20. Elena
20
ELENA
I ’m going to lose my fucking mind in this place.
Two weeks since moving to the new safe house, and the walls feel like they’re closing in. They have since day three.
Mario moves freely, conducting business and coordinating with his network while I’m expected to stay hidden away like some fairy tale princess in her tower. I spend my days in an endless cycle of restless activity—swimming laps in the private pool until my arms burn, practicing yoga to keep the morning sickness at bay, obsessively reviewing hospital fundraiser details I can no longer execute.
By midafternoon, I’m usually reorganizing the walk-in closet or rearranging the library for the third time that week. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that my entire world has shrunk to these four walls. I refresh news sites compulsively, searching for any mention of the manhunt I know is still ongoing. My fingers itch to be doing something real—planning events, moving money, playing the game that’s become as natural as breathing.
The fact that the “tower” is a luxury penthouse with better security than Fort Knox doesn’t make it any less suffocating.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Mario says, adjusting his shoulder holster. He looks devastating in that charcoal Armani suit, the material molding to his broad shoulders like it was made especially for him. The silver at his temples catches the morning light, and three days of stubble does nothing to hide the sharp cut of his jaw. Those dark eyes that miss nothing sweep over me, cataloging every detail like he always does before leaving.
“Don’t leave the apartment,” he warns. “The Calabreses?—”
“Have eyes everywhere, I know.” The words come out sharper than I intended, jagged with frustration. “Just like they had yesterday, and the day before that. Go. Handle your business. I’ll just sit here getting fat and useless.”
Am I bitter? Is it that obvious?
His jaw tightens—that tell he probably doesn’t realize he has. “Elena?—”
“Don’t.” I wave him off, turning back to my laptop where more intel from Siobhan’s operation fills the screen. She’d somehow gotten my burner number two days after we had to move from the Clinton House, her first text typically cryptic: Not all cages are meant to hold us.
Since then, we’ve developed an odd rapport. Our conversations range from cryptocurrency integration strategies to the psychology of men who underestimate women in power. She sends me intelligence about Anthony’s movements, coded in references to social events we both know will never happen. I feed her information about old guard banking practices that need modernizing, disguised as charity gala planning.
We’re building something, though neither of us quite admits what.
This morning’s text was particularly interesting: The old men play chess while the world turns digital. Ready to show them how queens really move?
Mario moves closer, and I hate how my body responds to his proximity even when I’m furious with him. Heat pools low in my belly as his cologne—expensive and subtle and uniquely him—wraps around me. My skin prickles with awareness, remembering his hands on me this morning, how he’d kissed me awake with that perfect mix of tenderness and possession. His hand finds my chin, calloused fingers gentle despite their strength, tilting my face up until I meet his eyes.
“You’re carrying precious cargo,” he says softly. “Everything else is secondary.”
I jerk away from his touch, ignoring the flash of hurt that crosses his face before that perfect DeLuca control slides back into place. “Go. Your empire won’t run itself.”
The moment the door closes behind him, I’m already moving. Two weeks of watching these walls, of being treated like spun glass instead of the strategist I am.
Through the penthouse windows, I spot Mario’s men trying to maintain cover—one pretending to read a newspaper at the cafe across the street, another “walking his dog” for the third time this hour, two more poorly disguised as maintenance workers.
But they’re watching for threats coming in, not a pregnant woman slipping out. I’ve spent days studying their patterns, noting the seven-minute gap in coverage when they change shifts. The blind spot in their surveillance where the building’s art deco architecture creates the perfect shadow.
I change quickly, trading Mario’s borrowed clothes for the emergency outfit I’d insisted he buy me. The Chanel suit feels like home—a navy wool crepe that skims over my barely showing baby bump, the jacket’s clean lines making me feel powerful again. More like the woman who runs Manhattan’s social scene rather than someone’s precious secret to protect.
My office isn’t far. Just a quick trip to grab critical files, check on time-sensitive contracts. What’s the point of all our precautions if I can’t maintain the legitimate business that makes them possible?
I’ve planned this escape for over a week—watching the security rotations, timing the service elevator’s maintenance schedule, noting which guard takes an extra long coffee break at exactly 10:15. The service entrance sees constant deliveries, and I’ve memorized today’s schedule.
Right now, a catering van should be unloading for the law firm’s lunch meeting at twelve.
Sure enough, when I slip into the service corridor, workers are too busy with stacks of sandwiches to notice another well-dressed woman hurrying past. I keep my head down, letting my hair fall forward as I join the flow of office workers heading out for early lunch.
The street swallows me into its rhythm, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe. Let Mario play protector—I have an empire of my own to maintain.
The journey to my office feels blessedly ordinary. Just another day in Manhattan, joining the river of people heading to work. The familiarity of it makes my throat tight—how many times have I walked this exact route with Bella? Her arm linked through mine as she chatted about her latest painting, both of us stopping for coffee at that little place on Fifty-Third that makes the best almond croissants.
My chest aches remembering how she used to surprise me with lunch, showing up with takeout from our favorite Thai place, her hands usually stained with paint. We’d eat cross-legged on my office floor, planning galas and dreaming up ways to squeeze more money from Manhattan’s elite.
The security guard greets me with a warm smile as I scan my keycard. “Welcome back, Ms. Santiago. Mrs. DeLuca was asking after you last week.”
The smile on my face nearly falls at those words. Of course Bella would be asking if I showed up. After she warned me last time that Matteo was on his way, she wouldn’t be making that mistake again. She would want to catch me in the act.
My chest caves in. My best friend wouldn’t be doing this if I hadn’t betrayed her.
My office feels like stepping into another life. Everything is exactly as I left it—the wall of windows overlooking Madison Avenue, fresh flowers on my desk (probably Kate trying to maintain normalcy), the framed photo of Bella and me at her wedding.
I have to turn it face down, unable to bear her radiant smile.
The space reflects my carefully crafted image—sophisticated but approachable, everything chosen to make wealthy clients feel comfortable writing large checks for good causes. Abstract art in soothing colors, comfortable seating arranged for intimate conversations, awards for fundraising excellence displayed with calculated modesty.
A half-finished painting leans against one wall—Bella’s work. She’d been so excited to surprise me with it, showing up one afternoon with her easel and determination to “add some soul to this corporate maze.”
Now it sits abandoned, another casualty of my choices.
I sink into my chair, muscle memory taking over as I begin sorting through urgent emails. But my eyes keep drifting to the empty cream leather sofa where Bella used to curl up with her sketchbook, planning artwork for charity auctions while I worked.
So many lazy afternoons spent like that—me arranging seating charts while she filled canvas after canvas with color and life.
I miss her. God, I miss her so much it feels like bleeding.
My phone buzzes with encrypted intelligence from Boston, pulling me back to my current reality. I focus on analyzing Siobhan’s latest power plays, letting the familiar work of gathering intel distract me from memories I can’t afford to dwell on.
I’m so absorbed in piecing together the patterns of Irish money movement that I don’t hear him approach.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Anthony’s voice carries from my office doorway, making my blood run cold.
I gasp and look up, my heart nearly stopping. Anthony Calabrese fills the doorway like a predator, so much like his uncle Johnny it makes my skin crawl. The same danger, the same cold eyes that catalog every detail while revealing nothing. His Armani suit is immaculate, not a dark hair out of place, but there’s something sinister in his perfect polish now. Something that reminds me why the Calabrese name inspires terror.
He moves toward me with lethal fluidity as I reach for my phone, but he’s faster. His fingers close around my wrist, the touch gentle but immovable as he takes the phone from my trembling hand. The gesture is almost tender, which makes it infinitely more frightening.
“You’re not calling him,” he says softly, placing my phone in his jacket pocket. “Your DeLuca exile can’t help you now.”
“This was never about you,” I try, my mind racing through escape scenarios even as my hand instinctively covers my stomach. “The baby?—”
“Is a Calabrese.” Anthony’s smile shows too many teeth as he perches on my desk, close enough that his cologne—sharp and expensive—makes my head spin. “Just like you’ll be, once we handle this…unfortunate situation with Mario.”
He straightens his already perfect cuffs, the gesture casual but somehow menacing. “The Irish are quite interested in helping me secure what’s mine. So is Matteo DeLuca. Why, I have them fighting over who gets to deal with the exile first.”
My throat goes dry at the calculated pleasure in his voice. This isn’t the polished society heir I’ve been playing all these months. This is Johnny Calabrese’s true successor—someone who enjoys the game of breaking things.
The threat hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications. My pulse thunders against my ribs as I realize how thoroughly I’ve been outplayed. Every calculated risk, every careful move, leading to this moment.
Stupid, stupid, stupid . God, what was I thinking? One moment of rebellion, of wanting to feel normal, and I’ve endangered everyone. Mario warned me. He fucking warned me and I was too proud, too frustrated, too goddamn selfish to listen.
My skin crawls with self-loathing as I remember how easily I slipped past the security meant to protect me. Protect our baby.
Our baby. The thought sends fresh panic through me. I won’t let Anthony anywhere near her. I won’t let that monster—that creature wearing expensive suits and a practiced smile—taint the most pure thing in my life. I’d rather die.
“You really think I’ll just go along with this?” I keep my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my throat. My hands curl into fists beneath the desk where he can’t see them shaking. “That I’ll let you?—”
“Let me?” His laugh holds no warmth as he pulls out his phone. “You don’t have a choice, cara .” He turns the screen toward me—surveillance photos of Sofia Renaldi entering our safe house with supplies, then Marco coordinating with Mario’s security team. “The Renaldis have been very helpful to you and Mario, haven’t they? Sweet little Sofia, playing the perfect undercover agent. It would be a shame if something happened to her. Or perhaps her brother? I hear their niece just started kindergarten.”
My heart plummets to my feet. The Renaldis are one of Mario’s only real allies—the only people who’ve helped us survive this long. Sofia with her brilliant schemes and unfailing loyalty. Marco who’s stood by Mario through everything.
Their innocent niece who has nothing to do with any of this.
I’ve endangered them all because I couldn’t stand being confined for a few more weeks. Because my pride was more important than their safety.
The realization makes me want to vomit.
“What do you want from me?” My voice comes out steady, surprising me.
Anthony chuckles and slides his phone away. “You’re going to come with me,” he says, moving closer. “You’re going to make such a wonderful Calabrese bride.” His eyes gleam as he continues, making my stomach turn. “And when my heir is born, I’ll take over his training. Raise him to be the next don our family deserves.”
I don’t bother correcting him about the baby’s gender. I’ve seen how Calabrese men treat their women—like decorative possessions to be displayed and controlled.
“And you,” he reaches out to stroke my cheek, making my skin crawl, “will be my pretty little plaything. Something beautiful to bring out for events, to fill with more children.”
“And if I refuse?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Anthony’s chuckle turns dark as he closes the remaining distance between us. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist and squeezing until I feel bones grinding together. I bite back a cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“Either you play your part as the devoted mother and wife-to-be,” he says softly, “or your lover joins his father in an early grave.”
But I hear the lie in his words. Anthony will never let Mario live, no matter what I do. He’s too much like his uncle Johnny—he enjoys breaking things too much to show mercy.
My only choice is whether I want to watch it happen.
I hear my phone buzzing in Anthony’s pocket—Mario, most likely, having discovered my absence. Horror floods through me as I picture him tearing apart the penthouse, that careful DeLuca self-control splintering as he realizes I’m gone.
That I’ve put myself—put my baby—directly in harm’s way.
The emotions must play across my face because Anthony laughs, the sound echoing off my office walls. “Ah, there it is,” he taunts, squeezing my wrist harder. “That moment when you realize just how thoroughly you’ve fucked up. Did you really think you could play in our world without consequences, little party planner? That you could whore yourself out to a DeLuca exile and not pay the price?”
He yanks me to my feet. “Time to go home, cara . I have such plans for breaking that spirit of yours.”
The door explodes inward before he can move me further, and Mario fills the frame. Rage has transformed his features into something terrifying, something that reminds me exactly who raised him. His eyes are pure Giuseppe DeLuca, promising violence with a precision that makes even me shiver. Blood spatters his immaculate suit, evidence that he’s already carved through Anthony’s men to reach me.
Behind him, I catch glimpses of Dante’s team engaging with Anthony’s security in the hallway. The sounds of fighting echo off marble floors—flesh meeting flesh, bodies hitting walls.
“Get away from her,” Mario growls, and I’ve never heard that tone from him before. It’s pure violence barely contained, a promise of exactly how many ways he knows to make a man suffer.
Anthony’s smile widens as Irish accents fill the hallway. “Perfect timing,” he says smoothly, rising from the desk. “We were just discussing family arrangements.”
My world turns sideways as I realize what the true point of this was—this wasn’t just about catching me.
It was about luring Mario into a trap.