with how breathless it sounds, all of the bite is gone.
I smirk and brush a finger over her clit. Her knee jerks up.
“Still so sensitive,” I murmur, but I slowly lower her legs back onto the bed and crawl over her. I press a soft kiss to her lips and delight blooms in my chest when she moans against my mouth.
“Take off your clothes,” she says into the kiss.
“Say please,” I murmur, though my tongue is already on the side of her throat and my hand is already undoing my belt.
“No,” she snaps before she reaches down to help me.
I toss my pants and briefs off the edge of the bed and quickly shuck off my shirt. I grip myself in my hand, stroking my length slowly a few times. Fuck me, I’m so tense —every one of my nerves alight with that same, glimmering haze.
I better fucking last but from the way she’s looking at me, I don’t think I will. Her chin tips up, eyes narrowing at me in challenge.
“Where are your manners?” I click my tongue even as I hook my arms beneath her thigh, moving it up and to the side. I lean over onto one forearm and look down between our bodies. Where her skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and I can still see wetness smeared between her thighs.
“Nonexistent,” Elena retorts. “Fuck me.”
I nearly come undone at just the first press of my cock against her, but I bite down on my tongue and press my forehead against her shoulder in order to collect myself. Elena slips her arm around me, fingers pressing into my shoulder blades and then smoothing up to the hair at the nape of my neck.
“ God , Mario,” she murmurs, voice somewhere near my temple.
I press deeper into her in one long stroke, gasping against her skin. I kiss her shoulder, then her mouth before I begin thrusting into her.
Every particle in my body has a tenuous grasp on the other, the spaces between us filled with electricity. I moan against her mouth, thrusting into her slowly at first until I feel both of her arms wrap around me.
“Fuck, Elena,” I manage to groan, my mouth somewhere between the corner of her jaw and the front of her throat. My hand falls back down somewhere near her waist, gripping her.
Elena whimpers and I collapse against her, the thrust of my hips quickening. Stars burst behind my eyes and my fingertips are going numb whenever they graze her skin. I can’t fucking breathe and the only reason my lungs continue to fill is because Elena is moaning my name back into me.
“Mario,” she says. A chorus of it, “ Mario. Mario. Mario .”
My hips snap against hers as I press another bruising kiss to her mouth. I hook one of her legs over my shoulder, and then another as I thrust into her. I feel her pulse around me as she comes.
Once, and then I am still kissing her and fucking her and God —what is this? Because she comes again, and only then do I whisper them.
The dreams and the fantasies and the things I’d never let myself voice—I fucking say them against her lips, her collarbone. Words I didn’t even know lived inside me until they spill out like blood from a wound.
I come and it is with Elena’s arms around me and Elena’s name on my lips, like a prayer, like salvation. I pull out of her and gather her into my arms. We don’t say anything until both our pulses calm, mirroring each other in the quiet dark.
“What did you say? Earlier?” she whispers against my chest.
I shake my head, tucking her head beneath my chin. “Nothing, I think.”
After, as she dozes in my arms, I finally allow myself to admit the truth I’ve been fighting, the words I whispered into her skin: I’m in love with her. With her brilliant mind and calculated grace, with her ability to match me move for move in this deadly game.
Even with that perfect baby growing inside her—Anthony’s child, a complication I never saw coming.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it feels like coming home. Like finding something I didn’t even know I was missing until it was already under my skin, in my blood.
Giuseppe would call it weakness. O’Connor would call it stupidity.
But holding Elena in my arms, feeling her heartbeat against my chest, I finally understand why my brother chose Bianca over blood. Why he’d burn the world to protect what’s his.
Because I would do the same for her. For them both.