Chapter 7 Elena
Elena
The nerve of Marco just showing up yesterday morning and announcing he's moving in, like I wouldn't be upset by that invasion of my personal space.
This apartment is my peace, my sanctuary—the one place where I can be myself instead of playing the role of Rina's cousin, the girl whose father was exiled, or the outsider trying to fit into a world of perfectly sculpted mafia wives and girlfriends.
This was supposed to be my hideaway from all of that. But apparently, I'll be sharing my space for the foreseeable future.
I didn't get any sleep last night either, knowing that Marco was sleeping on my couch just down the hall. I know he doesn't want to be here any more than I want him here, so why is he really doing this? Following orders like a good little soldier, I suppose.
That's one thing I've never understood about the Rossos or the mafia in general—they all follow the Don so blindly, never asking questions, just nodding along like obedient puppies.
I never expected Marco to be a yes-man, though.
I always thought of him as Vito's equal, his confidant, but I guess not if he's here babysitting me.
This is definitely an order he's following, not a choice he's made willingly.
I groan as I sit up and stretch, my stomach growling loudly. I'm starving since I didn't leave my room yesterday, but I don't want to deal with Marco. I cover my face with my pillow and fall back down.
Okay, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to get up, go to the kitchen, get some breakfast, and have a nice, calm conversation with Marco.
Simple and rational. I can't avoid eating forever just because there's an infuriating man camped out in my living room.
An infuriating, gorgeous man with those damn green eyes and that stupid perfect jawline.
Stop it, Elena. Focus.
I get up and open my door, padding down the hall toward the kitchen. But I stop dead in my tracks when I see Marco doing sit-ups in my living room, completely shirtless.
Oh my God.
His tanned skin glistens with sweat, and his abs ripple with each controlled movement. The man is built like he was carved from marble by someone with very specific and very detailed fantasies about the male form.
I'm staring.
I need to close my mouth and stop staring.
But I can't seem to look away from this six-foot-five, dark-haired, green-eyed man who has the body of a Greek god and the personality of a brooding anti-hero.
He stops his workout and leans back on his hands, breathing hard, and when he notices me watching him, a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
"Not too bad for an old man, huh?" he says, and the spell breaks.
I roll my eyes and walk to the kitchen, trying to pretend I wasn't just mentally undressing him, more. I see my French press sitting on the counter, which is strange since I usually keep it in the cabinet.
"I figured you'd want that to make your coffee," Marco says, pulling his shirt over his head.
I'm stunned for a moment. "How did you know I prefer French press?"
"I pay attention," he says simply, walking over to join me in the kitchen.
The casual way he says it makes something flutter in my chest. When does anyone ever pay attention to small details about me?
"Would you like some coffee?" I ask, still processing his unexpected thoughtfulness.
"Please."
I heat the electric kettle and scoop coffee grounds into the French press, the familiar routine calming my nerves.
Once the water is hot, I pour it over the grounds and set a timer for steeping.
The silence between us feels charged, like we're both waiting for the other to make the first move in whatever game we're playing.
"Can we call a truce?" I ask finally, turning to face him. "Please?"
"Elena, there's no truce to be had here." He says it like I'm being ridiculous. "You keep sneaking away so I'm here to watch over you. This isn't a punishment—it's protection."
"Really? Because it feels an awful lot like punishment." I hand him his coffee—black as I somehow knew he'd prefer it. "What's next? Are you going to ground me? Take away my phone privileges? Give me a curfew?"
The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. "Don't give me ideas."
"Oh please. You've probably already made a list." I lean against the counter and cross my arms. "Let me guess—no going out after dark. No meeting friends without supervision. No bathroom breaks longer than three minutes."
"Four minutes." His eyes glint with amusement. "I'm not unreasonable."
"How generous of you." I roll my eyes but I can't quite suppress my own smile. "And here I thought living under constant surveillance would be terrible. Turns out it's just mildly soul-crushing."
He takes a sip of his coffee and watches me over the rim of the cup. "Apparently I'm not the only one who pays attention."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You knew how I take my coffee." He gestures with the mug. "Black. No sugar. No cream. How'd you know that?"
Heat creeps up my neck. Damn it. "Lucky guess."
I make my own coffee with a splash of milk and one packet of raw sugar, and we both sip in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Marco breaks it.
"Are you going to tell me who Marcello Farina is?" he finally asks.
I huff, having enjoyed the brief peace between us. "Why don't you tell me what you know, since you've obviously done your research?"
"I research everyone that Rosso family members meet with—friends, dates, lovers." He gives me a look that clearly asks whether I'm sleeping with Marcello.
"Ew! I am not fucking Marcello, okay?" I fake gag, and Marco actually chuckles. The sound makes me smile despite myself. It's nice to hear him laugh—he's always so serious.
"Marcello is a friend of my father's," I explain, which is mostly true.
"I haven't talked to my dad in over a year, and I wanted to ask Marcello if he'd heard from him.
I know my father isn't in Vito's good graces, and neither are any of his associates.
I didn't want Vito to think I was working against the family, so I kept the meeting private. "
It's not the whole truth, but it's all I can give him right now. Marco studies my face like he's trying to determine whether to believe me.
"You don't have to believe me," I continue, "but I really don't know where my father is, and I'm worried about him."
"Why didn't you ask me or Vito to help you find him? We have resources you don't."
The question hits too close to home. "What was I supposed to say? 'Hey Vito, remember Elio Messina, the guy who betrayed your family? I can't find him and was wondering if you'd use your resources to track him down for me?'"
I turn toward the sink and start cleaning up, scooping out the used coffee grounds for my plants and scrubbing the French press.
Marco remains quiet, and there's nothing more to say.
He knows exactly how that conversation would go.
My father is a disgrace to the Rossos and the Commission.
No one will help me, so I have to help myself.
This conversation is getting too heavy. I never talk to anyone about my father—the subject is too painful, too complicated. I dry my hands and walk toward my bedroom without another word to Marco.
A few moments later, there's a knock on my door. When I open it, Marco is standing there shirtless again. I have to bite back a groan.
Can't he keep his clothes on in my apartment?
"Can I use your shower? You have the only full bathroom and I need to get my day started."
"And if I said no?" I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe. "Would you just stand out here looking all broody and half-naked until I cave?"
His eyes darken slightly. "I'd find a way to convince you."
"That sounds vaguely threatening."
"Does it?" He steps closer. Not enough to invade my space but enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "I was thinking more... persuasive."
My heart does an annoying flutter thing. "Fine. Yes. Whatever. Use the shower before I change my mind."
"Appreciate it." The smirk on his face tells me he knows exactly what effect he's having on me.
I point toward the bathroom with more force than necessary. "Extra towels are in the closet. Try not to use all the hot water."
"No promises." He's already moving past me. "I like long showers."
Of course he does. Because apparently this day is determined to test every ounce of my self-control. He disappears into the bathroom, and I close my door, leaning against it. This is going to be much harder than I thought.
It's been several days since Marco moved into my apartment, and we've barely spoken beyond basic pleasantries. He's turned my living room into his personal gym, which means I'm treated to the sight of him working out shirtless on a regular basis.
I'm not complaining—the man is definitely nice to look at.
But he's not the only one putting on a show. I've been walking around in short shorts and sports bras, making sure my nipples are visible through thin camisoles, bending over whenever possible. If he wants to torture me with his perfect body, I can return the favor.
Marco acts completely unaffected most of the time, but I catch the subtle signs—the way he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath when I walk by, how he runs his hand through his hair when I'm being particularly provocative. He's affected more than he wants to admit.
If he were paying closer attention, he'd notice the way he affects me too.
I'm cleaning today, wearing an old t-shirt and biker shorts with my hair in a messy bun, when there's a knock at the door. Marco immediately springs into action, grabbing his gun from wherever he keeps it hidden.
"Down, boy," I tease. "It's probably Becca, my neighbor."
He checks the peephole and confirms it's a blonde with short hair before stepping back and concealing his weapon. I roll my eyes—Becca is harmless.