33. Mario
33
MARIO
T he Plaza glitters like a fortress made of gold and old money, its Beaux-Arts facade punctuating Manhattan’s twilight sky. Through our surveillance feeds, I watch the grand ballroom transform under Elena’s direction—light fractured through crystal fixtures across hand-selected stone, white roses and orchids arranged to conceal security positions.
I study our displays from the command center in a building across the street, every screen showing a different angle. The service entrance where Anthony’s men have been spotted. The kitchen access they’ll try to breach. The hidden corridors Elena once used for more innocent purposes.
Now those same routes could mean life or death.
Siobhan’s teams move efficiently through the pre-event chaos, perfectly disguised as hotel staff. Irish crews fresh from Boston’s revolution serve champagne and adjust place cards, while Matteo’s men blend seamlessly with arriving donors in their designer suits.
“Anthony’s forces confirmed at three entry points,” Dante reports through our secure channel. “Exactly where Elena predicted. They’re maintaining distance, trying to look like normal security.”
But I catch the subtle tells that Giuseppe taught us to recognize—how they check sight lines too precisely, the way they position themselves near key exits. They’re waiting for something. For orders. For their moment to strike.
Elena moves through final preparations like this isn’t a potential war zone. She’s magnificent in midnight blue Valentino that makes her look like a queen, her nine-month bump somehow adding to her authority rather than diminishing it. The dress is a masterpiece of design—flowing enough to conceal the gun strapped to her thigh, elegant enough to command respect from Manhattan’s elite.
Watching her work, you’d never know she was being hunted. She coordinates details effortlessly—adjusting flower arrangements that hide security cameras, directing servers who carry weapons beneath their uniforms, ensuring every element serves both beauty and tactical advantage.
My little planner, orchestrating war behind perfect manners and social graces.
But I see how she watches every person who enters, mentally noting their allegiances and possible threats. The careful way she positions herself near defensive positions we established earlier. Even heavily pregnant, she moves with a precision that would make Giuseppe proud.
“Movement at the service entrance,” Dante murmurs through comms. “Two of Anthony’s top lieutenants just arrived. They’re carrying diplomatic pouches—weapons we can’t touch without breaking social protocol.”
Fuck. I adjust my feed, watching Anthony’s men take their positions. They’re being careful, professional—nothing that would alarm the wealthy donors arriving in their designer gowns and tuxedos. But I recognize their formation from years of planning similar operations. The way they establish overlapping fields of fire while appearing to mingle casually.
“Matteo just intercepted new orders,” Antonio reports from his position near the ballroom. Through the feed, I see Matteo’s second standing guard like a statue, gray hair catching the light. His face betrays nothing, but his voice holds real concern. “Anthony’s coming himself. He wants to be here when…when it happens.”
My hands clench into fists, cracking knuckles that have broken too many bones to count. Of course the fucker is coming. He wants to witness his triumph personally, wants to watch as he tears our world apart.
“All teams on high alert,” I order. “No one moves without my command. Let him think he has the advantage.”
Anthony arrives like he owns the Plaza—perfect in Tom Ford, that Calabrese arrogance radiating from every movement. But the slight tremor in his hands as he accepts champagne gives him away. The manic edge to his smile as he greets society figures. The way his eyes constantly track Elena’s position like a predator stalking prey.
He’s unraveling. And that makes him infinitely more dangerous.
Because men like Anthony Calabrese are most lethal when they have nothing left to lose.
“He brought more men than we anticipated,” Elena’s voice comes through my earpiece, steady as a surgeon’s hand. Through the feed, I watch her work the grand staircase—all marble and gilt that’s witnessed a century of New York power plays. She greets donors with perfect poise, never betraying how she watches every threat. “At least twelve new faces I don’t recognize. Old guard specialists, based on their positioning.”
I adjust my surveillance angles, studying these new players. They move easily through the crowd—taking positions that effectively cut off our planned escape routes. One by the northwest service corridor. Two flanking the kitchen access. Three more covering the main exits. This isn’t just about grabbing Elena anymore—Anthony’s preparing for war.
“Siobhan’s teams are tracking them,” Dante reports, his usual cool professionalism cracking slightly. “But they’re good. Professional. The kind of crews that specialize in extraction operations.”
My throat tightens as I watch Elena through our feeds. Her pregnancy gives her an otherworldly glow as she works her magic. I watch her charm seven-figure donations from Manhattan’s elite with practiced ease—a perfectly timed laugh here, a carefully placed compliment there. Every society figure who enters gravitates toward her, drawn by the grace that masks the predator beneath.
But Anthony watches her too. The possessive hunger in his eyes makes anger course through me. He tracks her every movement like a man obsessed, that polished exterior cracking to reveal something dangerous beneath. He’s not just here to take our daughter—he wants to destroy everything we’ve built. Wants to remake both families in his image of tradition and blood purity.
“He’s going to make his move soon,” I tell our teams, already moving toward the building. “Everyone in position. Remember—we let him think he has control until the last possible moment.”
I slip into the Plaza through channels my brother’s security helped establish—maintenance corridors that bypass normal security, service elevators monitored by DeLuca men. Matteo might never forgive my past actions, but he won’t let Anthony hurt Elena. Won’t let him tear another family apart.
“His men are getting antsy,” Elena murmurs, her voice steady in my earpiece as she works the crowd. “The ones by the service entrance keep checking their watches.”
As I move, I watch Anthony carefully. He plays his role perfectly—the legitimate businessman supporting a worthy cause. But beneath that polished veneer, I see Johnny’s madness waiting to break free. The same cruel edge that made men tremble at the Calabrese name.
“Latest intel from Siobhan,” Dante reports, his voice tight. “Fucking hell, Mario. Anthony’s got a medical team standing by at a private facility. He’s planning to take Elena there when…when it happens.”
Ice spreads through my veins as I process the implication. He’s not just waiting to strike—he’s waiting for Elena to go into labor . Wants to take her at her most vulnerable moment.
“All teams hold position,” I order, forcing down the panic trying to claw up my throat. “No one moves until I give the signal. Let him think his plan is working.”
“Really, Mrs. Astor, your generosity is overwhelming,” Elena’s voice carries across the ballroom. “The pediatric wing will help so many children.”
Her hand drifts to her stomach—a gesture that could be maternal pride but I recognize as checking her concealed weapon. Her other hand pulls out her phone, fingers flying across the screen with practiced efficiency.
My phone buzzes with her message: He’s getting impatient.
I move closer to her position, every protective instinct screaming to grab her and run. Because that’s what Anthony’s counting on—that I’ll let emotion override strategy. That I’ll make the same mistakes Giuseppe always said I would.
Not this time. This time, we play it smart.
“Ready?” I ask, knowing she can hear me.
Her smile could cut glass as she accepts another champagne flute she won’t drink. “Always.”
I force myself to maintain position, watching as Anthony springs his trap. The bastard thinks he’s so clever, so perfectly in control. Let him.
Anthony’s forces move, tightening their formation like a noose. They isolate Elena from the crowd with subtle efficiency—a waiter requiring her attention near the service corridor, a donor “accidentally” blocking her path back to the main ballroom. Another of his men starts a minor scene near the east exit, drawing security’s attention away from their true target.
“Target is nearly in position,” one of Anthony’s men murmurs into his comm, not realizing we’ve hacked their channel. “Medical team confirms they’re ready.”
Dante’s voice comes through our comms: “They’ve got three men in the kitchen, two by the staff elevator. Whatever they’re planning, it’s centered around that service corridor.”
The same corridor where she once helped society wives escape their boring husbands. Now it’s become Anthony’s trap—a choke point where he thinks he can isolate her, control every variable. Force her exactly where he wants her.
“He’s moving,” Dante warns as Anthony smoothly excuses himself from a group of donors. “South entrance team is mobilizing.”
His men take their final positions. Each one exactly where we predicted they’d be. Each one thinking they’re the hunters rather than the prey.
I move through the crowd, watching as Anthony’s men systematically isolate Elena near the service corridor. They’re good—using waiters and donors as unwitting pawns to cut off her escape routes, to guide her exactly where they want her.
Elena plays along perfectly, letting them think their subtle manipulation is working. But there’s the slight adjustment of her stance as she’s “accidentally” herded away from the main ballroom, her hand brushing her concealed weapon as she’s drawn toward the service area. She’s ready. We’re all ready.
Anthony’s smile as he approaches makes my blood run cold. He’s not just confident—he’s triumphant. Like he knows something we don’t.
“One last chance,” I murmur through our private channel. “We can still get you out.”
Elena’s laugh carries pure ice as she turns to greet Anthony, now effectively cornered near the service entrance. “Not a chance. Let him learn what happens when you underestimate a pregnant woman.”
The next few minutes unfold with excruciating tension. From my position behind a marble column, I watch Anthony approach Elena, all polished charm on the surface. But I see the predator beneath, the way his eyes track her every movement like a hunter closing in on prey.
“Elena.” His voice carries across the marble floor. “You’re looking radiant. Motherhood suits you.”
“Anthony.” Her smile is warm but her eyes are cold. “How unexpected to see you here. I wouldn’t have thought children’s causes interested you.”
His answering laugh holds no warmth. “Oh, I’m very interested in children’s causes. In family. In making sure the next generation knows proper values.”
I catch the subtle signal between his men—the way they shift closer, cutting off escape routes.
“Boss,” Dante’s voice is urgent in my ear. “New players just entered through the kitchen. At least six more. These aren’t his regular crew—they’re specialists.”
The realization hits as I see their formation. These aren’t just extraction specialists—they’re the kind of professionals who handle “complicated” pregnancies. Who ensure babies are born exactly where and how their employers want.
“Whatever you’re planning,” Elena tells Anthony, her voice carrying a deadly softness that makes the hairs at the back of my neck rise, “you should know—I’m not the society planner you tried to control anymore.”
Anthony’s smile is pure Calabrese arrogance—all perfect white teeth and dead eyes, like a shark scenting blood. The same smile Johnny wore before destroying things he considered his property. Triumphant. Mocking. Sure of his victory.
“No? Then what are you, cara ?” He moves closer, that movement making my fingers twitch. “Besides the mother of my heir?”
“I’m the woman who’s about to teach you why you never underestimate a pregnant DeLuca.”
The words hang in the air like a prophecy, like a promise of blood to come. Because that’s what she is now—not just Elena Santiago, not just the society planner everyone overlooked. She’s become something more dangerous. Something worth fighting for. Worth dying for.
My hand tightens on my weapon as I watch Anthony process her words. The way his smile freezes, then cracks around the edges as understanding dawns.
Because Elena isn’t just carrying his child. She’s carrying our future. Our revolution. Everything the old guard fears about the next generation.
And Anthony’s about to learn exactly what that means.