28. Elena
28
ELENA
T he DeLuca mansion’s terrace feels colder than I remember, though maybe that’s just the ice in Bella’s eyes as we face each other. The woman who once shared every secret, every dream, every moment of joy and pain, now stands like a stranger. My heart twists painfully at the distance between us—remembering late nights talking about everything and anything, celebrating when we found out she was pregnant, our lunch dates…
All of it gone because of my choices.
The awkward silence stretches between us like a physical thing. I resist the urge to fill it with excuses or explanations. We were closer than sisters once—sharing clothes and secrets and dreams.
Now we can barely look at each other.
“Why?” Bella asks finally, the single word carrying months of betrayal. “After everything we’ve been through together—after Johnny, after all of it. Why Mario ?”
I force myself to maintain eye contact, knowing I owe my former best friend at least this much honesty. “It started as a game,” I admit. “A way to prove I was more than just the society party planner everyone underestimated. But then…”
“Then you fell in love with the man who terrorized my stepdaughter? Who tried to kill my husband? Who would have killed my babies given the chance?” Bella’s voice shakes with barely contained emotion. “Do you have any idea what Bianca went through? The nightmares, the therapy?—”
“I know what he did was unforgivable—” I start but Bella interrupts me, her nostrils flaring with anger.
“Unforgivable?” She laughs bitterly. “He tried to kill Bianca when she was twelve years old! And you seem to find that acceptable? So what were you doing? Planning parties and gathering intel while fucking Mario? Playing both sides while pretending to be my friend?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I protest, but the words sound hollow even to me.
“Then what was it like?” Her eyes flash with that Russo fire I used to admire. “Explain it to me, Elena. Explain how my best friend—the woman I trusted with everything —could betray me so completely.”
“He’s different now,” I start, but her bitter laugh cuts me off.
“Different? Like every man in our world who claims to change but just finds new ways to destroy things?”
“No.” My hand rests on my bump, drawing strength from my daughter’s movements. “Different because he’s choosing to be better than their father’s legacy. Different because he’s willing to raise another man’s child, like Matteo did. To protect us both from Anthony, from the Irish, from everything.”
Bella scoffs. “And I’m supposed to just forgive everything because he’s decided to play hero?”
“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” I say quietly even though I desperately want it. “I don’t deserve it. But I am asking you to understand. You of all people know what it’s like to love someone others call a monster.”
Her expression transforms—not forgiveness, not yet, but understanding maybe. “You really love him?”
“Like you love Matteo.” I meet her eyes steadily. “Enough to risk everything. To choose something bigger than revenge or power or proving ourselves.”
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant sound of security teams patrolling the grounds. Finally, Bella reaches into her pocket, withdrawing her phone. “The twins,” she says softly, pulling up photos. “Giovanni is Matteo’s spitting image. It’s uncanny. But Arianna…she’s got my father’s eyes.”
My breath catches at this small olive branch. The babies are beautiful—four months old and thriving despite their early arrival. Giovanni already has Matteo’s serious expression, even with his chubby cheeks and toothless grin. Arianna is smaller but fiercer, dark eyes looking so much like Giovanni Russo’s it makes my chest ache.
“I’m having a girl,” I offer quietly. “Her name will be Stella. It means star.”
“Like something bright in the darkness?” Bella’s voice holds no judgment now, just wary acceptance.
“Like hope,” I correct, meeting her eyes. “For something better than what we came from.”
Bella studies me for a long moment before nodding once. “I’m not ready for you to meet them,” she says honestly. “Maybe I never will be. But…” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “I hope Stella has an easier path than any of us did.”
She slips back inside the mansion, leaving me alone with the weight of everything we’ve lost. It’s not forgiveness. It’s not even really reconciliation.
But as I watch my former best friend disappear into the warmth of the house, I realize it’s something almost more important.
It’s understanding.
The drive home from the DeLuca mansion feels surreal, the weight of what just happened settling over me like a blanket. Mario sits beside me in the back of the armored Mercedes, his hand never leaving mine as his security team takes a deliberately circuitous route back to our safe house.
Neither of us speaks—there’s too much to process, too many implications to consider.
My mind replays the photos of Bella’s twins. Beautiful, healthy babies. My niece and nephew in another life.
Giovanni with his father’s face but his mother’s chin. Arianna with her grandfather’s fighting spirit clear in that toothless grin. The fact that Bella showed me at all—that she let me glimpse this precious part of her life after everything I’ve done—makes my throat close up with emotion.
It’s more than I deserve, this tentative olive branch. More than I had any right to hope for after betraying her trust so completely.
Matteo’s agreement to limited protection complicates things further. Having DeLuca security coordinating with Mario’s teams will help against Anthony’s increasingly erratic moves, but it also means navigating decades of distrust and betrayal. I caught the looks exchanged between Antonio and Mario’s men—old wounds don’t heal easily in our world.
My phone buzzes again—another report that makes me wince.
“What’s wrong?” Mario asks sharply, noticing my distress. I hand him my phone.
Photos of a warehouse in Brooklyn, walls painted red with what used to be Anthony’s most trusted captain. “He tortured him for hours,” I tell Mario quietly. “Made an example of him in front of the other crews.”
“Fuck,” he curses, handing me my phone back. “Why this one?” Mario asks, though I suspect he already knows.
“Caught him talking to one of Siobhan’s people.” I swipe through more photos that turn my stomach. “He’s getting paranoid. Two more captains found in the East River last week. One of them…” I swallow hard. “One of them had a pregnant wife.”
Mario sucks in a breath and I can’t help but agree. The message couldn’t be clearer.
Stella kicks hard, causing me to wince. Mario’s hand immediately covers mine where it rests on my bump, his touch gentle despite the violence I know those hands are capable of.
“He’s seeing threats everywhere,” I continue, forcing myself to study the intelligence reports. “Lashing out at his own people. He doesn’t realize the real damage comes from how we’ve systematically dismantled his support system.”
“Good.” Mario’s voice holds no mercy. “Let him destroy himself from within. Makes our job easier.”
Sometimes the most dangerous wounds aren’t the ones that bleed. Sometimes they’re the ones we inflict on ourselves while searching for enemies in all the wrong places.
“He’s unraveling,” I tell Mario as we enter the safe house. The tension in my shoulders eases as the security system engages behind us. It’s ironic how this temporary shelter has become more home than anywhere I’ve lived before—maybe because it’s the first place I’ve been truly myself, not playing some calculated role.
“My sources say he executed his own cousin yesterday for suggesting they modernize their banking system,” I continue, eyes scanning the message.
Mario whistles low. “The famous Calabrese mental stability strikes again. Johnny would be so proud—keeping the family tradition of paranoid breakdowns alive.”
But something about the pattern of Anthony’s violence makes me uneasy. I sink into the leather sofa, trying to organize my thoughts. “It’s not just random brutality anymore. He’s specifically targeting anyone who suggests change or modernization. The violence is getting more…personal.” I struggle to find the right words.
He’s becoming like his uncle Johnny—all cruel impulse without calculation.
“A desperate Anthony Calabrese is infinitely more dangerous than a rational one,” Mario agrees, his hand finding the small of my back as he sits beside me.
My phone lights up with another report that makes my blood run cold. Anthony’s called in old favors, gathering forces from families that still cling to traditional power structures. He’s planning something big—I can feel it in my bones, the same instinct that’s kept me alive in this world of calculated violence.
But then I watch Mario coordinate with Matteo’s security teams, seeing these careful new alliances form. His voice is steady as he issues orders, seamlessly integrating his brother’s men with our own protection detail.
Maybe we’re finally building something stronger than Anthony can tear down.
Maybe we’re creating the future I want for our daughter, one careful step at a time.