Chapter 4
Marco
The next morning, I'm standing in my office staring at Tony like he's personally responsible for every headache I've had in the past twenty-four hours. Which, to be fair, he kind of is.
"Walk me through yesterday again," I say, keeping my voice level even though what I really want to do is throw something at his head. "The part where you lost Elena Messina in broad daylight."
Tony shifts his weight from foot to foot. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to speak. "She went inside the cafe. Looked like she was heading for the bathroom. I followed her in but—"
"But what?" I cut him off.
"She went through the kitchen," he admits, his face flushing. "By the time I realized what was happening, she was already out the back. I checked the alley but she was gone. Completely gone."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Three men tailing her and she slipped past all of them like they were nothing. Walked right through a kitchen and out the back door while they stood around with their thumbs up their asses.
"And the other two?" I ask, though I already know the answer is going to piss me off.
"Charlie was covering the front. Giuseppe had the side street. Neither of them saw her exit. We searched the area for twenty minutes before..." He trails off.
"Before you had to call it in and admit you'd lost her." I finish his sentence for him. My voice is flat, emotionless. The kind of tone that makes men nervous because they can't tell if I'm about to explode or if I'm already past anger into something worse.
Tony nods miserably. "Yes, sir. We have no idea where she went."
But now Vito's made it official. Elena's my responsibility. Which means every time she pulls a stunt like this, it reflects on me.
"How long was she gone?" I ask.
"Four hours. We picked up her trail again when she returned to her apartment that evening."
Four hours. Elena Messina bought herself four hours of complete freedom, and my men have absolutely no idea where she went or what she did. That kind of skill doesn't develop overnight. She's been practicing this. Planning for it.
The thought should concern me more than it does. Instead, underneath my frustration is something else: respect. Elena just outmaneuvered three trained operatives without breaking a sweat, and she did it so smoothly that they're still not entirely sure how she managed it.
"Did you actually go into the bathroom?" I ask, though I already know it doesn't matter.
"I went in after I realized she'd gone through the kitchen. Empty. But by then..." He spreads his hands helplessly.
"By then she was long gone," I finish. "Changed her appearance, probably. Baseball cap. Sunglasses. Different jacket. Blended into the crowd before any of you even realized she'd bolted."
Tony's eyes widen slightly. "How did you—"
"Because that's what I would do," I tell him. "And Elena's smarter than people give her credit for."
I raise an eyebrow, and he shrinks back immediately, remembering exactly who he's talking to.
"You're dismissed," I tell him. My tone makes it clear he's failed spectacularly. "Next time you're assigned to Elena's detail, try not to lose her before she's been out of your sight for ten seconds. Think you can manage that?"
Tony lowers his gaze and walks out with the two other men trailing behind him. Their collective shame hangs over them like a cloud.
Fucking idiots.
But underneath my annoyance is a more pressing concern: where did Elena go during those four hours? What was so important that she'd risk Vito's wrath by ditching her protection? And more importantly, who was she meeting?
The question gnaws at me for the rest of the morning. I pull up what surveillance footage we do have—grainy shots of her entering the cafe, nothing of her leaving. My men weren't positioned to cover the kitchen exit because they didn't think she'd be bold enough to actually run.
They underestimated her. I won't make the same mistake.
By afternoon, I've made a decision: I'm handling Elena's surveillance personally from now on. My men clearly can't be trusted to keep track of someone who doesn't want to be tracked, and Vito needs to know what she's up to.
More than that—and I hate admitting this even to myself—I need to know.
Elena Messina has gotten under my skin in a way I don't fully understand yet.
The way she moves through the world, always aware, always three steps ahead.
The challenge in her eyes when she looks at me.
The confidence that borders on reckless.
It's dangerous. She's dangerous. Not because she'd hurt anyone—I don't think that's in her nature—but because she makes people underestimate her. Makes them think she's just Rina's pretty cousin who doesn't understand the life we lead.
But I'm starting to suspect Elena understands this life better than any of us realize.
I spend the rest of the day tracking her movements through our network. It's easier now that I know to look for the patterns. She's careful, but everyone has tells. Everyone has routines they fall back on when they think no one's watching closely enough.
By evening, I've found her trail. And it leads to one of the seediest bars I've ever had the misfortune to locate.
The neighborhood itself is a testament to urban decay. Prostitutes work the corners. Drugged-out lowlifes stumble between buildings. Trash litters every available surface. Cars with busted windows sit in varying states of destruction for blocks.
What the hell is Elena doing in a place like this?
I step inside the bar and immediately stick to the shadows, not wanting her to know I'm here yet.
The interior is no better than the outside—broken furniture, trash scattered across the floor, patrons who are clearly drunk or high wandering aimlessly and bumping into anything in their path.
There's no immediate danger that I can identify, but this still isn't a place Elena should be spending her time, especially not alone.
She keeps looking around like she can sense someone watching her, but she hasn't spotted me yet. That's right, Elena—someone is watching you, and you're not going to like finding out who.
I settle into a corner table with a clear view of her booth. She's nursing some cheap beer and checking her phone every few minutes. Waiting for someone.
Ten minutes pass before the front door opens and a man walks in. He scans the bar until his eyes land on Elena. Then he heads straight for her table.
I don't recognize him, but I haven't spent much time on this side of town.
He's older and stocky with a greasy combover.
His disheveled clothes suggest he's not exactly thriving in whatever line of work he's chosen.
The way he moves—careful, alert—tells me he's not just some random lowlife though.
This guy knows how to watch his surroundings.
He slides into the booth across from Elena without asking permission. She doesn't look surprised to see him.
I move closer, positioning myself behind a support beam where I can hear their conversation without being obvious. Ready to step in immediately if the situation turns dangerous.
"They are getting more aggressive, and I need some help," Elena states, her voice carrying clearly in the relatively quiet space.
The man reaches for her hand in a gesture that's far too familiar for my liking. "You know my price for more help, la mia puttana," he says, the words dripping with suggestion as he rubs his thumb over the back of her hand.
Something dark and violent surges through my chest. La mia puttana. My whore.
The fuck he did not just call her that.
She is not his anything. Not his whore. Not his plaything. Not his goddamn business associate who pays with her body. The casual way he touches her—like he has the right, like she belongs to him—makes me want to break every finger on that hand. Slowly. Tortuously.
I've spent months watching her from a distance. Keeping my interest professional. Reminding myself she's off-limits for a dozen different reasons. And this greasy piece of shit thinks he can put his hands on her? Thinks he can speak to her like she's something he owns?
Not a fucking chance.
I'm moving before I consciously decide to. My body acts on pure instinct—pure possessive rage that I have no business feeling but can't seem to control.
When I reach their table, the man looks up. His eyes go wide the second he recognizes me. Good. He should be afraid.
"I believe you were leaving," I say. My voice comes out low and deadly. The kind of tone that makes men remember I've killed for less than what he just said to Elena.
He starts to scramble away from the table, but Elena grabs his hand before he can escape, looking directly at me with challenge in her eyes. "We aren't done with our conversation," she says, then begins stroking the back of his hand the same way he was touching her moments ago.
The deliberate provocation sends heat racing through my veins, but not the kind of heat that comes from anger. Elena wants to play games? We'll see who comes out on top.
I look back at the man, who now appears genuinely terrified. I give him a single nod in the direction of the door, and he practically runs toward the exit.
"Party pooper," Elena says with a little laugh that does absolutely nothing to improve my mood.
She grabs a napkin from the dispenser and wipes her hand.
Like she's removing something contaminated.
The gesture should satisfy me—proof she found his touch as repulsive as I did.
Instead it just pisses me off more. If she knew what he was, why the hell did she meet him here and let him touch her?
"Who was that, Elena?" I ask flatly, my irritation growing with every second of her petulant attitude.
"Oh, come on, Marco. Didn't you hear? I'm la sua puttana." She smirks and leans back in her chair like she's enjoying this entire situation. "So clearly he's my pimp. Il mio protettore, right?"
The way she throws those words around—using that bastard's phrase and then adding her own sarcastic twist—sends something dark and possessive surging through my chest. I've never known Elena to act promiscuous.
Quite the opposite actually. This slutty behavior isn't her style and it sure as hell isn't mine.
Elena has always been confident, which normally turns me on in ways I shouldn't admit.
But not when it's directed at random men in seedy bars.
Stop it, Marco. Focus on the task at hand.
I haven't responded to her provocative comment yet, choosing instead to stand silent and imposing, hoping to intimidate her into dropping the act. But she seems completely unfazed by my presence, which is both irritating and oddly impressive.
"Let's go," I demand, stepping aside to give her room to get up from the chair.
"But I'm not done with my drink," she protests, her voice taking on a sultry tone. "And I was thinking of ordering some dinner. I'm craving to be filled with..."
"Get up. Now. Don't make me drag you out of here." The words come out harder than I intended, but Elena has a way of pushing buttons I didn't even know I had.
She stands up and starts to head for the bar, clearly intending to disobey me and test exactly how far she can push before I follow through on my threat. That's not happening.
I grab her arm firmly and pull her across the room toward the front door, ignoring her token resistance. She struggles as soon as we get outside, like she needs to put on a show for the streetwalkers and addicts who are watching our interaction with varying degrees of interest and indifference.
I pull her over to my car and stop at the passenger side door.
I had parked on the street, hoping this would be a quick interaction and we could leave immediately.
Elena is still trying to remove herself from my grip, struggling against me as I pull her into my chest to keep her from causing a scene.
"Stop it, Elena. We're getting in my car and you're going to answer my questions." I hold her hands behind her back tightly. She tilts her head back to look at me with a smile that's equal parts innocent and wicked.
Then she arches against me. Deliberately presses her body into mine in a way that's impossible to ignore.
Heat floods through me—the kind I have no business feeling. My grip on her wrists tightens reflexively. Every muscle in my body goes taut as I fight the urge to either push her away or pull her closer. I'm not sure which impulse is winning.
"Oh yes! Harder," she says with that same smirk.
Fuck. She knows exactly what she's doing. This is all part of whatever game she's playing. She's baiting me. Trying to get a reaction.
I force myself to breathe. To remember where we are—on a street corner surrounded by prostitutes and junkies. To remember who she is—Rina's cousin, Elio's daughter, sixteen years too young for me.
Without dignifying her comment with a response, I turn her toward the car door. She starts laughing the second she sees the state of my vehicle. My passenger side window has been busted out. Glass scattered across the seat.
"What did you think would happen bringing this car to this side of town?" she says through her giggles, and I have to admit she has a point. "We're in trouble now," she continues laughing.
I open the door despite the broken window, then quickly remove my jacket and lay it over the glass-covered seat. I can't have Elena cutting herself on the debris, even if she did choose to meet someone in the worst neighborhood in New York.
I hold her arms at her sides and guide her into the car, noting the way her expression changes when she realizes I'm protecting her from the glass. She looks genuinely surprised, like she expected me to just shove her into the seat without regard for her safety.
"Don't want the glass to cut your legs," I explain, and her expression shifts to something I can't quite read.
I close the door without another word, though I think I hear a soft "thank you" from inside the car. Jesus Christ, this was exhausting. Watching Elena is going to be a nightmare if every interaction is this combative.