34. Elena
34
ELENA
I ’ve experienced bad timing before. Like getting my first period during a middle school dance. Or my heel breaking as I ran for a taxi in the rain.
But going into labor in the middle of a standoff with Anthony Calabrese? That’s a special kind of terrible timing.
The first contraction hits as I’m telling Anthony I’m a DeLuca—a sharp, twisting pain that steals my breath. I maintain my composure through sheer will, not letting him see how my insides are trying to turn into outsides. Years of maintaining perfect poise while gathering intelligence finally serve a real purpose.
Another contraction rolls through me as Anthony’s men tighten their formation. This one’s stronger, making me grateful for the marble column at my back. The pain radiates from my spine around to my belly, lasting longer than it should.
This isn’t the mild cramping I’ve had for days. This is the real thing. Fuck .
I catch Mario’s eye across the room, seeing the moment he realizes something’s wrong. The slight shift in his stance, the way his hand tightens on his concealed weapon. But I give him the smallest shake of my head. Not yet. We stick to the plan.
Even if our daughter has apparently decided to make her entrance at the worst possible moment.
Through the growing waves of pain, I maintain my smile. Keep playing the perfect society planner while Anthony gloats, while his men move into position, while my body prepares to bring new life at the worst fucking time.
Stella kicks hard, as if apologizing for her timing. Or maybe she’s just her father’s daughter—always ready for a fight.
Through my earpiece, I hear Dante’s urgent warning: “Teams two and four compromised. They’ve got our people in the kitchen. These aren’t regular soldiers—they’re medical extraction specialists.”
Another contraction rips through me, more violent than the last. Warm liquid trickles down my legs, soaking into my Valentino, and I fight back a wave of pure panic. Not now. Please, not now. The timing couldn’t be worse—surrounded by Anthony’s men, our backup compromised, my carefully planned revolution threatening to dissolve into chaos.
I force myself to breathe through the pain like my Lamaze instructor taught me, mind racing through options even as my body betrays me. Through my earpiece, I hear the coordinated chaos unfolding—Siobhan’s teams engaging hostiles in the kitchen, their Irish accents sharp with urgency. DeLuca security containing the situation in the main ballroom, protecting innocent society figures from impending violence. Mario’s people trying to fight their way to my position, but meeting heavy resistance.
“They’ve got the elevators locked down,” Dante reports, real fear coloring his voice. “And their medical team is setting up in the service bay. They’re ready for immediate transport.”
Another contraction hits, stealing my breath. This one’s stronger, making my knees weak. I brace myself against the wall, trying to maintain tactical awareness but having a difficult time doing so.
“He won’t choose you,” Anthony says, moving closer like a shark scenting blood. “DeLucas always choose power over love. Even Matteo would have, if Bella hadn’t proved useful. Right now, your precious Mario is too far away. By the time he reaches us, you’ll be gone.”
But he’s wrong about DeLucas and love. Because even as another contraction tears through me, I hear the distinctive sound of Mario’s preferred weapon. He storms in, his tuxedo jacket discarded, dress shirt covered in blood that isn’t his.
His eyes meet mine across the chaos, holding a promise of protection, of love, of everything Anthony will never understand.
“Get away from them,” Mario growls, rage covering his face.
Anthony’s eyes light up as he notices my stance, the way I brace against the wall through another contraction. “Ah, perfect timing,” he says, triumph coloring his voice. “My daughter is already so punctual, wanting to meet her dear daddy.”
“She will never know you,” I gasp through the pain, even as fear claws up my throat at his delighted expression. “She’s not yours.”
“No?” His smile turns cruel. “In a few hours, you’ll both be safe in my private facility. Away from this corruption, these modern ideas that poison everything they touch.”
Mario’s face transforms, that DeLuca restraint crumbling completely. What follows is chaos—gunfire and shouted orders mixing with my increasingly painful contractions. I’m aware of Mario shielding my body with his own, of Anthony’s specialists falling under precise headshots. But they’re professionals, adapting quickly to our defense.
“Second team breaching through the kitchen,” Dante warns through comms. “They’ve got hospital scrubs and credentials. Watch for?—”
His voice cuts off as an explosion rocks the building. Through security feeds, I see Siobhan’s crews engaging in the main ballroom, buying us time. But Anthony’s extraction team is moving with frightening efficiency, herding us exactly where they want us.
Another contraction hits, this one actually bringing me to my knees. Mario catches me, his arms steady despite the violence around us. But I see the impossible choice in his eyes—stay with me or pursue Anthony, who’s retreating toward his waiting medical team.
“They’re setting up a perimeter,” Antonio reports. “Medical transport standing by, full surgical suite prepared. They’re ready to deliver the baby themselves.”
The realization hits through waves of pain—they never planned to wait. They’ll take me by force, perform an emergency C-section if necessary. Anything to get Anthony’s heir.
“Hospital,” I manage between contractions, seeing Mario’s internal struggle. “Now.”
“Cover the east exit,” Mario orders through comms as another contraction hits. “Dante, get that transport?—”
“Negative,” Dante cuts in urgently. “They’ve got the parking structure locked down. Medical team’s set up roadblocks, checking every vehicle.”
I grip Mario’s arm as another contraction tears through me, the pain so intense black spots dance at the edges of my vision. “Service elevator,” I gasp, fighting to stay logical even as my body betrays me. “The one they use for…for delivering supplies. Security’s lighter because…because they think we’ll go for the main exits.”
Mario’s already moving, practically carrying me as his teams engage Anthony’s forces. The world becomes a blur of gunfire and explosions, tactical gear flashing as both sides trade fire. The specialists are terrifyingly good—methodically cutting off our escape routes while maintaining enough distance to avoid civilian casualties.
“Elena!” Anthony’s voice carries over the chaos. “Think about our daughter. About giving her proper values, a real family?—”
A contraction hits so hard I scream, my knees buckling. Mario catches me, but I feel him tense at Anthony’s words, his worried face transforming into anger as the taunts hit their mark. For a moment, I think he’ll turn back, will choose revenge over protecting us.
But then Stella kicks hard, as if reminding him what matters. His arm tightens around me as we reach the service elevator, his body shielding mine from incoming fire.
“They’re in the shaft,” someone shouts. “Medical team, move to?—”
The service elevator becomes a nightmare. Mario keeps me pressed against him, one arm secure around my waist while the other fires at shadows above us. Each floor we pass brings new threats—boots thundering on metal stairs, voices coordinating positions, Anthony’s specialists trying to predict our exit point.
“Third floor team, they’re coming down!” Someone shouts above us. “Cut them off at the service bay?—”
Another contraction rips through me, and I bite my lip bloody to keep from screaming. The world narrows to pain and chaos and Mario’s steady presence behind me.
“North stairwell secured!” Siobhan’s crew leader calls through our comms, his Irish accent thick with adrenaline.
“They’re trying to flank through the kitchen,” another warns.
“Not anymore,” comes a smug Irish drawl. “Area contained.”
“DeLuca teams, create a diversion at the main entrance,” Antonio orders. “Make them think we’re going for the parking structure.”
“Copy that. Moving into position.”
“Two minutes to the exit point,” Mario murmurs against my hair, his arm tight around me as another contraction hits.
“Brother,” Matteo’s voice cuts through our comms. “Your route is clear. My men will hold them.”
But Anthony’s forces are adapting, moving to cut us off. Through the pain, I hear them coordinating: “Target approaching basement level?—”
“Remember, we need them both alive?—”
I gasp, clutching Mario’s shirt as pain rips through me. All the books said first-time labor would last hours, but I already feel the urge to bear down. Pure panic claws up my throat.
“I am not,” I tell Mario, nearly hysterical, “giving birth in a fucking service elevator!”
Another contraction cuts through me, this one bringing another scream I can’t suppress. The sound echoes through the shaft, giving away our position.
“There!” Someone shouts from above. “They’re between one and two!”
Mario shoots upward without taking his supportive arm from my waist. But I see the strain in his face—trying to protect me while fighting, trying to get us out while keeping me from falling.
“The maintenance tunnel,” I gasp, remembering the building layout through another wave of pain. “If we can reach…reach the access panel on the next floor…”
“Boss,” Dante cuts in urgently. “Calabrese has multiple teams. Another medical team’s set up in the tunnel. They’re waiting?—”
“Let them wait,” I manage through gritted teeth, my mind still working despite the pain. “Siobhan’s teams…they’re in position…”
As if on cue, gunfire erupts from below—but not aimed at us. Through the open shaft, we hear Anthony’s medical team shouting in surprise as Irish crews emerge from their hiding spots throughout the tunnel.
“Caught the bastards completely off guard,” one of Siobhan’s men reports through our comms, satisfaction clear in his voice.
“Targets engaged,” Siobhan announces. “Tunnel’s clear. Get her the fuck out, DeLuca.”
Mario helps me swing toward the elevator doors, his movements precise despite the awkward angle. Another contraction hits just as we reach the maintenance access, making me cry out.
Our daughter is coming, whether we’re ready or not.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp as we navigate the dark service corridors, tears mixing with sweat on my face. Another contraction tears through me, making my vision blur. “I’m so sorry I got us into this. I should have listened to you—should have had Kate handle this?—”
He cuts me off with a hard, desperate kiss, his lips fierce against mine even as his hands remain gentle supporting my weight. “Stop apologizing,” he growls against my mouth. “And this is the one time I won’t tell you I told you so, so you better fucking enjoy it.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up—I’m not sure if it’s the adrenaline, the pain, or the complete absurdity of Mario DeLuca choosing this moment to develop a sense of humor.
Through our earpieces, we hear the chaos unfolding—Anthony’s forces regrouping, trying to cut off our escape route. But our allies have been one step ahead the whole time.
“East entrance secured,” Matteo’s men report.
“Two more hostiles down in the stairwell,” comes Siobhan, laughter clear in her voice.
“Medical team neutralized,” another Irish voice confirms.
“Vehicle’s waiting in the loading dock,” Dante reports. “Path is clear but?—”
Another contraction cuts him off as my knees buckle. This one feels different—more urgent, more demanding. Like our daughter is done waiting.
“She’s coming,” I gasp, gripping Mario’s arm hard enough to bruise. “Stella’s coming now .”
His smile is fierce as he lifts me into his arms, cradling me against his chest even as he maintains tactical awareness. “Then let’s make sure something happens next. Ready to fight for our future, little planner?”
Everything narrows to pain and motion as Mario carries me through the service corridors. Each contraction hits harder than the last, making it almost impossible to focus on the updates crackling through my earpiece.
“Anthony’s mobilizing his reserve teams,” Dante warns, words spilling over themselves as he tries to get them out as quickly as possible. “They’re converging on the loading dock. At least twelve hostiles, heavily armed.”
“Not anymore,” Siobhan’s taunting voice cuts in. “My people just took out their transport. They’re on foot now, scattered.”
Gunfire erupts ahead of us. Through waves of pain, I hear Siobhan’s and Matteo’s teams engaging the hostiles, buying us precious seconds. But scattered enemies are sometimes more dangerous than coordinated ones. Through the haze of pain, I hear boots on concrete, voices calling positions:
“Target spotted in the west corridor!” Someone roars.
“Don’t let them reach that vehicle!”
“Mario,” I repeat between contractions that are now almost continuous. “ Please .”
Mario’s already moving, his entire focus on getting us out. Behind us, Anthony’s enraged voice echoes off concrete walls: “That’s my heir! My blood! You can’t?—”
The rest is lost as another contraction rips through me. But through the pain, I witness something beautiful—our allies moving in perfect coordination.
“DeLuca teams, maintain perimeter,” Antonio orders. “Irish crews, advance and eliminate threats.”
The loading dock erupts in precise violence as Mario carries me toward the waiting car. Gunfire and shouts mix with my labored breathing, creating a symphony of chaos.
“Clear that corner?—”
“Two more incoming?—”
“Got the fucker!”
“Get them to Mount Sinai,” Matteo orders through our earpiece. “Our people are already there, securing the maternity ward.”
Another contraction hits, bringing a scream I can’t suppress. Fuck, I’m never doing this again. I feel Stella moving lower, more urgent with each passing moment.
“Calabrese is retreating,” Dante reports. “His forces are either down or scattered.”
“Let him run,” Siobhan responds coldly. “We’ll deal with him later.”
“Hold on, little planner,” Mario murmurs as we reach the car. He doesn’t even glance back at the chaos behind us, doesn’t pause to witness Anthony’s retreat. His entire focus is on getting us to safety, on protecting this child that isn’t his by blood but has somehow become his in every way that matters.
“You chose us,” I whisper between contractions as Mario breaks every traffic law getting to the hospital.
A sharp laugh cracks out of him as he takes another corner at dangerous speed. “I’ll always choose you,” he promises. “Both of you.”
Mount Sinai looms ahead, its emergency entrance already secured by a mixture of Irish and DeLuca guards. The contractions are continuous now, my body demanding our daughter’s arrival regardless of the danger still lurking.
Antonio meets us at the door, his usual stern expression replaced by urgent efficiency as he helps Mario get me inside. The captain’s gray hair is disheveled, blood staining his clothes, but his movements are precise as medical staff swarm around us with wheelchairs and monitors.
“The floor is locked down,” he reports as they rush me toward delivery. “Our people only. Every doctor, every nurse has been vetted.”
The delivery room becomes a fortress within a fortress—guards outside the door, snipers on neighboring buildings, every entrance covered by people we trust. But through the haze of contractions, all I can focus on is Mario’s face, the way he never looks away even when I crush his hand. His usual scowl is replaced by something softer, though tension still radiates from his shoulders as he maintains awareness.
“Christ,” he says as I grip harder during another contraction. “Remind me to never let you near my weapons hand.”
“I hate you,” I hiss through the pain. “I hate you so much right now.”
His laugh is gentle as he brushes sweat-soaked hair from my face. “No you don’t, little planner.”
“Security breach in the north stairwell,” Dante reports through our earpiece. “Anthony’s specialists trying to get through. We’ve got it contained.”
“Forget them,” Mario growls, his attention completely on me as another contraction hits and my body jerks. “Just breathe, little planner. Focus on bringing our daughter into the world.”
Our daughter. Even now, in the midst of this chaos, those words make my heart clench. He’s never once hesitated to claim her, to love her despite biology. Despite Anthony’s taunts about blood and tradition.
She’s been ours since the moment he chose us over revenge.
The pain becomes all-consuming, everything narrowing to this moment, to Mario’s steady presence beside me. The doctor’s instructions mix with security updates in my ear: “Push now” overlapping with “Target neutralized in the parking structure.”
Mario’s hand never leaves mine, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on my skin as I fight through each contraction. Through waves of pain and exhaustion, I hear Siobhan coordinating with Matteo’s teams, our carefully built alliances protecting us while I labor to bring our daughter into this complicated world.
“I see the head,” the doctor announces. “One more big push, Ms. Santiago.”
Mario’s hand tightens on mine as I bear down. His eyes never leave my face, his own transformed into something softer, something I never thought I’d see from Giuseppe DeLuca’s exiled son.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs against my temple. “So strong, my little planner.”
With one final, tremendous push and a final, animalistic scream, our daughter announces her arrival with healthy lungs. The sound of her first cry makes something break open in my chest—pure love flooding through me as they place her in my arms.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face as I study her perfect features. She has my coloring, thank God, but I swear there’s something of Mario in the determined set of her tiny jaw. When she grips his finger with surprising strength, I watch his careful composure shatter completely.
“I love you,” he tells us both, his voice rough with emotion I’ve never heard from him before. The words feel like freedom, like possibility, like everything we’ve fought for. “No matter what happens next, no matter whose blood she carries—you’re mine. Both of you.”
Stella’s tiny hand grips his finger tighter, as if sealing this promise between us. For a moment, watching them together—this dangerous man transformed by love for our daughter—every choice that led us here feels worth it. Every risk, every betrayal, every game we played; all of it leading to this perfect moment.
Because Mario isn’t just choosing to raise another man’s child. He’s choosing love over blood, choosing to be better than the poison Giuseppe left in his veins. Choosing us.
And watching him hold our daughter with hands that have dealt so much death, seeing him transformed by this tiny life we’ll protect together, I know we’ve won something more precious than any territory or power.
But through my earpiece, I hear Dante’s urgent warning: “Boss, we’ve got movement. Multiple vehicles approaching. Anthony’s here.”
The perfect moment shatters as Mario’s body tenses beside me, that beautiful softness transforming back into something lethal. I watch his walls slam up, the loving father replaced by Giuseppe’s most dangerous son.
Stella continues to wail, unaware that her biological father has come to claim what he thinks is his. Unaware that our brief moment of peace is already dissolving as reality crashes back.
The war isn’t over yet.