30. Elena
30
ELENA
T he aftermath of Sean Murphy’s execution transforms our safe house into a war room. Encrypted communications flow between New York and Boston as we help Siobhan solidify her control. My laptop screens display real-time updates of the Irish power shift—young captains pledging allegiance, old guard supporters being systematically isolated.
“The Murphy crew just seized another of your father’s warehouses,” I tell Siobhan during one of our daily phone calls. Through the secure feed, I watch her navigate her father’s old office like she was born to it. “No resistance. Seems your infiltration of his security teams was more thorough than even he realized.”
“Sean taught me well.” That raw edge remains in her voice whenever she mentions her murdered captain. “While my father focused on breaking bones, Sean showed me how to break entire systems. How to turn everyone’s blind spots into weapons.”
My network confirms that Seamus is practically under house arrest—his own modernized security teams ensuring he can’t interfere with his daughter’s takeover. The old don who once ruled through fear now watches helplessly as his empire transforms around him.
“He tried bribing his guards yesterday,” Siobhan says, satisfaction coloring her tone. “Offered them triple their salaries to let him contact his old captains. They recorded the whole thing and sent it to me.”
Mario smothers a laugh from beside me and I nudge his shoulder. “How’s he taking the isolation?” I ask.
She laughs delightedly. “Not well. Apparently, he spent an hour ranting about ungrateful children and the death of tradition. The guards say he keeps demanding to know how I turned his own security against him.”
“And did you tell him?” Mario can’t help but interject.
“I told him Sean taught me everything I needed to know about loyalty.” Her voice hardens. “Right before my father put a bullet in his son’s head.”
After hanging up with Siobhan, I lean back in my chair, rubbing my aching back. “She’s a scary motherfucker.”
Mario’s laugh fills the room. “Finally figured that out, did you?”
“I mean it,” I say, shoving him lightly. “The way she orchestrated this whole thing…” I shake my head in admiration. “Remind me never to get on her bad side.”
“Too late for that, little planner. You’re already in bed with her enemies.”
He has me there. “True. But at least I’m smart enough to be useful to her,” I admit.
Our moment of levity shatters as my phone buzzes with new intelligence about Anthony. The reports make my skin crawl—he’s gone completely erratic since the Irish families turned against him, executing suspected traitors without proof, making increasingly unstable decisions.
He shot another captain at dinner last night , my source reports. Carlo suggested using blockchain for some transactions. Anthony put three bullets in his shoulder right there at the table. Said modernization was a disease that had to be burned out.
I watch Mario absorb this news, seeing that dangerous focus sharpen in his eyes. The same look he gets before violence becomes necessary. We both know what this means—Anthony is becoming like his uncle Johnny, all violent impulse without strategic control.
“Men like him, when they’re cornered…” Mario’s voice holds dark knowledge. “They strike at what they think they can still control.”
His hand drifts to my stomach, where Stella kicks as if sensing the tension. I cover his fingers with mine, feeling the slight tremor he tries to hide. These moments of vulnerability are rare—glimpses of the man beneath the carefully constructed weapon Giuseppe created.
My phone lights up with another report from inside the Calabrese organization. Anthony’s gathered his most violent supporters, the ones who still cling to his uncle Johnny’s methods. They’re meeting at the old warehouse where Johnny used to “handle problems.”
“He’s talking about bloodlines,” my source writes. “About tradition and purity. About making examples of traitors.”
I pull up security footage showing Anthony at his latest family dinner. The change in him is shocking—gone is the sophisticated swagger that I once knew. He reminds me too much of the Johnny who held me at gunpoint in my apartment.
I shiver at the memory. I hated feeling so helpless.
“He’s obsessed with the baby,” another source reports. “Keeps talking about his heir, about blood rights. About making sure his child is raised with proper values.”
Mario’s hands ball tight, but I catch something else in his expression—a flash of that old insecurity about the baby’s paternity. Even now, after everything we’ve built, Anthony’s words about blood and birthright hit those carefully hidden wounds Giuseppe left.
“Hey,” I say softly, taking his hand. “She’s ours. Biology doesn’t matter.”
“I know.” But there’s still tension in his jaw, still that shadow in his eyes that makes my heart ache. “I just…I remember how Giuseppe treated me. His bastard son. The constant reminders that I wasn’t really a DeLuca. I won’t let her ever feel that.”
I turn his face toward mine, making him meet my eyes. “She won’t. Because she’ll have something you never did—parents who love her for exactly who she is, not what blood runs in her veins.”
Stella kicks again, as if agreeing. This time, Mario’s smile holds no shadows as he feels her movement beneath his palm.
The nursery has become my sanctuary—all soft grays and blush pinks, elegant but warm. The Hermès blanket Mario insisted on buying drapes over the custom crib, while hand-painted butterflies dance across one wall. It’s feminine without being precious, chic without feeling cold. Everything chosen with careful thought, just like all my plans.
I sink into the oversized rocking chair—another of Mario’s indulgences—and survey my favorite room. The mobile catches afternoon light, casting rainbow patterns across the cream carpet.
Designer stuffed animals arranged just so, books about strong women lined up on floating shelves, that ridiculously expensive French chandelier Mario said our daughter deserved.
Every detail perfect, yet somehow also purely us. The bulletproof windows hidden behind delicate curtains. The panic button disguised as a decorative switch. Beauty and danger intertwined, just like everything in our world.
“What do you think, little star?” I whisper, rubbing my belly where Stella kicks. “Did Mama do okay with your room?”
She responds with a series of movements that make me smile. “I’ll take that as approval. Though your papa might add more security features when he sees the final result.”
I rock slowly, imagining what it will be like to hold her here. To read her stories about queens and warriors while Mario pretends not to listen from the doorway. To watch her grow into something stronger than the violence that created her.
“You’re already so loved,” I tell her softly, tracing patterns on my stretched skin. “More than biology or bloodlines or any of the things the old men think matter. You’re going to be extraordinary, my little star. And so, so free.”
She kicks again, right against my palm, as if sealing this promise between us. I catch my reflection in the antique mirror—my hand protective over my bump, surrounded by this perfect blend of beauty and security we’ve created for our daughter.
The peace of the moment feels almost magical, until my phone rings.
Siobhan.
“Is your perpetual shadow hovering nearby?” she asks without preamble.
“No, Mario’s handling ‘business.’” Which means coordinating with Dante about security protocols while pretending not to be overprotective. “What’s wrong?”
“We have a problem,” Siobhan says. “Anthony’s reached out to some of my father’s old allies. They’re talking about ‘purifying’ both families. About making examples of anyone who betrays tradition.”
I pull up more intelligence on my tablet—bank transfers, weapons shipments, movements of known hitmen. All pointing to something big.
“He won’t stop,” I say quietly, watching the pieces come together. My hand drifts protectively to my stomach. “Not until he has what he thinks is his.”
“Anthony’s rallying every old guard faction he can find,” Siobhan continues grimly. “Conservative Irish crews still loyal to Seamus, Italian families who remember Johnny’s glory days, even Russian outfits that cling to Soviet methods.”
The rainbow patterns from the mobile suddenly feel less magical, more like targets. I study the peaceful nursery—this sanctuary we’ve built—and wonder how much longer we can protect it.
When Mario gets home, I can see tension radiating from him even before I share Siobhan’s news. His face darkens with each detail I relay.
“Anthony’s gathering forces,” I explain. “Old guard Irish crews, traditional Italian families?—”
“Anyone who still worships at the altar of outdated methods,” he finishes grimly, shedding his suit jacket.
“He’s building an army,” I say as we review the intelligence sprawling across our screens. “But not for territory or profit. This is about ideology now. About punishing everyone who chose progress over tradition.”
We monitor Anthony’s movements, watching his desperation grow with each passing day. Every screen shows another piece of his unraveling—bank accounts drained in rage- fueled gambling, loyal captains fleeing his increasingly violent outbursts.
“The baby makes us vulnerable,” Mario says that night, after another report of Anthony ranting about his heir. The words seem to cost him something to admit. “He knows that. He’ll use it.”
“The baby makes us stronger,” I counter, meeting his gaze steadily. “She’s why we’ve built these alliances. Why Matteo helps protect us, why Siobhan’s people guard our perimeter. She’s not our weakness—she’s proof that love is stronger than blood.”
But that night, watching Anthony’s latest surveillance footage, I see something that chills me to my core. He’s in his private office, surrounded by photos of me, of Mario, of every movement we’ve made. His usual composure is shattered as he screams at his men about tradition and loyalty.
“Soon,” he promises the photos, running his fingers over my image in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Soon we’ll purify everything. Return proper order. My daughter will never know these modern corruptions.”
My blood runs cold. How did he find out we’re having a girl? The information was protected—encrypted medical files, trusted doctors, every precaution taken.
If he’s breached that security…what else does he know?
A few days later, my network explodes with urgent warnings, screens lighting up like a Christmas tree gone wrong. Anthony’s forces are mobilizing—not just in New York, but in strategic positions across the East Coast. Every old guard faction answering his call to “restore traditional values.”
I study the patterns emerging across our surveillance feeds, my heart racing as I recognize the formation. “He’s going to try to take everything at once,” I tell Siobhan through our secure channel, my voice tight with tension. “Your operations, the DeLuca alliance, everyone who’s chosen modernization over tradition.”
“Oh please let him try.” Her voice holds that deadly calm that reminds me she’s as dangerous as any of them. “The old guard forgets—we control their infrastructure now. Their communications, their banking, their security systems. They’re fighting a modern war with outdated weapons.”
But Anthony’s madness makes him more dangerous, not less. Through our feeds, I watch him gather his most violent supporters at the old Calabrese warehouse. The same place where his uncle Johnny used to torture rivals, where tradition meant spilled blood and broken bones.
“He’s giving them names,” my source reports, voice shaking. “Targets. Everyone who needs to be ‘purified’ for the sake of family honor.”
Mario studies the intelligence over my shoulder, his hand resting protectively on my back. The warmth of his touch contrasts sharply with the ice in his voice. “You’re at the top of his list, aren’t you?”
I nod, pulling up the intercepted kill order. My name heads a document that reads like a manifesto about blood purity and proper values. About making examples of those who corrupt tradition.
“He won’t touch you,” Mario promises, his voice holding that lethal edge that first drew me to him. “Either of you.”
I lean back against him, drawing strength from his solid presence while watching Anthony’s forces gather on our screens. All the familiar patterns of impending war spread across our monitors—weapons shipments, troop movements, strategic positioning.
We’re past the point of prevention. All our careful plans, all our built alliances—they’ve brought us to this moment.
The only question is: who strikes first?
Mario’s phone lights up with Siobhan’s name. He raises an eyebrow, showing me the screen with exaggerated distaste.
“Oh, just answer it,” I say, rolling my eyes at his dramatics. “She wouldn’t call you directly unless it was important.”
“Maybe I’m busy,” he grumbles, but answers anyway. “What?”
I watch his body go rigid at whatever Siobhan says, my own pulse quickening in response. Even through the speaker, I can hear the dangerous satisfaction in her voice: “How would you like to come back to Boston?”
“Why?” Mario’s tone is dangerous.
“Because my father’s becoming a fucking nuisance. Even under house arrest, he’s still causing problems. Reaching out to old allies, making promises about restoration of proper order.” She pauses deliberately. “I thought you might enjoy helping me eliminate the man who spent five years treating you like his personal attack dog.”
I study Mario’s face, watching emotions war across his features. That muscle in his jaw ticks. His fingers tighten on the phone, his knuckles turning white.
“You have him exactly where you want him,” Mario says carefully. “Why do you need my help?”
“Because I thought you’d appreciate the poetry of it.” Siobhan’s voice sounds bored as if discussing how to kill a parent annoys her. “The exile he tried to break, returning to put him down. Besides…” She pauses. “You’re the only one who truly understands what needs to be done. The only one who won’t hesitate.”
Mario’s eyes meet mine, and I see the decision form. Five years of rage and pain crystallizing into purpose.
“When do you want me there?” he asks.
Siobhan’s smile is audible. “Tonight. And Mario? We make sure he suffers. Like Sean’s boy suffered. Like everyone who crossed the old guard suffered.”
The call ends, leaving us in charged silence. I watch my dangerous, complicated man prepare for one final act of vengeance.
Some debts can only be paid in blood.