Chapter 19
Elena
Three days later, I'm maintaining my perfect facade beautifully. Marco is more suspicious than ever, but he can't quite put his finger on what I'm doing. Every time he tries to corner me with pointed questions, I deflect with domestic tasks or innocent conversation.
This afternoon, Marco had to leave for some urgent business with Vito—something about the Irish that had his jaw clenched and his eyes dark with barely controlled anger.
Of course, he didn't go without making arrangements.
Tony and Lorenzo are stationed outside, one at the front entrance and one covering the back alley and fire escape.
I spotted them both when I looked out the window earlier.
For once, I'm behaving well enough that Marco felt comfortable leaving me. Or maybe he just didn't have a choice—when Vito calls, you go. Either way, I have a few hours of freedom. Sort of.
Becca comes over with supplies for a paint-by-numbers project and a bottle of top-shelf gin. She takes one look at my serene expression and perfectly organized living space and raises an eyebrow.
"Okay, who are you and what did you do with my chaotic best friend?"
"I'm just trying something new," I tell her, measuring gin into a shaker. "Being more... zen."
"Zen." She looks around at my spotless apartment and the neat row of plants by the windows. "This is about the tall hunk of man meat, isn't it?"
I hand her a perfect martini, complete with olive garnish. "Maybe I just decided to embrace my domestic side."
"Elena Maria Messina, I have known you since college. You once ate cereal for dinner for three weeks straight because you couldn't be bothered to grocery shop. This Martha Stewart act is not you."
I settle onto the couch beside her and open the paint-by-numbers kit—a pastoral scene with flowers and a cottage. "People change, Becca."
"People change, yes. People completely transform their entire personality in the span of a week? That's suspicious."
We work in comfortable silence for a while, the gin loosening my shoulders and making everything feel softer around the edges. It's nice, having a friend here who doesn't know about Dad's debt or the threats or the constant fear that follows me everywhere.
"So," Becca says, carefully painting a tiny yellow flower. "How are things with Marco? And don't you dare give me some innocent bullshit answer. I can practically feel the sexual tension from here."
"It's complicated."
"It's always complicated with the good ones." She pauses to take a sip of her martini. "Have you slept with him yet?"
"Becca!"
"That's a no. But you want to."
I focus very intently on painting a particularly intricate leaf. "It's not that simple."
"It is that simple. You're attracted to him, he's clearly attracted to you, you're living together... What's the holdup?"
Oh, just that he's my bodyguard and I'm being threatened by the Irish mob and my father owes them enough money to buy a small country.
"There are... professional complications," I say instead.
"Ah." Becca nods knowingly. "He's one of Vito's guys."
"Something like that."
"Well, for what it's worth, the way he looks at you is definitely not professional. More like he wants to carry you off to his cave and keep you there forever."
Heat blooms in my chest at her words. "You think?"
"Honey, I've seen a lot of men look at you over the years. This is different. This is the look of a man who's already decided you're his, he's just waiting for you to figure it out too."
I want to ask her what she means, want to dissect every interaction Marco and I have had over the past few weeks. But before I can form the words, I hear his key in the lock.
My heart skips. He's back already?
Marco enters looking even more tense and tired than when he left. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in Becca's presence and our arts and crafts setup. I watch relief flicker across his face—just for a second—before his usual guarded expression slides back into place.
He was worried I'd be gone.
"Ladies," he says with a polite nod.
"Marco!" Becca chirps, raising her martini glass. "Join us! Elena's teaching me the fine art of paint-by-numbers."
"I'll pass." But his eyes linger on me, taking in my relaxed posture and the slight flush the gin has brought to my cheeks.
"Your loss," Becca says. "Though I have to say, Elena's been absolutely glowing lately. Must be all this domestic bliss."
I want to kick her under the coffee table, but Marco's attention is already sharpening on me like a laser.
"Has she now?"
"Oh yes. Very zen, very peaceful. It's like she's a completely different person."
"Becca," I warn.
But she's on a roll, the gin making her chatty. "I was just telling Elena how nice it must be to have such an attentive... roommate. Someone to take care of her, make sure she's safe..."
The look Marco gives me could melt steel. "I do my best."
"I'm sure you do." Becca's grin is absolutely wicked. "Elena's very lucky to have you looking out for her."
"If you'll excuse me," Marco says, his voice carefully controlled, "I have some calls to make."
He disappears down the hallway, and I immediately turn to Becca.
"What the hell was that?"
"That was me nudging things along. You're welcome."
"I didn't ask you to—"
"You didn't have to. The two of you are dancing around each other like it's a Jane Austen novel. Someone needs to light a fire under this situation."
"It's not that simple," I repeat.
"It is if you let it be." Becca sets down her paintbrush and fixes me with a serious look. "Elena, I've watched you date a lot of guys over the years. Good guys, bad guys, boring guys, exciting guys. I have never seen you light up the way you do when you talk about Marco."
"I don't—"
"You do. Even when you're complaining about him being overprotective or bossy, there's this... softness in your voice. Like you're secretly thrilled that someone cares enough to worry about you."
My throat tightens unexpectedly. "That's not—"
"When's the last time someone really took care of you, Elena? And I don't mean bought you dinner or picked up the check. I mean really took care of you, worried about your safety, made sure you had everything you needed?"
I think about Marco sleeping on the couch to stay close in case I need anything. The way he automatically moves to the outside of the sidewalk when we walk together. How he always checks that I've eaten before he touches his own food. The relief on his face just now when he saw I was still here.
"It doesn't matter," I say quietly. "It's complicated."
"Life is complicated. That doesn't mean you have to be miserable."
After Becca leaves an hour later, I clean up our supplies and start dinner. Marco is still on the phone in his makeshift office, his voice a low murmur I can't quite make out. I catch fragments—something about locations and timing—but nothing that gives me any real information.
I'm plating the lasagna when he finally emerges, looking even more tense than when he arrived home.
"Honey, dinner's ready," I call in my best sing-song voice, loud enough that whoever he was talking to definitely heard me if they're still on the line.
It's a calculated move, designed to sound domestic and intimate to any business associates who might be listening. I love the way it makes Marco's jaw tick with frustration.
He ends his call and walks to the kitchen, scowl firmly in place.
Great. Grumpy Marco it is.
I hand him a plate and he stomps over to the table and sits down like a petulant child.
I plate my own food and grab napkins, walking over to hand him one. "What would you like to drink?"
"I'll get it," he grits out.
"I'm already up. Just tell me what you want."
Marco stands abruptly, towering over me with barely controlled tension radiating from every line of his body. "I want you to cut the shit, Elena. Don't think I don't know what you're doing. This sweet and innocent act is bullshit."
He stalks to the cabinet and grabs a glass, slamming it shut hard enough to make the dishes rattle. The sound of running water fills the tense silence as he fills his glass from the fridge dispenser.
When he returns to the table, his movements are sharp and controlled. He sits down and stabs his fork into the lasagna, but before he takes a bite, I decide to poke the bear.
"What's wrong?" I ask, injecting just the right amount of innocent concern into my voice. "I thought you'd be happy. I stayed put while you were gone, didn't I? No escape attempts, no sneaking out. I even made dinner."
The look he gives me could freeze fire. Slowly, deliberately, he sets down his fork and reaches across the table to grab my chin, his fingers firm but not painful as he forces me to meet his gaze.
"You're up to something, Elena, and I'm going to find out what it is."
The space between us crackles with electricity, the air growing thick and charged.
My heart hammers against my ribs as Marco's thumb brushes across my lower lip.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and for a wild moment I think he's going to lean across the table and kiss me senseless.
Yes, please.
But he doesn't. Instead, he drops his hand and stands abruptly, not touching his food as he steps back from the table.
"Enjoy your dinner," he says coldly, then walks out of the apartment, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
I sit alone at the table, staring at his untouched plate of lasagna, my chin still tingling from his touch.
"You're welcome for dinner, asshole," I mutter to the empty room.
But even as the words leave my mouth, I'm thinking about the way he looked at me—like he wanted to devour me and throttle me in equal measure.
The perfect mafia princess act is working a little too well. I'm getting under Marco's skin, but I'm also getting under my own.
And that's the most dangerous game of all.