Chapter 156 (Elena's POV)
Chapter 156 (Elena's POV)
Day seven.
Three a.m. I jolted awake again.
Heart pounding fast and erratic, as if something were chasing me.
Cold sweat coated my forehead, the back of my pajamas stuck to my skin.
I reached for the nightstand—no phone. It was charging across the room.
I stared at the crack in the ceiling, slowly counting my breaths.
One. Two. Three.
By one hundred, my heartbeat had finally calmed somewhat.
These seven days passed slowly.
My great-uncle's surgery was scheduled for next Monday. The doctor said sixty percent success rate—for a seventy-three-year-old, that was considered optimistic.
I visited the hospital twice a day. The rest of the time was consumed by work, like a machine running beyond capacity.
Marcus and Sofia took turns bringing me meals, but most of the time I couldn't eat.
Adrian called three times a day from New York—he was busy with an emergency budget bill in the state legislature and couldn't get away. But every call he asked the same questions:
"Have you eaten? Have you slept? How's your great-uncle?"
My answers were always: "Yes. Yes. Better."
The first was a lie. The second was half-true. The third was a prayer.
On the fourth night, I fell asleep in the chair outside the ICU.
When I woke, a jacket was draped over me—black, very familiar.
Not Adrian's. Adrian's jackets didn't carry this strong a scent of tobacco.
I stared at that jacket for a long time.
Then I folded it neatly and left it on the chair.
Didn't take it.
Day seven, three p.m. I was in the third-floor conference room of the North Side office, studying maps.
Five of Dante's hideouts in Philadelphia had been confirmed. Three were Ferrante safe houses, two were his personal properties.
I needed a plan—how to capture him, how to interrogate him, and finally how to dispose of him.
But my brain wouldn't turn.
Like rusted gears, every rotation producing a harsh grinding sound.
I slumped over the table, forehead pressed against the cold surface.
A knock.
Very light. Three times.
I lifted my head.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Luca stood in the doorway.
Black overcoat, dark gray turtleneck beneath. Jaw cleanly shaved, hair combed immaculately.
He'd lost weight.
The lines of his cheeks were sharper than before, eye sockets slightly deeper.
But his eyes were bright. The kind of brightness that came from enough sleep, enough food, no burdens.
A completely different man from the one whose shoulders had collapsed on that terrace.
I stared at him, throat dry.
He walked in and closed the door.
Steps steady, the sound of his shoes on the floor clear and rhythmic.
He sat across from me.
Two meters apart, the long table between us.
"I'm back," he said.
I tugged at the corner of my mouth: "Right on time."
His gaze was different from before—no probing, no ambiguity, none of that viscous, spine-heating quality.
Clean.
Like a man who'd finished all his internal struggle and finally stood on certain ground.
"Three things," he began.
"First. I stand on your side."
My fingers clenched beneath the table.
"Second. Enzo can be punished." He continued. "But I decide how."
My eyebrow twitched.
"Third—"
He paused.
"I said before—once I knew the truth, I wouldn't let you face it alone."
The air was very quiet.
Sunlight leaked through the blinds, casting thin striped shadows across his face.
I stared into his eyes.
Searching for any trace of wavering, hesitation, intent to shield his grandfather.
Nothing.
Only a near-ruthless calm.
"You decide how," I repeated his words. "What does that mean?"
His finger tapped the table once, lightly.
"Exactly what it sounds like," he said. "Enzo is my grandfather. No matter what he's done, I don't want him dying at an outsider's hands."
"Outsider." I repeated the word. My tone was cold.
He didn't speak.
"He participated in the murder of my family." My voice was shaking. "Your grandfather's hands are soaked in Caruso blood."
"I know, Elena."
"Then what gives you the right to ask me to hand him over to you?"
The instant those words left my mouth, I heard the cracks anger had burned into my voice.
Scalding hatred, suppressed too long, squeezed through clenched teeth.
"I know," he said. "But he also raised me. He's my family."
He looked at me.
No justification. No rebuttal.
Just looked.
That look made me angrier—because his eyes held understanding.
I didn't need his understanding.
I needed an answer.
"He's your enemy," he finally said, voice very low. "But he's also my family. Both things exist at the same time. I can't pretend one of them doesn't."
My nails dug into my palms.
"So what do you want to do?" I demanded sharply. "Send him to a nursing home? Let him enjoy his twilight years?"
"No."
"Then what?"
His jaw tightened.
"He'll lose everything," he said, every word bitten hard. "Power, status, control of the family—all of it. I'll strip him completely from the Marino family's core. Let him live to watch the empire he built have nothing to do with him anymore."
He looked at me.
"For a man like Enzo, that's more painful than death."
I stared at him.
Searching every inch of his expression for a crack—hesitation, softness, any intent to protect his grandfather.
Nothing.
But I wasn't satisfied.
"And if you can't do it?" I asked.
His gaze darkened one shade.
"If it comes to that point and you're still hesitating—" I leaned forward, staring into his eyes, "I won't hold back."
When those words landed, the air seemed to lose a layer.
He looked at me.
A long time.
Long enough for the light outside to shift from gold to burnt orange.
"It won't come to that," he said.
I leaned back. Didn't nod. Didn't shake my head.
Trust wasn't something built on words.
We'd see.
He stood, picking up the coat draped over his chair.
Movements unhurried, as if merely concluding an ordinary business meeting.
At the door, he paused.
Didn't turn around.
"One more thing. About Marco."
I looked up sharply, suddenly realizing—the man who usually followed Luca like a shadow hadn't appeared today.
"Marco's family is in Enzo's hands," Luca said. "Wife and two daughters. Three years ago, Enzo relocated them near the Long Island estate—officially 'care,' actually hostages."
My breath stopped.
"So going forward," he said, "you may see very little of Marco."
My vision went dark, ears buzzing.
Marco was Enzo's man?
I'd always assumed he was Luca's most trusted! I'd never questioned it!
From Palermo to Chicago, from the dock stakeouts to the church shootout—he'd been involved in nearly every operational deployment.
If Enzo knew all of this through Marco—
Then from the very beginning, I'd been planning inside a glass fishbowl.
And he'd been watching from outside the whole time.
I sprang from my chair, crossed to the door in three steps, and grabbed the sleeve of his coat.
"Wait—"
He turned to look at me, expression calm enough to make me want to punch him.
"You just drop a bomb like that and walk away?" My fingers gripped his cuff, knuckles white. "Marco knows all our plans! If Enzo already—"
"Elena." He cut me off, voice very low. "Calm down."
"How am I supposed to be calm?!"
"Both Marco and Enzo believe he hasn't been exposed," he said, turning to face me fully. "You're too anxious—that will actually make them suspicious."
I glared at him—this bastard acting all calm and profound!
But I understood his point and muttered quietly:
"So you haven't confronted him directly, because they'd just replace him with someone less controllable. This way—at least you can still control the information flow."
He patted my head approvingly: "Clever girl."
I swatted his hand away, retreated to the table, and stared at the maps and documents.
What did Marco know?
The federal investigation timeline, the specific locations and disruption plans for Ferrante's three transport lines, the tracking direction for Dante in Philadelphia.
Even the Palermo operation—the church location, timing, personnel deployment—
My back felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice water down it.
Cold from the nape of my neck all the way to my tailbone.
"Get over here!" I didn't turn around, but he knew I was talking to him. "All our plans need to be completely redone!"