Chapter 18
Elena
Marco has been walking around this apartment for the past three days with the most insufferable smug smirk, like he's figured out some grand mystery. His pompous attitude makes my teeth itch. He may know something, but he doesn't know everything. And I have my ways of throwing him off the scent.
I can tell he's been digging. The constant phone calls with Rafa.
The way he's been glued to his laptop, reviewing what I can only assume are my financials, my records, every digital footprint I've ever left.
When he started asking questions the other day it made my blood freeze—I knew he was getting close to something.
Not the truth, but close enough to be dangerous.
So I've decided to completely change tactics. If Marco wants to play detective, I'll give him exactly what he expects to see.
I've become the perfect mafia princess.
This morning, I wake up early and make fresh coffee, humming softly as I move around the kitchen. When Marco emerges from the couch where he's been sleeping—shirtless as usual, the bastard—I greet him with a bright smile.
"Good morning! I was thinking we could go plant shopping today. I saw this adorable succulent arrangement online that would look perfect by the living room window."
He stops mid-stretch, eyeing me suspiciously. "Plant shopping."
"Mhmm." I pour him coffee, black the way he likes it, and slide the mug across the counter. "Unless you have work stuff? I know how important your... business... is."
I let my voice trail off innocently, like I'm just a sweet girl who doesn't quite understand what her big, strong protector does for a living.
Marco takes the coffee but doesn't drink it, still watching me with those sharp green eyes. "Since when do you ask permission to go shopping?"
"I'm not asking permission," I say, adding just enough steel to my voice to make it believable. "I'm being considerate. There's a difference."
I turn back to the stove where I'm making scrambled eggs, letting my hair fall over my shoulder in what I hope looks like casual dismissal. In my peripheral vision, I see Marco's jaw tick.
Good. Let him be confused.
The plant shopping trip goes exactly as planned.
I spend two hours selecting the most innocuous plants imaginable—a few peace lilies, some pothos, a small jade plant.
I ask Marco's opinion on everything, touching his arm when I get excited about a particularly pretty succulent, generally acting like a woman who has nothing more pressing on her mind than home decoration.
"This one or this one?" I ask, holding up two nearly identical ferns.
Marco looks like he wants to strangle both the plants and me. "They're the same."
"No, they're not! This one has more delicate fronds, see? And the color is slightly different." I lean closer to him, pointing out the microscopic differences while my breast brushes against his arm. "What do you think?"
His nostrils flare slightly, and I hide my smile. Poor Marco. I'm being the perfect combination of innocent and subtly seductive, giving him just enough to keep him off-balance.
We return to the apartment laden with plants and new pots. I spend the afternoon repotting and arranging them while Marco works on his laptop at the kitchen island. Every so often, I ask him innocent questions about soil drainage or lighting, playing the role of devoted plant mom to perfection.
That evening, I cook dinner—nothing fancy, just pasta with marinara sauce and a side salad. But I set the table with actual placemats and the good glasses, light a candle, make it feel domestic and normal.
"This is nice," Marco says, though he sounds suspicious of the very concept of 'nice.'
"I enjoy cooking for people I care about," I reply, letting my fingers brush his as I hand him his fork.
His hand freezes for just a moment before he pulls away. "Since when?"
"Since always. I just haven't had anyone to cook for in a while." I take a bite of pasta and make a small sound of satisfaction. "I think I nailed the seasoning tonight."
We eat in relative quiet, and I can practically feel Marco's mind working, trying to figure out my angle.
The funny thing is, part of me isn't acting at all.
It has been nice, these past few days of domestic normalcy.
Cooking together, watching movies curled up on opposite ends of the couch, talking about our childhoods in carefully edited stories.
Last night, we played Scrabble and I learned that Marco is viciously competitive and has an unexpectedly dirty vocabulary. When he played 'quiver' for a triple word score, the way he looked at me while placing the tiles made heat pool low in my belly.
"Your move," he'd said, his voice slightly rougher than usual.
I'd played 'throb' off his 'r' and watched his pupils dilate.
The memory makes me shift in my seat now, and Marco's gaze immediately sharpens on me.
"Everything okay?"
"Perfect," I say, offering him my most serene smile.
After dinner, I suggest we watch a movie. I pick something romantic and predictable, then curl up on the couch with a throw blanket, patting the cushion beside me.
"There's plenty of room."
Marco sits, but maintains careful distance between us. Within twenty minutes, I've gradually migrated closer, until my head is resting against his shoulder. His body is tense beneath me, coiled like a spring.
"This okay?" I murmur, tilting my face up to look at him.
His jaw is tight. "Fine."
But it's not fine, and we both know it. The air between us is charged with the same electricity that led to our kiss three nights ago. Marco's hand hovers near my hair like he wants to touch it, then drops to his side.
"Elena," he says quietly.
"Hmm?"
"What are you doing?"
I let my eyes go wide and innocent. "Watching a movie with you. Unless you'd rather I sit somewhere else?"
"That's not what I meant."
I sit up slightly, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his green eyes. "Then what did you mean?"
For a moment, I think he's going to kiss me again. His gaze drops to my lips, and I feel that familiar tug low in my belly. But then his phone buzzes, breaking the spell.
He checks the message and his expression hardens. "I need to take this."
He gets up and walks toward the kitchen, phone already pressed to his ear. I catch fragments of his conversation—something about surveillance and locations—before he steps out onto the fire escape for privacy.
While he's gone, I tidy up the living room, fluffing couch cushions and watering my new plants. By the time he comes back inside, I'm in the kitchen starting to prepare tomorrow's lunch.
"Working late?" I ask without looking up from the sandwich I'm wrapping.
"Something like that."
His tone is clipped, professional. Whatever that call was about, it's put him back in bodyguard mode.
I finish with the sandwich and wash my hands, very aware of Marco watching my every movement. When I turn around, he's leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, studying me like I'm a puzzle he can't solve.
"You've been different lately," he says.
"Different how?"
"Compliant. Domestic. It's not like you."
I laugh, and it sounds genuinely amused even to my own ears. "Maybe this is just what I'm like when I'm not fighting for my life every day. Maybe you're finally seeing the real me."
"The real you set a man's car on fire when you were sixteen."
My eyebrows lift. "You've been reading my juvenile record? How thorough of you."
"The real you escaped from a locked bathroom window and disappeared for six hours last month."
"The real me also just spent all day picking out plants and cooking you dinner," I counter. "People are complicated, Marco. We contain multitudes."
He pushes off from the counter and moves closer, backing me against the sink. "What's your game, Elena?"
"No game. Maybe I'm just tired of fighting with you all the time." I meet his stare steadily. "Maybe I decided I'd rather enjoy your company instead of battling you every step of the way."
"And I'm supposed to believe you just... gave up? That you're suddenly okay with being watched twenty-four seven?"
I reach up and straighten his collar, letting my fingers linger against the warm skin of his throat. "I'm okay with being watched by you."
His breath hitches almost imperceptibly. "Elena..."
"What?" I step closer, until there's barely an inch between us. "You've been taking care of me, protecting me. The least I can do is take care of you too. Make sure you eat properly, have a comfortable place to sleep..."
"I sleep on the couch."
"That's your choice." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "My bed is much more comfortable."
The tension between us ratchets up to an almost unbearable level. Marco's hands come up to frame my face, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones.
"What are you doing to me?" he asks, his voice rough.
Before I can answer, his phone rings again. We both freeze, the moment suspended between us like a held breath.
Marco closes his eyes and drops his hands. "I have to take this."
"Of course you do."
He answers the phone with a sharp "What?" and I slip past him, heading for my bedroom.
"Elena," he calls after me.
I pause in the doorway and look back. "Good night, Marco."
I close the door behind me and lean against it, my heart racing. This game I'm playing is more dangerous than I thought. Every time I get close to Marco, every time I let myself believe this domestic fantasy could be real, I remember what's at stake.
Dad's debt. The threats. Rina's baby.