Chapter 11
Marco
I stand outside Elena's bedroom door for a long moment. Listening to the silence on the other side. She's in there hurting—I know she is. Part of me wants to break down the door and demand answers. The other part wants to make sure she's actually okay first.
But I can't do either. Not yet.
I pace back to the living room. My hands are still shaking with adrenaline and rage. The image of Ronan's hands on her, the knife pressed to her ribs, her terrified face—it plays on loop in my head.
I grab a glass from the kitchen and pour myself three fingers of whiskey. Down it in one swallow. Then I throw the glass against the wall. It shatters with a satisfying crash but does nothing to ease the fury burning through my veins.
Elena said it's not what I think. But what the hell else am I supposed to think?
She's having secret meetings with the Irish.
Not just any Irishman—fucking Ronan O'Callahan.
He's ruthless and calculating. A soldier who's been working behind the scenes for years but has never been used on the front lines like this before.
The fact that he's suddenly taking point meetings suggests something significant has shifted in their organization.
And Elena walked right into it. Alone. Without backup. Without telling anyone where she was going.
The pleading in her eyes was convincing—I'll give her that. She looked genuinely scared. Genuinely desperate for me to believe her. But I need to know what the fuck is really going on. She's too smart and cunning not to have some kind of angle here.
I need answers. And there's only one person who might have them.
I reach for my phone and call Vito.
"Marco. What's going on?" He answers groggily. I must have woken him up.
"Sorry to wake you. I have news about our situation, and I'll be stopping by tomorrow morning. I'll be bringing Elena."
"I'll be up, you know that. Come have breakfast with us," he offers, and I accept before saying goodbye and hanging up.
I plug my phone into the charger, turn off the lights, and lie down on the couch. My mind is racing, and sleep feels impossible. Another night of little to no rest because of this woman. My little fox.
She was definitely cunning tonight. I'd suspected she'd try something, so I'd positioned myself to watch. When I heard my guy call about her on the fire escape, I immediately went to the back of the building. Sure enough, she slipped back inside, grabbed her shoes, and went out the back way.
She's crafty, but I've been doing this much longer. I followed her on foot for several blocks, staying in the shadows. When she got into a cab, I signaled to Tony and Lorenzo who'd been waiting in the SUV. We followed the taxi to her destination.
As soon as we stopped, I got out quietly and continued following her on foot.
She was scanning her surroundings, probably assessing potential danger levels.
When she stopped in front of Whiskey Tavern, my heart rate spiked.
I knew immediately she was meeting with the Irish—this was one of their underground establishments.
I watched her enter the tavern, then waited a few minutes before going in myself. A woman greeted me at the door but I brushed past her and stuck to the shadows where I could observe without being seen.
I watched Ronan instill fear in Elena's eyes. Could see how uncomfortable and scared she was. What did she think was going to happen meeting with someone like him?
How did she even arrange this meeting? We've been together for over a week and I've been watching her constantly. I internally roll my eyes at myself—I do watch her far more than professionally necessary. Rafa's been monitoring all her communications. He didn't mention anything about this.
The conversation between Ronan and Elena remained relatively calm until I saw him grab her wrist. Pull her across the table. Haul her into his lap. That fucking bastard.
I watched intently, ready to intervene. Then Elena slapped him across the face and despite the danger, I grinned.
That's my girl.
But when he pulled out a knife and pressed it to her ribs, I was moving before I consciously decided to act.
Within seconds I was standing in the dining area with my gun raised and trained directly on Ronan.
I wanted to blow his head off right there but getting Elena out safely was the priority. Her expression looked shocked but also relieved. Like she was genuinely grateful to see me.
"Mr. Conti! So nice to see you," Ronan said jovially, though I could see his men dead on the floor around me.
"Let's go," I told Elena, keeping my gun on Ronan.
She stepped out of the booth, wincing. Walked toward me.
"I'd like to take you up on your offer, stóirín," Ronan called after her, making an obscene gesture.
My treasure. Like hell she was his anything.
Before I could pull the trigger on this motherfucker, Elena was already moving toward the exit. I kept my gun raised toward his remaining men as we made our way out. You can never be too careful in situations like this.
Our ride home was silent but I could see the tears in her eyes. She was scared and she should be. Ronan isn't someone to mess with and he's clearly developed an interest in her that I don't like one bit. She needs to stay far away from him.
When Vito finds out about this meeting, he's going to be even more suspicious of her motivations. I need to discover what else she's hiding, and quickly.
A little while later, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. I'm leaning against the island when I hear Elena's bedroom door open and her footsteps padding down the hall. She appears in the doorway and stops, apparently not expecting me to be awake.
She continues into the kitchen and reaches up to grab a glass from the cabinet. When she stretches, she winces sharply and I immediately set down my water and move toward her. She's holding her side and won't look up at me.
I can see a red spot on her camisole where she's pressing her hand. Without asking permission, I lift the fabric and see two distinct marks—one that looks like a cut from Ronan's knife and a large bruise on her hip.
"It's nothing. I'm fine," she says, pulling her shirt down and trying to step around me.
She reaches for a glass again. "Ow!" she exclaims, doubling over slightly.
I grab a glass and set it on the counter. "Sit," I command, pointing to the stool at the island.
She rolls her eyes. "Can you not order me around for one day?"
I point to the chair again and she reluctantly sits. I retrieve the first aid kit from under her kitchen sink and wash my hands thoroughly.
Kneeling in front of her, I ask, "May I?" before moving to lift her shirt.
She pulls it up herself and I examine the cut. It's not deep but it's longer than I'd like. I pour antiseptic onto a cotton ball and gently clean the area. She winces but doesn't complain otherwise.
I place a bandage over the cut and find myself tracing my fingers over it gently.
Relief floods through me that it wasn't worse.
When I look up, she's watching me with an expression I've never seen before.
Vulnerable. Open. My fingers continue moving over her skin like they have a mind of their own.
She places her hand over mine. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
The air between us feels charged. Electric. Her breathing has changed—shallower, faster. I can see her pulse jumping at her throat. My hand is still on her bare skin and hers is covering it and I should move but I can't seem to make myself.
"Marco..." Her voice is barely a whisper.
I pull my hand away and stand abruptly. Walk to the freezer and grab an ice pack. I need to put distance between us before I do something monumentally stupid.
I kneel in front of her again and press the ice pack against the bruise on her hip, keeping my eyes on the injury instead of her face.
"I like you on your knees before me," she says.
My eyes snap up to hers. There's that gleam again. The one that gets me in trouble.
"Don't get used to it." I place her hand over the ice pack to hold it in position. "This is a one-time offer."
"Everything's a one-time offer with you." She shifts on the stool and winces. "Until it isn't."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You said I was just a job. That lasted what, twelve hours before you were breaking into Irish taverns to save me?"
I stand and cross my arms. "That was the job. Keeping you alive."
"Right. The job." She slides off the stool carefully. Tests her weight on the injured hip. "Is that why your hands were shaking when you bandaged me up?"
"They weren't—"
"They were." She takes a step toward me. "And just now when you were touching me, that wasn't very professional either."
I should shut this down. Should remind her of all the reasons this can't happen. But she's standing there in her thin camisole with her hair messy from sleep and her eyes still a little red from crying and all I can think about is how badly I wanted to kill Ronan for putting his hands on her.
"Go to bed, Elena."
"That's it? Go to bed?" She laughs but there's no humor in it. "You save my life, patch me up, look at me like... like that, and then just dismiss me?"
"Like what?"
"Like you give a damn." She shakes her head. "Never mind. Forget it."
She turns toward her bedroom. I watch her go. Watch her favor her injured side. Watch her reach for the doorframe to steady herself.
"Elena."
She stops but doesn't turn around.
"I do," I say quietly. "Give a damn."
She looks back at me over her shoulder. Something shifts in her expression. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Which is exactly why you need to go to bed. Now."
For once, she doesn't argue. Just gives me a small smile and disappears into her room. The door clicks shut softly.
I grab my water from the counter and head back to the couch. I lie down in the darkness.
Tomorrow I'm taking her to Vito. Tomorrow we'll have to deal with the Ronan situation and whatever the hell she's gotten herself mixed up in.
But tonight, all I can think about is the feel of her skin under my fingers and the way she looked at me like I was someone worth trusting.
I'm so fucked.