26. Elena
26
ELENA
F our months of calculated silence. Four months of watching Anthony’s empire crumble piece by piece while he searches frantically for external enemies. He’s too focused on hunting Mario and me to see how thoroughly we’ve turned his own infrastructure against him.
The young Irish families have proven masterful at dismantling his operation from within. Ships mysteriously redirected. Digital payments vanishing into cryptocurrency mazes. Security teams compromised by better offers. Each small cut precisely placed to bleed him dry while maintaining plausible deniability.
“Another shipping contract lost,” Siobhan reports through our secure channel. “Poor Anthony seems to be having terrible luck with port authorities lately.”
I smile, rubbing my now-prominent belly as I review her latest intelligence. At eight months pregnant, I’ve turned this safe house into a command center—coordinating with Siobhan and the other Irish heirs while Mario handles the physical security.
Sean Murphy visited last week, bringing detailed reports of how thoroughly Anthony’s support system is disintegrating. “He’s too proud to admit he needs the old guard’s help,” Sean had explained smugly. “And too suspicious of modernization. Prefers to cling to the old ways, like his grandfather and uncle. He’s isolating himself perfectly.”
Seamus O’Connor remains a looming threat—his rage at Mario’s betrayal only intensified by his daughter’s growing defiance. But Siobhan insists we focus on Anthony first. “One war at a time,” she’d said during our last call. “Let’s destroy the Calabrese heir before we deal with my father’s outdated vendetta.”
My phone buzzes with another update from Siobhan: Anthony just lost his Singapore connections. Apparently someone showed them proof he’s been skimming profits. Such a shame.
I grin, remembering how carefully we planted that evidence. Death by a thousand cuts, each one precisely placed to ensure he never suspects the real architects of his downfall.
“Something amusing?” Mario asks, coming up behind me to massage my shoulders.
“Just watching Anthony’s world burn,” I reply, leaning back into his touch. “One digital transaction at a time.”
Sometimes the best revenge isn’t swift or violent. Sometimes it’s watching your enemy destroy himself while searching for shadows in all the wrong places.
I study my reflection in the safe house mirror, smoothing my Carolina Herrera dress over my eight-month bump. The baby has been active all day, kicking and rolling as if sensing the tension in the air. The letter sits beside my makeup bag, Bella’s familiar handwriting making my heart ache:
I know what you did at the hospital that night. How you made sure the right doctors were there. Please come home. Matteo has agreed to a temporary truce—proof attached.
The proof and letter came through one of my most trusted hospital contacts—someone even Matteo’s extensive network doesn’t know about. The video shows Matteo himself making the formal declaration of sanctuary: “For twenty-four hours, I invoke the old laws. The DeLuca compound is neutral ground, protected by traditions older than our grudges. Any violation will be met with total war.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Mario says from the doorway. I catch his reflection—devastating in a charcoal Stefano Ricci suit that emphasizes how handsome he is. His eyes linger on my stomach before quickly looking away, that shadow I’ve come to recognize crossing his face. These moments have become more frequent as my pregnancy progresses—the slight hesitation before he touches my bump, the way he pulls back when the baby kicks.
“It’s actually perfect,” I say, turning to face him. “Anthony’s watching every hotel, restaurant, and safe house in Manhattan. But the DeLuca compound? He’d never expect us to walk right into what he thinks is enemy territory.”
“Unless that’s exactly what he expects us to think,” Mario says.
“No. He knows Matteo would burn the city down before letting anyone violate sanctuary in his home. Even Anthony won’t risk breaking that kind of old world tradition—not when he’s trying to convince the conservative families to back him.” I turn back around to finish my makeup.
“Besides,” I add, watching his reflection carefully, “this might be our only chance to secure real protection. If I can make Bella understand why I did what I did, if Matteo sees that helping us hurts Anthony and the Irish…”
“That’s a lot of ‘ifs,’ little planner.” But I can see him considering the advantages. The DeLucas might hate Mario, but they hate Anthony more. And with the Irish families fracturing, new alliances become possible.
My daughter kicks hard, as if adding her vote to this dangerous gamble. Mario’s hand twitches toward my belly before dropping away—another moment of wanting to connect but holding back.
Some battles, I realize, are fought with guns and blood. Others with computers and bank accounts.
But the hardest ones? Those are fought with truth and trust and the hope that love might be stronger than betrayal.
My hand drifts to my stomach as the baby kicks again. These moments still catch me off guard—the fierce protectiveness that floods through me. Everything I do now isn’t just about survival or revenge—it’s about creating a future where my daughter won’t have to play these deadly games.
“Antonio will be watching every move we make,” Mario says, finally meeting my eyes in the mirror. “If this is a trap…”
“Antonio is old school.” I turn to face him fully. “He may hate you, but he respects the old traditions even more than Matteo does. For twenty-four hours, we’ll be untouchable under his protection.”
The weight of Bella’s message seems to fill the room: Come home. The words make my eyes water because that’s what the DeLuca mansion had been, before everything. Before Mario, before Anthony, before I started playing games with people’s lives.
“What aren’t you telling me?” Mario asks softly, reading something in my expression that I can’t quite hide.
I hesitate, then pull out my phone, showing him another part of Bella’s message I hadn’t shared: After what you did at the hospital—making sure the right doctors were there, protecting the twins even after everything…maybe it’s time we both stopped letting the men in our lives dictate who we can trust.
“She was my best friend,” I say quietly, the words tasting like regret. “Before the games, before the schemes…she was the only person who saw me as more than just a party planner or someone to be used. And I betrayed that trust completely.”
The baby kicks again, as if sensing my turmoil. I remember Bianca’s words in the hospital—how even after everything, Bella’s first instinct was to ask for me. To trust me one last time.
Maybe it’s time to earn that trust back.
“And now?” Mario raises a dark eyebrow.
“Now I’m eight months pregnant, hiding in safe houses, watching my daughter’s future get decided by other people’s wars. Maybe it’s time to try building bridges instead of burning them. The DeLucas might hate you, but they understand choosing love over family loyalty better than anyone.”
Mario moves closer, his reflection joining mine in the mirror. “You really think they’ll understand? After what I did to Bianca?”
“Matteo chose Bianca,” I remind him. “Chose love over the DeLuca name. And Bella…” I sigh. “Bella chose Matteo even after learning what he’d done to Sophia. To countless others. She understands better than anyone how love forces us to make impossible choices.”
The baby kicks again, harder this time, making me wince. Mario’s hand comes up automatically to steady me, and I notice he doesn’t pull away from my bump as quickly as usual. That slight hesitation becoming less pronounced each time.
“Still,” he says, voice rough. “Walking into the DeLuca compound…”
“Is exactly what Anthony would never expect.” I check my reflection one final time. “Besides, I have it on good authority that he’s got men watching every restaurant and hotel where Bella and I used to meet. He’d never believe we’d risk going there.”
“And if it is a trap?” Mario repeats.
“Then we’ll handle it like we handle everything else.” I turn to face him fully. “Together.”
His answering smile holds equal parts pride and concern as he grasps my hands, his callused thumbs rubbing over my knuckles. “Just promise me something, little planner.”
“What’s that?”
“If anything feels wrong—anything at all—we leave. Immediately. No games, no clever plans. Just getting you both out safely.”
The use of “both” doesn’t escape my notice. I reach up to cup his face, seeing all his carefully hidden fears in his eyes. “I promise.”