Chapter 20
Marco
I finally catch a break, and it's a big one.
After three days of digging through financial records and following paper trails that led nowhere, I tracked down the source of the gambling debt. And guess what? It's not Elena's debt at all.
It's her father's. That rat bastard.
I'm sitting in my makeshift office—Elena's kitchen—staring at my laptop screen with a mixture of satisfaction and rage.
The breakthrough came from an obscure payment on one of Elio's old credit cards, buried deep in his financial history.
At first glance, it looked like a routine lease payment made out to something called "Metropolitan Real Estate Management. "
Except Metropolitan Real Estate Management doesn't exist.
It took Rafa's hacking skills and my own persistence, but we finally cracked it. The company is a shell. A front operation run by none other than the Costellos. Every "lease payment" Elio made over the years was actually a debt payment to the Irish.
Fuck me.
So Elio owes the Costellos money—a lot of money based on the payment amounts—and they're using Elena as leverage. And they know she's connected to Vito, which might be their angle. Use the Don's "niece" to put pressure on both Elio and the Rossos. Smart, if you're a sociopathic piece of shit.
I scroll through more records. My jaw clenches tighter with each new piece of information. Elio's been making these payments for years, like some kind of twisted protection racket. Annual payments to keep the Costellos satisfied. Keep them from coming after him directly.
But the last payment was made fourteen months ago.
Fourteen months. Right around when Elena said she last heard from him.
Time's up and they're not playing games anymore. They've brought Elena into this mess, and the thought of what they might do to her makes my blood turn to acid.
The worst part? Elena doesn't even know the full scope of what she's dealing with. She thinks this is about finding her missing father, but it's so much worse than that. She's been thrown into the middle of a years-long conflict between Elio and the Irish, and she's completely outgunned.
My phone rings. Dante's name flashes on the screen. I answer without preamble.
"Tell me it's done."
"It's done. Just as you asked." His voice carries that satisfied tone he gets after completing an assignment. "Lee Rivato won't be bothering anyone ever again."
Relief floods through me. One less threat to Elena.
"Any issues?"
"None."
I lean back in my chair, running my free hand through my hair. "Thanks for the update."
"Happy to be of assistance," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
"Go be of assistance to someone else," I chuckle.
He laughs before hanging up, but my mood doesn't lighten. It's clear that the Costellos will come directly for Elena next.
I've got to get more information out of her. Her secrets are only digging her deeper into danger, and I'm not willing to risk Elena's life for her father's debt. Not now. Not ever.
The sound of Elena moving around the apartment pulls me from my thoughts. I close my laptop and walk to the living room, where I find her grabbing her watering pot from under the kitchen sink.
Watching her tend to her plants is like watching someone perform a meditation ritual.
She looks genuinely happy as she moves from plant to plant, checking leaves, adjusting their positions to catch better light.
It's such a contrast to the tense, guarded woman I've been living with for the past few weeks.
She walks right past me without acknowledgment and begins watering the plants in the living room. Her movements are graceful, deliberate. She moves down the hall to the single plant in the bathroom, then disappears into her bedroom.
The innocent act is getting old. I know another escape attempt is coming—I can feel it in the way she moves, the careful distance she maintains, the way she's been watching me when she thinks I'm not looking.
I still don't know how she's communicating with her contacts. Despite all my surveillance, all of Rafa's digital monitoring, she's managed to set up meetings without leaving any electronic trail. It's impressive and infuriating in equal measure.
Elena returns to the kitchen and puts away her watering pot, then walks to the front door to lace up her running shoes. She hasn't spoken to me all day, and barely anything over the past few days. We've gone from heated confrontations and sexual tension to this cold war of silence.
Honestly, I'd prefer the bratty answers over this arctic treatment. At least when she was fighting with me, I knew what she was thinking. This silence is her way of trying to maintain control. Of dictating how and when we communicate.
She doesn't even look in my direction before stepping out the door. I immediately text Lorenzo to let him know she's on her way down, then move to the living room window to watch. I see her turn right out of the building. Lorenzo falls into step about half a block behind her.
Perfect. Now I have time to search her room.
I wait until they're a full block away before heading down the hallway. The moment I enter Elena's bedroom, her signature scent hits me—jasmine and vanilla, warm and intoxicating.
She smells so damn good and my body responds immediately. My cock stirs, pressing against my jeans. I have to adjust myself before I can focus on the task at hand.
Get it together, Marco.
The room is mostly clean and organized with only a few items out of place.
Plants hang near the windows and cluster on every available surface—her dresser, bedside tables, the small corner desk.
Her bed is unmade, sheets rumpled in a way that makes me think about her sleeping here. Maybe restless. Maybe dreaming.
I start with the obvious places. Dresser drawers—nothing but clothes. Closet—same. Under the bed—just dust bunnies and a lone sock.
The desk yields only one item of interest: an empty envelope in the single drawer. I turn it over in my hands, looking for any identifying marks, but it's completely blank. Still, the fact that she kept an empty envelope suggests it held something important.
I move to her bedside table and pull open the drawer. Inside I find the usual—chapstick, hair ties, a notepad and pen, nail polish. Nothing useful.
I continue searching—checking for loose floorboards, looking behind picture frames, running my hands along the underside of furniture. Elena's too smart to hide anything obvious, but I have to try.
My phone buzzes with a text from Lorenzo: Heading back. 5 minutes.
Shit.
I quickly scan the room to make sure everything looks exactly as I found it, then head back to the living room. Frustrated and empty-handed.
No burner phone. No secret laptop. No hidden documents. Nothing that suggests how she's been communicating with her contacts.
I hear the front door open. Elena's footsteps head toward her bedroom without pause. Right on schedule—she'll shower now, just like always.
I lean back against the couch and close my eyes. The frustration builds like pressure in a boiler. I'm missing something. Some crucial piece of the puzzle that would make everything else fall into place.
Elena's getting antsy. I can feel it. The way she's been moving around the apartment, the careful distance she maintains, the way she watches me when she thinks I'm not looking—it all points to someone planning their next move.
I just need to be patient. She'll make her play soon, and when she does, I'll be ready. No more escape attempts that end with her getting hurt. No more close calls in dark alleys.
Next time, I'll let her think she's outsmarted me. I'll follow at a distance. Let her lead me to whatever meeting she's so desperate to attend.
And then I'll make sure it's the last time she puts herself in danger for her father's mistakes.
The sound of the shower starting reminds me that she's just twenty feet away. Naked. Wet. Probably thinking about our confrontation last night. The way I grabbed her chin. The way she looked at me like she wanted me to kiss her again.
I run my hands through my hair. Living with Elena is like being slowly tortured. Every day I'm surrounded by her scent, her presence, the knowledge that she's sleeping in that bed just down the hall.
And every day I have to maintain professional distance while my control erodes a little more.
But last night changed something. When I touched her face, when I looked into her eyes and told her I'd find out what she was hiding, I saw something flicker there. Not just defiance or anger, but heat. Recognition.
She wants me just as much as I want her. The question is what we're going to do about it.
Because this game we're playing—bodyguard and client, predator and prey, man and woman circling each other like we're afraid to get too close—it can't last forever.
Something's going to break soon. I just hope it's Elena's walls and not my sanity.