Chapter 153 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 153 (Elena's POV)
Back in Chicago, the garage crew threw me a small welcome party.


Margaret's General Tso's chicken and black pepper beef held center stage, flanked by Sofia's Italian lasagna.


Marcus contributed a massive platter of burritos, fillings threatening to burst.


I stood in the doorway, watching them bustle.


Sunset poured through the roll-up door, gilding everyone's silhouette in gold.


"Boss! Sit!" Marcus pulled over a chair with an exaggerated flourish.


I laughed, walked over, sat down.


Linh climbed into my lap, small hands cupping my face, big eyes blinking.


"Aina-jiejie, does it still hurt?"


"Not anymore." I tweaked her nose. "See? Jiejie's just fine."


She beamed like a little sun.


Dinner was lively.


Marcus reported between bites of burrito—"CNC's fine! I check every day! Watered the pothos too! Although one pot might've gotten too much water, the leaves are a little yellow…"


Sofia rolled her eyes: "You dumped the entire watering can in, of course they're yellow."


Pavel drank vodka in silence, occasionally offering a comment in Polish that no one understood, but everyone laughed anyway.


Adrian sat in the corner, barely speaking, but kept putting food on my plate.


Burrito, beef, lasagna—my bowl piled like a mountain.


"I can't eat any more—"


"One more sip of soup." He pushed the bowl toward me.


"I really can't."


"Margaret said you have to finish all of it."


I looked at him.


His expression was completely serious.


Fine.


I lifted the soup bowl and drank the last sip.


Very warm.


Warmth flowing from throat to stomach, spreading to my fingertips.




After dinner, people dispersed.


I went to the third floor of the North Side office to meet with Uncle Simone and Dario.


I placed the laptop at the center of the long table and turned on the projector.


The USB files projected onto the white wall one by one.


"Three lines," I stood at the whiteboard, marker in hand. "Advancing simultaneously."


First line—Dante.


"The traitor. I handle him personally."


Simone leaned back, arms crossed, said nothing.


Second line—the Ferrante family.


"Judicial route. Once the federal investigation launches, Ferrante's political network collapses first."


Dario scribbled rapidly in his notebook.


Third line—


My pen tip paused on the whiteboard before writing:


Enzo.


"The Marino family… I don't want to be as ruthless as with Ferrante," I said. "But Enzo must die."


Simone's eyes moved from the whiteboard to my face.


"You finished?" he asked.


"Finished."


He stood, walked to the whiteboard, and wiped away the three lines with his fingers.


"Dante is in Philadelphia," he said. "To get him, you need to infiltrate Ferrante territory. You don't have enough people."


"Luca's people—"


"Can you still use Luca's people?" He cut me off directly, gaze sharp. "You just told him in Palermo that you're going after his grandfather. You think he'll still lend you soldiers?"


I didn't answer.


"The Ferrante judicial route takes three to six months," he continued. "In that time, you're simultaneously fighting Dante and Enzo. How many people do you have? The garage crew, Dario's few old hands, Carlos's street gang—under fifty combined."


He turned to face me.


"How many does Enzo have around him? Marino family elites—at least several hundred."


Dario's pen stopped.


He looked up at me, lips moving, finally speaking.


"Boss, Uncle Simone's right. Three lines simultaneously… it's too aggressive."


"I know it's aggressive," I said.


"Then why—"


"Because I don't have time to wait." I cut him off. "Dante knows I have evidence. Every day he lives is another day to destroy other evidence, move assets, evade pursuit. And Enzo—"


I took a deep breath.


"If Luca goes back to New York and tells Enzo, Enzo will launch countermeasures within twenty-four hours. Freeze my accounts, cut my supply chains, maybe even send people directly to Chicago."


Simone's fist slammed the table.


"Elena." His voice dropped very low. "You nearly died in Palermo. Do you know what happens if that hit had been half a centimeter closer to your temple?"


He pointed at the gauze on my forehead, furious.


"You die! And your great-uncle and I want you alive! Alive! Do you understand?"


Uncle Simone—the man who was always composed, always calm, who wouldn't flinch with a gun to his head—his eyes had gone red.


My throat was too blocked to speak.


The silence lasted a long time.


"Uncle." I began, voice lighter than I'd intended. "I know what you're worried about."


He said nothing.


"But you also know—if we don't strike first, once Enzo and Ferrante move, we won't even have a chance to fight back."


"Then scale down," he said. "Concentrate on Dante first. Ferrante takes the slow judicial route. Enzo… leave him alone for now."


"If I leave Enzo alone, he moves on me first."


"You don't know that—"


"I do." I cut him off. "Because I know him. He doesn't wait. He never waits."


Simone stared at me.


I stared back.


The room held only the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of Dario swallowing.


"Three lines simultaneously," I repeated, voice steady. "But the tempo of each can be adjusted. Dante is most urgent—move first. Ferrante takes the judicial route, step by step. Enzo—once the first two lines show progress, then we close the net."


"I won't charge to the front like Palermo again," I added. "But I won't hide in the back waiting to die either."


Simone's fingers tapped the table three times.


Very slowly.


Then he sighed.


A long, deep sigh squeezed from the bottom of his chest.


"Fine," he said. "But one condition."


"What?"


"Every action step—forty-eight hours advance notice to me. I get veto power."


I hesitated one second.


"Twenty-four hours," I said. "Veto power is yours, but final decisions are mine."


He stared at me.


I didn't yield.


"…Fine." He said at last, leaning back. "You're more and more like your father."


"I'll take that as a compliment."


"Half compliment, half curse," he muttered.


Dario quietly exhaled, pen tip returning to paper.




After the meeting, I returned to the apartment.


After showering, I sat on the bed's edge, staring at my phone.


Luca's number on the screen.


I thought about it, then dialed.


Ring—ring—ring—ring—


No answer.


I hung up and sent a message.


"We need to talk."


Sent.


The read receipt didn't appear.


A sense of unease began spreading in my stomach.


I called his hotel's front desk.


The receptionist's voice was polite: "Mr. Marino checked out yesterday in the early morning hours, ma'am. He didn't leave a message."


Checked out in the early hours.


A few hours after our conversation ended.


"Never mind, thank you."


I hung up and called Adrian.


"Help me track Luca's whereabouts. He's disappeared."


Two seconds of silence on Adrian's end.


"I'll look into it."


Two hours later, he called back.


"Can't find him," he said, tone unusually grave. "His private jet filed no flight plan. Phone is off. Last credit card charge was yesterday, early morning, Palermo airport lounge. After that—nothing."


A man who controlled New York's most powerful Mafia family had vanished into thin air.


This unsettled me more than if he'd gone straight back to New York.


Because going back would mean he'd made his decision—protect Enzo, oppose me. That I could handle.


But disappearing meant he hadn't decided yet.


I couldn't predict his next move.


I barely slept that night.


Tossing in bed, my mind full of his silhouette on the terrace—shoulders slumped, head bowed, wind tearing through his hair.


The bloodshot eyes when he turned.


The rasp in his voice when he said "he's my family."


And his lips moving just before the elevator doors closed.


What did he say?


The next day—still no word.


I began marking every part of my plan that relied on Luca's resources in red—if he became an enemy, all of it was void.


Backup plans would need to be built from zero.


Manpower, funding, intelligence networks—every element grueling.


I sat at my desk, the notebook spread before me covered in dense, revised plans.


More crossed out in red than kept.


This fight was getting harder and harder.




Day three.


2:17 a.m.


The phone buzzed on the pillow beside me.


I jolted from shallow sleep, heart slamming once.


The screen's glow made me squint—


Unknown number.


Manhattan area code.


I sat up sharply and answered.


"Luca?"