21. Elena
21
ELENA
T he tension in my office crackles like a live wire as I watch Mario catalog threats with lethal efficiency. Three Irish enforcers in the hallway, Anthony’s smug smile, my own carefully controlled fear as I shield our unborn child with my body.
No—not our child. Anthony’s daughter, a complication that’s become the center of everything.
“Perfect timing,” Anthony says smoothly, rising from the desk. “We were just discussing family arrangements.”
“The only arrangement you need to worry about is your funeral,” Mario snarls, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders. He’s counting exits, calculating odds. His hands are already stained with blood from fighting his way to me, but more enemies are coming. I can hear them in the hallway.
“Always so dramatic.” Anthony adjusts his cuff links with deliberate casualness. “But you might want to see what I found in Elena’s private server first.” He turns his phone screen toward us, and my heart stops. “ Fascinating collection of shipping manifests, bank records, surveillance photos of my operations. The kind of evidence that could put someone away for a very long time—especially if they’re carrying my child.”
My blood runs cold as I recognize my own meticulous notes about the trafficking operation. Every piece of intelligence I’ve gathered, every connection I’ve documented—all of it leading back to me. Months of carefully crafted evidence that could destroy not just Anthony, but the entire Calabrese empire.
And now he has it all.
The look Mario gives me is pure fury—not at my investigating, but at the danger I’ve put myself in. His jaw clenches so hard I hear teeth grinding. “You’re not walking away from this,” he tells Anthony, his voice promising violence.
“No?” Anthony’s smile widens as more Irish voices join the chaos in the hallway. “I think you’ll find I hold all the cards. Elena’s evidence. Her baby. Her life.” He shifts closer to me, his hand finding my throat in a gesture that’s both possessive and threatening. “The question is: what are you willing to sacrifice to save her?”
Mario’s expression transforms into something terrifying—pure danger emerging from behind his careful control. I’ve never seen him look so lethal, so capable of absolute destruction. It should frighten me, but instead I feel oddly safe.
Because that rage? It’s not directed at me.
It’s aimed at the man foolish enough to threaten what Mario considers his.
“The FBI would be very interested in how deeply you’ve infiltrated our organization,” Anthony continues, satisfaction dripping from every word. “Corporate espionage, conspiracy, maybe even RICO charges. Imagine our child being born in prison.”
Mario shifts subtly, positioning himself between me and the Irish enforcers. Even with blood splattering his suit and rage burning in his eyes, his movements are calculated. Precise. “You wouldn’t risk exposing your own operation.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Anthony’s smile is anything but kind. “Everything leads back to Elena’s private investigations. Such a shame—an ambitious event planner getting in over her head, working alone to expose things she shouldn’t have seen. Nothing connecting to me or my legitimate businesses at all.”
“None of it connects directly to you,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady while my mind races through possibilities. “Just like Johnny’s operation didn’t connect to you. You’re very good at keeping your hands clean.”
“While you’ve been quite sloppy lately.” Anthony’s gaze drops pointedly to my stomach, making my skin crawl. “Hormones affecting your judgment, perhaps? The old Elena would never have left such an obvious trail. Coming to your office alone, carrying evidence that could destroy you…”
A gun appears in his hand—not pointed at us, just resting casually on the desk. A reminder of power rather than an immediate threat. The metal gleams in the afternoon light streaming through my office windows, and I catch Mario’s minute flinch.
Not from fear—Mario DeLuca has never feared guns—but from the effort of restraining himself from tearing Anthony apart with his bare hands.
“You really think I came alone?” I ask, stalling for time as I catch movement in the hallway behind Mario. More of Mario’s men, strategically positioned. “That pregnancy has made me stupid?”
Anthony just laughs. “I think you’ve been very stupid lately, cara . Sleeping with a dead man walking, carrying evidence that could destroy you…” His eyes gleam with cruel amusement. “Coming to an office my family has owned since before you started playing in our world.”
My breath hitches involuntarily. Of course. I’ve been so focused on maintaining my independence that I forgot the most basic rule—always know who really owns the ground you’re standing on.
“So here’s how this ends,” Anthony continues, ignoring my horror. “You come home. Play your part as my child’s mother and my wife. All this evidence disappears, and you get to raise our son in luxury instead of from behind bars.”
“And Mario?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Mario’s look could incinerate me where I stand—furious that I’m even entertaining this conversation.
“Gets to live.” Anthony shrugs elegantly. Liar. “Isn’t that generous of me? He goes back to Boston, you stay where you belong, and everyone survives. Unless of course,” his smile turns cruel, “you’d prefer to test how maternal instincts develop in federal prison.”
I feel Mario coiling like a spring beside me, rage radiating off him in waves. The Irish enforcers respond instantly—O’Connor’s best men shifting their stances as weapons appear in practiced hands. The hallway crackles with lethal tension.
One wrong move and this becomes a bloodbath.
But Anthony has miscalculated. He’s so focused on Mario that he doesn’t see my hand sliding into my desk drawer, doesn’t notice how I’ve positioned myself during this conversation—angling my body so my movements are hidden by the desk while keeping his attention on my face.
“You’re right about one thing,” I say calmly, though my heart slams against my chest so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. “I have been sloppy lately. Pregnancy brain, probably.”
The flash drive arcs through the air before anyone can react. One of the Irish enforcers catches it reflexively—Sean Murphy, I realize with a flash of recognition. Tall and imposing in his tactical gear, but with cold blue eyes. I’ve seen him in enough surveillance photos, standing at Siobhan’s right hand while she builds her shadow empire.
The same Sean Murphy who’s been helping her modernize the Irish mob behind her father’s back.
The same Sean Murphy whose cryptocurrency wallets I’ve been tracking for weeks.
“That’s everything I have on the trafficking operation,” I continue as Anthony’s face transforms with pure rage. The sophisticated mask shatters, revealing something terrifying beneath—raw fury that makes my skin crawl. “Every manifest, every bank record, every connection. Insurance, you might say. And now it’s in Irish hands.”
“You stupid bitch,” Anthony snarls. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”
“I know exactly what I’ve done.” I keep my voice steady despite my pounding heart. “Your arrangement with the Irish was always fragile. How do you think Seamus will react when he sees proof that you’ve been running trafficking operations through his legitimate shipping routes?”
Something angry flashes in Anthony’s eyes. The gun lifts slightly—not quite pointed at me, but the threat is crystal clear.
“You’re bluffing,” he says softly, that dangerous calm more frightening than his rage. “That drive is empty. You wouldn’t risk?—”
“Risk what? My life?” I laugh, though I feel Mario coiling tighter beside me, ready to explode into violence. “You’ve already threatened that. My freedom? Also threatened. My child’s future? Let’s add that to the list. Seems I have nothing left to lose.”
Sean Murphy examines the drive with careful interest, his Irish lilt deceptively casual. “Interesting insurance policy you’ve got here, lass.”
“Kill them both,” Anthony orders sharply, control completely abandoned. “Get that drive?—”
The windows explode inward as rappelling ropes appear. Mario moves with inhuman speed, tackling me behind my heavy desk as gunfire erupts. Through the chaos, I hear familiar voices—Marco’s team, perfectly timed.
The world dissolves into violence and breaking glass.
“You okay?” Mario’s body shields me completely, one hand protective over my stomach while the other aims his gun around the desk’s edge. His breath is warm against my neck, his heartbeat steady despite the chaos.
“Other than dying to throw up? Perfect.” I try to peer around him, but he presses me more firmly down, his body a wall between me and danger.
“Stay down,” he growls. “Marco’s team has the office covered but the hallway?—”
A fresh explosion rocks the building. Sofia’s delighted laugh carries over the gunfire: “Hallway’s clear, boys! Anthony’s running!”
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Mario snarls, his body tensing with fresh rage. “I’m going to kill her. Then I’m going to kill Marco for letting her anywhere near this.”
But I have more pressing matters to address rather than worry about a nineteen-year-old having the time of her life. “Shouldn’t we go after him? He’s getting away.”
“Let him,” Mario says grimly as the gunfire dies down. He helps me up, hands checking me for injuries with practiced efficiency. “We’ve got what we need.”
Sean Murphy holds up the drive, his gear splattered with evidence of the fight. “This what you wanted them to see, then?”
“That depends,” I say carefully, watching his face. “On whether you’re really here under Seamus’s orders, or if someone else sent you.”
His smile is sharp as a blade. “Smart lass. The lady O’Connor sends her regards.” He tucks the drive into his vest. “Said you might need some backup today.”
“So Siobhan’s finally making her move,” Mario says beside me, his arm still protective around my waist.
“The old ways are dying,” Murphy says simply. “Lady O’Connor thinks it’s time for new alliances. New ways of doing business.”
Relief floods through me. Siobhan had come through after all.
Through my broken office windows, I hear sirens approaching.
“We need to move,” Marco calls from the shattered window. “DeLuca security is incoming—someone finally called them.”
Sofia pokes her head through the doorway, blood splattered across her face like war paint. Her grin is fierce and wild.
“I told you I’d be useful,” she says cheerfully.
“You had no fucking business being here,” Mario snarls, but his arm stays steady around me. “We’ll discuss your suicidal tendencies later.”
Sofia just sticks out her tongue, looking far too pleased with herself.
Mario turns to me, his body angled protectively as more sirens join the chorus outside. “Ready to get out of here?”
I look around my destroyed office—papers scattered like snow, windows blown out, everything I’ve built lying in chaos around us.
But my hand finds Mario’s, squeezing tight. For the first time since discovering my pregnancy, since watching my carefully constructed world start to crumble, I feel steady.
“Take me home.”
Back in the safe house, Mario’s rage finally explodes. His careful control shatters as he rounds on me.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” His voice vibrates with fury. “Going to your office alone? After everything we discussed?”
“I was thinking I have a business to run,” I snap back, refusing to be cowed by his anger. “That I can’t just disappear into your protective bubble forever.”
“A business?” He laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. “You almost got yourself killed over fucking paperwork ?”
“It’s not just paperwork and you know it!” I match his volume, weeks of frustration pouring out. “It’s my life’s work. My independence. Everything I’ve built!”
“Your independence?” He stalks closer until he’s only inches from me. “And what about our safety? What about the baby?”
“Don’t you dare use her against me,” I snarl, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I’ve been protecting her since before you even knew she existed.”
“Protecting her?” His eyes flash dangerously. “By walking straight into Anthony’s trap? By carrying evidence that could get you killed or imprisoned?”
“I had it under control!” I shout.
“Under control ?” He grabs my shoulders, fingers digging in almost painfully. “He had you cornered! If I hadn’t?—”
“If you hadn’t what?” I wrench away from his grip. “Come charging in like a bull in a china shop? I handled it! I got the evidence to Murphy, I made the connection with Siobhan?—”
“You got lucky !” The words explode from him. “One wrong move and you’d be in Anthony’s hands right now. Or dead. Is that what you want?”
“What I want,” I say through gritted teeth, “is to not be treated like some fragile thing that needs to be locked away! I’m still me , Mario. Still the woman who’s been playing this game since before you noticed me.”
“And what happens when the game gets you killed?” His voice cracks slightly, revealing the fear beneath his rage. “When Anthony decides you’re more trouble than you’re worth?”
“That’s not—” I start to say, but Mario cuts me off.
“I can’t lose you!” The words tear from him like they’re being ripped from his chest. “ Either of you. Don’t you understand that?”
We stare at each other, both breathing hard. The anger still crackles between us, but something else too.
“I won’t be caged,” I say finally, my voice softer but no less firm. “Not even by you.”
“And I won’t watch you die because you’re too stubborn to let me protect you.” He backs me up into the wall.
My breath is shallow, my chest rising and falling against his. Mario’s hands grip my waist, pulling me closer, as if touching me is the only thing keeping him grounded. I can feel the heat of his body, the tension that radiates from him—an electric pulse that matches my own racing heart.
The confrontation with Anthony, the gunfire, the way we nearly lost everything…it leaves me raw, desperate, like I can’t breathe until I know he’s okay.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. My body moves of its own accord, driven by the ache deep inside me, the need to feel him, to confirm we’re both still here. I lean forward, pressing myself against him, and capture his lips in a heated kiss. It’s urgent, all teeth and fire, as if we can erase the fear, the chaos, through this touch.
His mouth is on mine almost violently, and I meet him with equal desperation. There’s no sweetness in it—just raw, unrestrained need, as if we’re trying to anchor ourselves in each other. His hands slide over my body, rough and possessive, claiming every inch of me, making sure I’m real, making sure I’m here, safe.
“I need you,” he growls against my neck, his voice ragged. His words send a shiver through me, igniting something deep inside. I can feel it— he needs me just as much as I need him. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, matching his urgency. His leg rests between my legs and my body arches in response when it brushes against my heated core.
We don’t wait. There’s no gentleness, no softness—just the frantic need to hold onto each other, to assure ourselves that we’re alive, that we survived this. He presses me harder against the wall, his body a furnace against mine.
I can feel his pulse, fast and frantic, matching my own. The world outside doesn’t exist in this moment. Only him. Only us.
Our mouths clash again, forceful and claiming, as if we’re trying to erase the weight of everything that’s happened. Every desperate kiss, every possessive touch, is a promise to survive, to stay together. To fight for each other.
Mario’s hands slide up my body to plunge underneath the silk blouse, grasping my breast, his thumb flicking over my peaked nipple. I gasp, arching into his touch.
He works my breasts, his fingers kneading them softly until I grind my hips against the leg that is still in between mine. Mario growls and presses his body flush against mine, the hard length of him pressing into my stomach. I try to move my hand in between us to touch him through his pants, but he grabs my wrists and pins them over my head.
“I don’t think so,” he murmurs into my collarbone. He uses one of his hands to continue to pin my wrists while the other pulls my skirt up to my hips. He moves my hands down to grip my skirt as he kneels down before me, hands on both of my thighs.
With a wink at me, he spreads my legs and licks me.
A low moan rips from my chest at the feeling of his tongue against my heat. He circles the apex of my thighs, his teeth scraping slightly and huffs a laugh against me when my hips buck and yet another moan escapes me.
“I’ll never get sick of hearing you make those noises,” he says before continuing.
My fingers grip his hair as his tongue works me in long strokes. He slips a finger into me and I whimper, biting my lip in an effort to be quiet. He adds a second finger and I feel the heat pooling in my stomach, begging for release. I grip his hair harder when his fingers begin pumping faster inside me, sensing how close I am.
Mario sucks my clit and I look down at him on his knees before me. The sight of him undoes me and I arch off the wall as my orgasm rocks through me, my legs quivering.
Mario stands up, his lips shiny, and his hands go to my hips to support me while I finish coming down from my orgasm. My lips crash against his and I can taste myself on him. He groans deeply into my mouth as he pushes me back up against the wall, a hand coming between us to undo his pants.
I pull them down myself and they pool around his ankles, the full length of him springing free. I can feel my slickness against my thighs and I place my hands around his neck as he lifts me up, his strong hands gripping either thigh.
My legs wrap around his waist as he slides into me. I cry out as he hisses through his teeth at how wet I am before he begins moving slowly inside me.
“Faster,” I whimper, unable to handle just how good this feels. Holding his face in my hands, I kiss him as I start to move against him, wanting to feel that delicious friction. I meet him thrust for thrust as he slides a hand up to squeeze my breast, rolling my sensitive nipple between his fingers.
My head falls back against the wall and a moan escapes me before I can stop myself. The sound seems to spur Mario on because he thrusts rougher into me, his hips smacking into mine. His breath comes in huffs as he adjusts his grip on my hips and pounds deeper into me. His lips crash against mine to devour my moan as release shudders through me, my walls clenching and squeezing him as he spills into me.
Mario continues thrusting, his movements wild and unrestrained as we both come down from our high. His hips finally slow before he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breaths coming in pants. I brush his hair off his sweaty forehead and kiss the top of his head.
“Bed?” I remark, my legs shaking.
After, as we lay tangled in sheets, I trace the many scars mapping Mario’s chest—each one telling its own story of survival. “You were going to let them kill you,” I whisper, the realization hitting me fully. “If it meant keeping me safe.”
“There was no ‘letting’ about it.” His voice is rough as he pulls me closer, his hand gentle on my hip. “I told you before—you and this baby are all that matter now.”
“Even though she’s his?” The question that’s been haunting me finally slips out.
Mario’s hand finds my stomach, slightly rounded and holding such complicated promise. His touch is reverent, protective. “She’s yours ,” he says firmly. “That’s all that matters.”
I turn to face him fully, seeing my own desperate choices reflected in his eyes. The violence and tenderness there, the capacity for both destruction and protection that drew me to him from the start. “What happens now? Anthony won’t stop. And the evidence I gave Sean…”
“Now we fight smarter.” He kisses my temple, my cheek, my lips—each touch an anchor in this storm we’ve created. “Together. No more solo missions to your office.”
I laugh against his mouth, some of our earlier tension finally dissolving. “No promises.”
His growl of frustration makes me smile. We’re both too stubborn, too used to fighting our own battles.
But maybe that’s what makes us work—two broken pieces fitting together in all the wrong ways to make something stronger.
Something worth protecting.