Chapter 157 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 157 (Elena's POV)
He didn't argue, and when he walked back he rested a hand on my shoulder.


"First—if all of that went back to Enzo…" My voice squeezed out of my throat.


Enzo could even use the Marino family's council of elders to freeze Luca's authority—on grounds of "misconduct" or "betraying family interests."


"Wait!" I jerked my head up. "The Palermo ambush." My eyes went wide. "Dante knew in advance we'd be at the church. Was it because—"


"Not certain." Luca walked over, standing on the other side of the table. "But the probability is high."


My stomach spasmed.


That night, I'd nearly died in Palermo.


Because someone I trusted had an enemy standing behind him.


"Deep breath." Luca's voice came from across the table.


I looked up and glared at him.


"Don't use that tone with me."


The corner of his mouth moved—almost a smile.


Bastard.


But he was right. I couldn't panic.


Panic meant losing.


I closed my eyes. Inhale. Exhale.


When I opened them, my hands had finally stopped shaking.


"Sit," I said, pulling out a chair. "We need a plan."


He removed his coat, draped it over the chair back, and sat across from me.


"The safest approach," he began, hands folded on the table, "is to keep using Marco."


I frowned.


"Feed him false intelligence," he said. "Make every message he sends back wrong. The more information Enzo receives, the more confident he becomes—confident enough not to verify. When he deploys based on the false intel, the real operation hits from a different direction."


I stared at him. The gears in my brain finally began turning.


"The federal investigation timeline," I said. "What Marco knows is 'launching in three weeks.'"


"Then move the real launch to two weeks," he picked up. "In every document Marco sees, push the date back one week."


"Transport lines." I continued. "He knows the locations of all three."


"Change one," Luca said. "Let him think we're cutting Line A. The real target is Line B. Line A gets a feint attack, drawing Ferrante's defensive forces. Line B is the actual kill."


"Dante's tracking direction."


"Of the five Philadelphia hideouts, let Marco see only three—two of which are fake. The real operation enters through the fourth."


We went through them one by one.


Every plan was split into two versions—real and false.


The real versions circulated only among me, Adrian, and Luca.


The false ones flowed through normal channels—meeting notes, documents, conversations—every information source Marco could access.


The feeling was strange.


Like weaving a net—but every thread had two layers. The surface layer for the prey to see; the layer beneath, the actual trap.


In my great-uncle's notebook there was a page I'd read many times but never truly understood—


"The core of intelligence warfare isn't hiding information. It's controlling what the other side sees."


Now I understood.


"One more problem," I set down my pen and looked at Luca. "Marco was part of the Palermo operation. If he knows I came back alive, would he suspect he's been exposed?"


"No." Luca shook his head. "From Ferrante's perspective, the ambush was discovered through their own intelligence network. What Marco sent back was only the operation time and location—he'd assume Ferrante learned our plans through other channels."


"You're sure?"


"I'm sure." His tone held no trace of hesitation. "Because after I returned to New York, I had dinner alone with him. His behavior was completely normal—no probing, no nervousness. He even asked about your injuries."


"He asked about my injuries?"


"Mm." Luca's expression shifted subtly for an instant—the faint smile disappeared. "He said, 'Signora was hurt. Boss must be very worried.'"


I remembered how he'd grabbed me urgently outside the church in Palermo.


Remembered those days when I was still Luca's wife, the cup of warm milk he'd secretly leave outside the guest room door.


Was his concern real?


Or—


"Stop thinking about him." Luca's voice pulled me back. "Now isn't the time."


He was right.


Whether his care was genuine or false.


The outcome wouldn't change.


He'd chosen to stand on Enzo's side—whether from loyalty or coercion.


My family had nearly died because of it.


That debt would be settled. Sooner or later.


"Good." I closed the notebook. "Starting tomorrow, all communications involving core plans go through encrypted channels only. Meetings split into two tiers—ones Marco can attend, and ones he can't."


"One more thing," I added. "I'll notify Adrian's side. His political operations can't have any leaks—if Enzo learns the direction of the federal investigation in advance, he can use political connections to apply pressure and derail it."


Luca nodded.


He stood, picked up his coat.


This time I didn't stop him.


He walked to the door, hand on the handle, paused for a second.


"Elena."


"Mm."


"Your great-uncle's surgery—"


"Next Monday."


He didn't turn around.


"It'll be fine," he said.


Then the door closed behind him.


I leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling.


Let out a long breath.


Information churned in my mind like a flood—false intelligence details, timeline adjustments, every document and conversation that needed revision.


But beneath all of it, a deeper, quieter thought—


He came back.


He chose my side.


Whatever his conditions were, whatever remained unresolved between us—


At least right now, I wasn't alone.


That realization loosened my shoulders slightly.




Eight p.m. The hospital.


ICU lighting was always that anxiety-inducing stark white.


My great-uncle seemed better today—eyes open, a newspaper clutched in his hands, though I doubted he was actually reading it.


"You're here?" He set the paper down and waved me over.


I sat at the bedside and took his hand.


"Great-uncle, there's something I need to tell you."


"Go ahead."


I told him everything about Marco, start to finish.


His expression didn't change.


"You're not surprised?" I asked.


He looked at me, a glint of amusement in his eyes.


"Surprised by what?" he said. "In intelligence work, the most loyal person is often the most dangerous. Because only the most loyal can access the most critical information."


His fingers lightly patted the back of my hand.


"You already know what to do," he said. "You came to ask me just to confirm you haven't made a mistake."


I lowered my head.


He'd seen through me.


As always.


"No mistake," he said. "False intelligence is the best choice. Far safer than taking Marco down directly—removing him tells Enzo you already know, and he'll immediately activate backup plans."


I nodded.


"But remember one thing." His fingers tightened slightly.


I looked up at him.


"The most dangerous part of false intelligence—" his voice was very soft, like sharing an ancient secret, "isn't being discovered."


"It's losing track of what's real yourself."


I blinked.


"When you're running two information systems simultaneously," he continued, "over time, your judgment gets corrupted. You start to wonder—was what I just said real or fake? The document I showed this person—which version was it?"


His gaze was razor-sharp—even lying in a hospital bed, tubes everywhere, those eyes still belonged to the intelligence chief he'd once been.


"So you need an anchor," he said. "An absolutely real, uncontaminated reference point. Use it to calibrate yourself."


"What kind of anchor?"


"A person you trust absolutely," he said. "Tell them all the real plans. Let them help you remember—what's true, what's false. When you can't tell the difference, go ask them."


I thought for a moment.


Adrian.


"Okay," I said. "I understand."


His hand released, leaning back into the pillow.


"Go on," he said. "Don't stay too late. Work tomorrow."


I stood, bent down, and kissed his forehead.


"Goodnight, great-uncle."


"Goodnight." He closed his eyes. "Remember to eat."


Walking out of the ICU, the corridor lights were still painfully bright.


But my steps were lighter than when I'd arrived.


Pushing through the hospital doors, night wind laced with ice crystals hit my face.


I was digging for my motorcycle keys—


My phone rang.


Sofia.


"Boss!"


Her voice—


I'd never heard her speak in that tone.


Excited, trembling, carrying an irrepressible, nearly manic satisfaction.


"Ferrante made their move! Rico's been expelled from the family—they dragged him out of the casino this afternoon and broke both his legs! He's lying alone in the South Side junkyard right now, nobody looking after him!"


My hand tightened around the keys.


The metal teeth bit into my palm, sharp pain.


"Maria and I already found him," Sofia's breathing was rapid. "Boss—we've got him. Want to come see?"


I smiled.


"Of course."