Chapter 13
Marco
Rafa hasn't been able to find shit on Elena's dad.
The guy's like a ghost, popping up randomly over the years with a credit card purchase here, an apartment lease there.
Nothing consistent, nothing that makes sense.
Most people use their credit cards for everything—gas, groceries, coffee.
This asshole only uses his a few times a year, and his apartment leases are month-to-month in different cities and states.
Where the hell is he living? Working? Elena mentioned she talks to him a few times a year, so maybe she'd know something useful. Though getting information out of her is like pulling teeth.
I've been doing my own research, following every lead, and I'm coming up empty on all fronts. Every avenue I take to look into Elena's secret meetings hits a dead end. It's pissing me off. I'm the best tracker in the organization. How is she slipping through my surveillance?
She hasn't met with anyone since Ronan, which tells me that encounter rattled her more than she's letting on.
Good. Maybe she'll think twice before pulling another disappearing act.
She's been pleasant around the apartment these last few days, telling me daily that her wounds are healing nicely.
I'm glad she's not in pain anymore, but she wouldn't need to heal if she was smarter about the company she keeps.
Now we're sitting at the table, eating the dinner she made. The domesticity of it should feel weird, but it doesn't. She's humming while she eats, this unconscious thing she does when she's relaxed. Content.
"This is really good," I tell her, gesturing to the pasta.
"Thanks." She smiles. "It's my mom's recipe. One of the few things I remember her teaching me."
There's no sadness in her voice when she mentions her mother. Just warmth. Like the memory itself is enough.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I watch her twirl pasta around her fork, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when it falls forward. These little details I've been cataloging without meaning to.
"I've been meaning to ask..." I pause, watching her expression shift to cautious. "How did you escape your detail at the cafe two weeks ago?"
She sets her fork down and that mischievous glint sparks in her eyes. "How do you think I did it?"
I set my own fork down and tap my finger against my lips, pretending to think hard about it. "You drugged him, then walked out like nothing happened."
She shakes her head, still smiling.
"You bribed him to let you escape?"
Another head shake.
"You're secretly best friends with Rafa and he manipulated the video footage to cover your ass from my wrath?" I glare at her playfully.
She bursts out laughing. "You've figured us out."
The sound does something to my chest. Makes it tight in a way that has nothing to do with anger or frustration.
We pick up our forks and continue eating, stealing glances at each other like a couple of teenagers with crushes. When did this become my life?
"The door," she says suddenly.
I look at her, confused. "What?"
"I was behind the door. When he opened it, he didn't look behind it and walked straight into the stall. I snuck out undetected."
Rookie move, Tony. I make a mental note to retrain him on basic surveillance protocols.
Elena takes another bite of pasta. Chews thoughtfully. "You know, for someone who's supposed to be watching me, you seem pretty impressed by my escape methods."
"Impressed isn't the word I'd use."
"No? What word would you use?"
"Concerned. Frustrated. Occasionally homicidal when I think about what could've happened."
She rolls her eyes but she's still smiling. "I can take care of myself."
"So you keep saying."
The conversation flows easily after that.
She tells me about a book she's reading—some romance novel with a plot that sounds ridiculous but she defends passionately.
I tell her about a job Vito and I handled years ago that went sideways in the most absurd way possible. She laughs in all the right places.
This is nice. Easy. The kind of normal I didn't think we could have.
But I need answers. And this might be my best chance to get them while she's relaxed.
"Have you heard from your dad?" I ask, keeping my tone casual.
The shift is immediate. Her fork clatters against her plate. The ease drains from her expression.
"No." She wipes her mouth with her napkin. I can see the frustration building. "It's like he doesn't even care that we haven't spoken."
"Has he ever disappeared for extended periods before?"
She's quiet for a moment. Pushes pasta around her plate. "The longest he's ever gone without calling me is six months, and that was only because..." She stops. That wall slams back up between us.
"Because what?" I lean forward slightly. This feels like a breakthrough. Like she might actually trust me enough to tell me the truth.
"It doesn't matter why." Her voice goes flat. "It only matters that he swore he'd never do it again, and here we are... it's happening... again."
I can feel her shutting down. See it in the way she won't meet my eyes anymore. "Elena—"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"If you'd just tell me what's going on—"
"Why?" She looks up at me then. There's something raw in her expression. "So you can report it to Vito? So the whole family can know my business?"
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" She pushes back from the table. "You said it yourself, Marco. I'm just a job to you."
The words hit harder than they should. "I never said—"
"You did. When I asked if I was just a job, you said yes. No hesitation." She stands, grabbing her plate. "So forgive me if I don't feel like sharing my deepest secrets with my babysitter."
Frustration builds in my chest. We were having a good moment. A real moment. And now she's using my own words against me like a weapon.
"You know that's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" She's at the sink now, her back to me. "Because from where I'm standing, you've made it pretty clear where the line is."
I stand too. Walk over to her. "The line exists because it has to. You're Rina's cousin. You're family. And you're in danger. That's what matters."
"Right." She rinses her plate with more force than necessary. "Family. A job. Same thing, apparently."
"Elena—"
"I'm tired, Marco." She sets the plate in the dish rack and turns to face me. Her eyes are bright but she's not crying. Just... done. "I made dinner. We ate. Now I'm going to bed. Isn't that what good little jobs do? Stay where they're told?"
The jab lands. She walks past me toward her bedroom.
"That's not what I want," I say to her retreating back.
She pauses at her doorway. Doesn't turn around. "Then maybe you should figure out what you do want. Because I'm tired of the mixed signals."
Her door closes. Not a slam. Just a quiet, definitive click.
I stand in the kitchen, staring at her closed door. The apartment feels bigger somehow. Emptier.
She's right. I have been giving mixed signals. Touching her when I shouldn't. Looking at her in ways that have nothing to do with protection. Getting jealous when other men come near her.
But Vito's warning echoes in my head. She's family. She's off limits.
I rinse my own plate and put it away. Turn off the lights. Collapse onto the couch.
The thing is, I do know what I want. That's the problem.
An hour later, I'm still awake. Staring at the ceiling. Replaying the conversation. Wondering if I should knock on her door and actually be honest for once.
Then I hear it. Footsteps in the hallway.
She's trying to sneak out again. Bold as brass. Walking right past me like I'm some amateur she can outsmart.
This is sooner than I expected her to try again. Maybe our conversation pushed her to this. Or maybe she's just that desperate to meet whoever she's been contacting.
She's almost to the front door when I flick on the lamp and stand. Cross my arms over my chest.
"No."
She stops. Turns around. And I can see the determination in her eyes even in the dim light.
"Can we not do this?" She crosses her arms too. Hip popped in that defiant way that drives me insane. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
"You're not going."
"I am going." Her voice rises slightly. "You have no right to control my every move. I need to go, you don't understand—"
"How could I understand when you won't tell me a damn thing?"
"Because you've made it clear you don't actually care!" The words burst out of her. "I'm just a job, remember? So do your job and get out of my way."
"It's not that simple—"
"It is exactly that simple." She tries to push past me toward the door. "Either you care or you don't. Either I matter to you or I'm just an assignment. You can't have it both ways."
I block her path. She tries to go around me. We dance this stubborn waltz—her trying to get around me, me blocking her path—over and over.
"Elena, stop."
"No! You stop!" She shoves at my chest. Not hard. Just frustrated. "Stop acting like you care when it's convenient and then hiding behind 'it's just business' when things get real. Stop looking at me the way you do and then telling me I'm off limits. Stop—"
Her voice cracks. She stops pushing.
We're standing too close. I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The shine in her eyes that might be unshed tears or just anger.
"Just let me go," she whispers.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
Because the thought of her out there with Ronan or whoever else she's meeting makes me want to burn down half the city. Because I can't sleep when she's not safe in her room. Because somewhere along the way this stopped being about Vito's orders and started being about her.
But I can't say any of that.
"Because it's my job," I tell her.
Something shutters in her expression. "Right. Your job."
She steps back. Wraps her arms around herself. "Fine. You win. I'm not going anywhere."
She turns and walks toward her bedroom. No fight left. Just defeat.
"Elena—"
"Goodnight, Marco."
The door closes. This time it does slam. Hard enough to rattle the frame.
I stand there in the dark living room, my phone in my hand. I should text Tony. Tell him to watch the fire escape. Make sure she doesn't try to sneak out another way.
Instead I just stare at her closed door.
This bipolar game is exhausting. One minute we're laughing over dinner like actual friends. The next we're at each other's throats because neither of us can be honest about what's really happening here.
I grab my phone and text Tony: Keep an eye on her fire escape. She's too stubborn to give up this easily.
His response comes immediately: Yes, boss.
I lie down on the couch. Close my eyes. Try not to think about the look on her face when I said it was just my job.
Or about the fact that it was never just my job, but I'm too much of a coward to admit it.