32. Elena
32
ELENA
I t’s been three days since Siobhan eliminated her father, since the Irish families officially aligned with us. Three days of watching power shift through my network of carefully placed sources. But Anthony’s silence makes my skin crawl.
Even at eight and a half months pregnant, I maintain my cover as New York’s premier event planner. The DeLuca security teams stationed outside think they’re just protecting Mario’s pregnant mistress—they don’t see how many strings I still pull from behind bulletproof glass.
“The governor’s wife loved the centerpiece options,” Kate reports through our secure line. My assistant has proven invaluable, handling the physical presence our clients expect while I coordinate remotely. “Though the mayor’s daughter is being difficult about her sweet sixteen.”
“Send her the pink peonies,” I say, rubbing my aching hips as I review seating charts. “She’ll cave once she sees them arranged with the crystal butterflies.”
But while I play society planner, my other screens tell a darker story. Anthony’s gone completely dark—no movement through known channels, no contact with traditional allies. Even my best sources have lost track of him.
A smart person would focus on the baby, on preparing for Stella’s arrival. The nursery is ready, the hospital route secured, every detail planned with military precision. But I can’t shake the feeling that Anthony’s planning something. Men like him don’t just disappear.
My phone buzzes with another event crisis—some socialite demanding last-minute changes to her charity gala. I handle it automatically, mind already mapping possible scenarios. Where would Anthony go? What resources does he still command?
The baby kicks hard, as if sharing my unease. “I know, little star,” I murmur, running my hand over my swollen belly. “Mama’s worried too.”
Because Anthony’s silence can only mean one thing—he’s finally ready to make his move.
It happens a few days later. I’m on FaceTime with Kate, reviewing floral arrangements for the children’s hospital benefit, when Mario bursts into our command center. One look at his face and my heart drops.
“They’re moving,” he says without preamble, already pulling up surveillance feeds. “Anthony’s forces, all over Manhattan. Not attacking, not yet, but?—”
“Positioning themselves,” I finish, recognizing the pattern instantly as I mute Kate. On our screens, red dots appear like a spreading infection—Anthony’s men taking up strategic positions around our known safe houses, our allies’ businesses, our entire support network.
I’m not surprised—we knew this was coming. But seeing it unfold makes my hands shake slightly as I rest them on my bump.
“He’s finally doing it,” I tell Mario as we review the intelligence. After Siobhan’s takeover in Boston, after watching the old guard crumble, Anthony’s rage has finally crystallized into action. “Every old-school faction he could gather, every traditionalist crew that resents modernization—they’re all falling in line behind him.”
“Kate, I’ll call you back,” I say, realizing that Kate was still waiting for me. I end the FaceTime call. I pull up intel on my computer. “Look—they’re not just surrounding us. They’re setting up around Matteo’s territory too. Anyone who’s chosen progress over tradition.”
Mario’s hand finds my shoulder as we watch Anthony’s forces gather like storm clouds. “This isn’t just about us anymore,” he says quietly. “This is his last stand against everything that threatens his way of life.”
Stella kicks again, harder this time, making me wince. Both of Mario’s hands come to my belly, his touch featherlight.
Mario’s phone chimes with a text from Matteo. It’s a video.
“Play it,” I urge him, my heart hammering.
The video quality is grainy—security footage from one of Anthony’s warehouses—but what we see makes my blood run cold.
Anthony paces like a caged animal, his usual polished appearance completely shattered. His suit is wrinkled, his perfectly styled hair wild, dark circles under eyes that hold something terrifying in their intensity. This isn’t the sophisticated heir who seduced me. This is something else entirely—something broken and deadly.
“My daughter will not be raised by a DeLuca bastard,” he snarls at his assembled men, spittle flying from his lips. “She will know proper values, proper tradition. We will purify both families of this modern corruption.”
He runs his hands through his disheveled hair, that familiar gesture now manic and uncontrolled. “The child in Elena’s womb is Calabrese blood. Pure blood. Not some mongrel bastard’s spawn.”
Mario’s hands clench into fists as we watch, his jaw tight with carefully controlled rage. But I catch something else in his expression—that shadow that crosses his face whenever Anthony claims our daughter. Those words about blood and tradition 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 old pain in his eyes. “I just…I remember how Giuseppe treated me. His bastard son. I won’t let her ever feel that.”
The video continues, showing Anthony’s descent into complete madness. He rants about bloodlines and family honor while his men exchange worried glances. Even they can see their leader has crossed some line into dangerous instability.
“He’s going to come for us,” I say quietly, one hand protective over our daughter. “For her.”
Mario’s arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder as we watch Anthony unravel on screen. “I dare him to.”
But we both know this isn’t just about us anymore. This is about two visions of the future colliding—tradition versus progress, blood versus choice, the old world dying violently as the new one struggles to be born.
And our daughter is caught in the crossfire.
Anger rises in me as I watch Anthony’s ranting replay on screen. How dare he try to claim this child as his? He was nothing but a sperm donor—a means to an end while I gathered intelligence.
This baby is a DeLuca, regardless of whose blood flows through her veins.
I grab my phone, dialing Siobhan with sudden purpose. “I need a favor,” I say the moment she answers.
“The Irish are at your disposal,” she responds immediately, making both Mario and me pause in surprise.
“Wait, what ?” Mario responds, leaning forward in disbelief. “Just like that?”
“Don’t act so shocked,” Siobhan says, affronted. “I can be generous when it serves my interests.”
Mario mutters something under his breath about generous snakes, earning a smack from me.
“I need forces in New York,” I tell her. “For when Anthony makes his final move.”
“Delighted to help eliminate more old guard deadweight,” Siobhan practically purrs. “How many men do you need?”
I glance at Mario, eyebrows raised. “As many as you can spare without compromising Boston.”
“Done,” Siobhan remarks. “And Elena? Make it hurt.”
Within several hours, the Irish arrive in New York. I coordinate with Siobhan’s forces while monitoring Anthony’s movements. The Irish crews loyal to her now guard our perimeter, working seamlessly with Mario’s security teams.
Even Matteo has contributed protection, our careful new alliance proving stronger than old vendettas.
“Every traditional faction that resents how the families are changing—they’re all at the Calabrese mansion, swearing blood oaths about restoring proper order,” Antonio tells us that evening.
My phone chimes from Antonio’s intelligence, showing Calabrese movements—weapons being stockpiled, crews taking positions near our allies’ businesses, old guard soldiers infiltrating places we once thought secure. Anthony is building toward something big, something that will make Sean Murphy’s execution look like a warning shot.
“My guards caught three of his men trying to breach the hospital’s security,” Matteo tells me, his voice icy with rage. “They were placing spotters, learning shift changes. He’s planning for every contingency.”
My hands shake slightly as I rest them on my bump. Anthony knows I’m due soon. Knows our daughter could arrive any day. He’s preparing to take what he sees as his, to rip her away from the “corruption” of our modernized world.
“He’ll strike during a public event,” I tell Mario. My fingers trace over the society calendar on my laptop. “Somewhere he thinks he can control the variables. Somewhere my security will be stretched thin by social obligations.”
“The children’s hospital benefit,” Mario says, studying the schedule. A muscle ticks in his jaw as he recognizes the perfect trap. “Next week at the Plaza. He knows you won’t skip it—not with your reputation for handling their annual fundraiser.”
The realization settles like ice in my veins. It’s perfect really—a high-profile event I can’t avoid without raising suspicion.
“He’s counting on my pride,” I say quietly. “On my need to maintain appearances.”
Mario scowls, his fingers drumming against the table. “We could send Kate—” He starts to suggest but I cut him off.
“No.” I meet Mario’s gaze steadily. “He wants us afraid. Wants us hiding. I won’t give him that satisfaction.”
The hospital relies on my connections, my ability to squeeze maximum donations from Manhattan’s wealthy. Even now, eight months pregnant and being hunted, I can’t abandon them. Those sick children need every dollar I can extract from society’s elite. Anthony will expect that loyalty, will plan around it.
“We could use it,” I suggest, my mind already mapping possibilities as I pace our command center. “Let him think he’s cornered us. Meanwhile, Siobhan’s crews will be in position, the DeLuca teams ready. We control more variables than he realizes.”
I pull up security layouts for the Plaza with fresh eyes—seeing beyond the usual event planner concerns to every vulnerability Anthony might exploit. Each service entrance becomes a potential attack point. Every blind spot in the camera coverage offers both threat and opportunity. All the hidden routes I once used for more innocent purposes now transform into tactical considerations.
“The kitchen access here,” I point out to Mario, enlarging the blueprints on our main screen. “And this service corridor that runs behind the ballroom. I used to plan escape routes through there for society wives needing breaks from their husbands’ boring speeches.”
“Now they’ll be Anthony’s attack points,” Mario says grimly, already coordinating with our security teams. “He’ll expect you to use those same routes when he makes his move.”
Matteo’s team reports roll in—Anthony gathering specific equipment that makes my skin crawl. Tactical gear designed for stealth, specialized weapons meant for close-quarters combat in crowded spaces. He’s planning something precise, something that minimizes collateral damage to the society figures who’ll be attending.
“He still cares about appearances,” I note, watching the intelligence flow across our screens. “Even now, he wants to maintain that image of legitimacy. Of being better than Johnny.”
My phone buzzes with updates from the hospital board—last-minute guest list changes, donation projections, all the normal chaos of a major fundraiser. The mundane mixed with deadly stakes.
“Dr. Cho needs the final numbers for the pediatric wing presentation,” I tell Mario as I respond to emails. “And the governor’s wife is threatening to pull her donation if she’s not seated next to the Broadway star.”
“Again, you could skip it,” he says quietly. The words hold real fear beneath his usual control. “Let someone else handle it this year. Keep you both safe. Think of Stella.”
I rest my hand on my stomach, feeling our daughter’s restless movements. She’s been more active lately, as if sensing what’s going on. Her kicks feel like punctuation to our war preparations.
“No. I won’t let him make me hide. Won’t let him control what I can and can’t do.” My voice hardens with conviction born of months running from Anthony’s shadow. “Besides, he’ll just find another opportunity. Better to face this on our terms, with our people in position.”
Mario’s arms wrap around me from behind again, his hands covering mine where they rest on my bump. For a moment, we just stand there, feeling our daughter move between us. This perfect, innocent life amid all the violence and schemes.
But that night, reviewing final security protocols while Stella practices what feels like Olympic gymnastics inside me, I can’t help but wonder: are we walking into his trap, or is he walking into ours?