Chapter 151 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 151 (Elena's POV)


I opened the agreement again.


Third time.


This time I forced myself to read slower, and discovered a handwritten annotation in the bottom-right corner of page three.


Enzo's handwriting.


That old-fashioned Italian cursive with its flourished tails—unmistakable.


The note was written beside the "matrimonial rights" clause, very small, like a memo to himself:


"Luca appears to have fallen for this girl at first sight, though he won't admit it. But once he's disappointed, he'll treat her even more coldly. Perfect."


My finger froze on the trackpad.


So… it was true?


I'd always assumed—it was just a lie he told to excuse himself. I'd never believed it.


He loved me.


From the very beginning.


And Enzo saw that love, the way a cunning hunter spots a flaw in his prey.


He exploited Luca's attraction to me.


Exploited the inevitable backlash once that attraction was crushed.


He'd even precisely predicted his own grandson's behavioral pattern—because that pattern was something he'd shaped with his own hands.


"When betrayed, crush the other person."


"Emotion is weakness; it must be overwritten with violence."


"Women cannot be trusted."


These were all things Enzo taught Luca.


Then he manufactured a "betrayal" and watched Luca follow his implanted programming, step by step grinding me to dust.


Perfect.


That was the word he used.


Perfect.


My stomach clenched violently, acid surging to my throat.


I clapped a hand over my mouth, rolled off the bed, and stumbled into the bathroom.


My knees cracked against the tile, pain blacking out my vision.


But I couldn't stop—what was churning inside had already broken free.


Vomiting.


Once. Twice.


Until nothing was left, only dry heaves racking my abdominal muscles and ribs.


My wounds protested—the sutures on my right arm burned, the wound on my head throbbed.


I collapsed beside the toilet, back against the cold tile wall.


Shaking all over.


Starting from my fingertips, spreading to my arms, my shoulders, my entire body.


Teeth chattering, the clenching making even my temples ache.


Outside the window, Palermo's dusk was unfurling.


The sky burned orange-red, cloud edges lined with gold, the distant sea like a mirror set aflame.


Beautiful.


Unreally beautiful.


But all I felt was cold.


A cold seeping from between my bones that nothing could warm.


I don't know how long I sat on the bathroom floor.


Until my legs went numb, then I hauled myself up on the sink.


The woman in the mirror was deathly pale, lips bloodless, deep blue-black beneath her eyes.


The gauze on my head had shifted. The bandage on my right arm had seeped a little blood from the movement.


I splashed cold water on my face.


The water stung, biting into skin.


But at least my hands stopped shaking.


I walked back to the bedroom and sat before the computer again.


The screen was still on. The annotation still there.


"Luca is interested in this girl. Once he's disappointed, he'll treat her even more coldly. Perfect."


I stared at it for a long time.


Nails digging into my palms, leaving crescent-shaped white marks.


Footsteps outside the door.


A key turning.


The door pushed open.


"Elena, my meeting ended early. What do you want for dinner—"


Adrian's voice cut off the instant he saw me.


His jacket slipped from his hand to the floor.


Three steps.


He crossed to me in three steps, crouched down, both hands cupping my face.


"What happened?" His voice was strung tight as a wire about to snap. "Your color is terrible—what happened? Did the wound reopen?"


I shook my head.


His thumbs swept back and forth across my cheekbones, as if checking for fever.


"Elena, talk to me."


I raised my hand and gripped his wrist.


His pulse hammered beneath my fingertips.


"The computer," I said, voice flat—so flat it sounded foreign even to me. "Open it. Look."


He hesitated one second.


Then released my face, stood, walked to the nightstand.


The screen was on, the agreement still displayed on the last page.


I watched his back.


His shoulders stiffened first.


Then slowly, bit by bit, his entire posture shifted—from his usual ease to a tension I rarely saw in him.


He scrolled backward from the last page.


With each page, his breathing grew heavier.


When he reached the first page, he stopped.


For a long time.


Long enough for the orange outside the window to deepen to purple.


He closed the laptop. Turned to face me.


His expression wasn't shock. It was something deeper, heavier.


Like a man who'd long suspected something, finally seeing the proof, only to find the truth uglier than imagined.


"Adrian." I spoke, voice very steady. "Your uncle participated in the destruction of the Caruso family. Conspired with Ferrante. Planning, funding, dividing the spoils."


He didn't speak.


"His signature is on that agreement," I continued. "Along with his handwritten notes."


Silence.


The last sliver of light outside vanished. The room held only the dim yellow circle cast by the bedside lamp.


He walked back.


Crouched before me, same posture as before.


But this time he didn't touch my face.


He took my hands, wrapping my ice-cold fingers in his warm palms.


"Elena," he said.


I looked at him.


"I'm on your side."


No hesitation. No pause. No "but" or "let me think."


As natural as breathing.


"No matter what happens." He added, thumb pressing against my pulse point. "No matter who's standing on the other side."


My throat tightened.


"He's your uncle," I said. "The man who raised you."


His gaze didn't waver.


"He's also the man who destroyed everything you had."


"I made my choice long ago," he said. "That night in Chicago, I told you—if you're going up against the Marino family, I stand with you."


He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my fingertips.


"Same now."


I stared at him.


For a long time.


Until I was certain there wasn't a single waver in his eyes.


Then my shoulders collapsed.


Like a branch about to snap, caught by another tree's limb.


I pressed my forehead against his shoulder.


Didn't cry.


Just closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of his palms seep into my frozen knuckles, degree by degree.


His chin rested on top of my head, arms circling my shoulders.


No extra words.


None needed.


Outside the window, Palermo had gone fully dark. The port lights flickered on one by one in the distance, like scattered gold dust on black velvet.


After a long time, I lifted my head from his shoulder.


"Adrian."


"Mm."


"Does Luca know about this?"


His fingers paused on my back.


"I'm not sure," he said, voice very low. "But if he doesn't know—what he does after you tell him depends on which side he chooses to stand on."


He looked at me.


"If he chooses to protect Enzo—"


He didn't finish.


But I understood.


If Luca chose to protect Enzo, he would become my most dangerous enemy.


An enemy who knew all my cards.


An enemy commanding New York's most powerful Mafia force.


An enemy who—once made my heart race.


"I'm going to tell him," I said.


Adrian's expression didn't change, but his fingers on my back tightened for an instant.


"Face to face," I added. "Lay all the evidence before him. Let him choose."


"And if he chooses wrong?"


I looked into Adrian's eyes.


"Then I'll know he never truly changed."