Chapter 152 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 152 (Elena's POV)


Arranging to meet Luca wasn't difficult.


I simply told him "come by tonight, there's something," and he didn't even ask what it was. Just replied:


"Okay."


The wind on the hotel rooftop terrace was strong.


Palermo's night carried salt and citrus, whipping my hair into chaos, billowing my thin jacket until it snapped like a flag.


Today he dressed simply—black lightweight sweater, dark trousers. No suit, no tie, none of that carefully maintained armor.


When he saw me, he smiled.


"Feeling better?"


I nodded and gestured toward the laptop on the table.


The agreement was open to the first page.


"Look."


"What's so urgent?" He smiled, glancing casually at the screen.


His gaze froze.


I watched him.


First page—his brow furrowed slightly.


Second page—deeper, jaw muscles tightening.


Third page—


His finger stopped on the trackpad.


I knew what he'd seen.


That annotation.


His grandfather's handwriting.


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


His finger didn't move.


His entire body seemed pinned in place.


Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.


On the terrace, only wind and the distant sound of waves against rock.


Then he closed the laptop.


Very gently. Almost soundlessly.


He stood. The chair leg scraped across stone with a short, harsh sound.


He walked to the terrace's edge, both hands bracing against the iron railing.


Back to me.


Wind tore through his hair—those strands usually combed immaculately now fell across his forehead and ears.


His shoulders dropped.


I'd never seen him like this.


This man—who didn't flinch during New York's bloodiest turf wars, who wore a cold smirk while negotiating at gunpoint, who stood before everyone like a tower cast in iron—


His spine curved.


Head bowing until his forehead nearly pressed against the backs of his hands gripping the railing.


Shoulders trembling faintly.


The wind caught the hem of his sweater, revealing a small strip of skin at his waist. There was an old scar there—I'd seen it before, during those nights he pinned me down, my fingers grazing it by accident.


I'd never asked where that scar came from.


Now I suddenly wanted to know.


But the thought lasted only a second.


Because he turned his head.


The setting sun behind him turned his entire form into a dark silhouette. But I could see his eyes—


Shot through with red.


Eye sockets flushed, as if something had been burning inside for a long time, burning until the blood vessels burst.


"When did you find out?" he asked, voice hoarse.


"Yesterday," I said.


His Adam's apple bobbed.


"Who saw it first?"


"Adrian."


He closed his eyes.


Just one second.


But in that second, his entire face crumpled—like a sheet of paper crushed in a fist, every line twisted and distorted.


Then he opened his eyes, expression restored.


Almost restored.


A trace of spasm still lingered at the corner of his mouth.


"So he was first," he said. "I'm second."


I didn't deny it.


He turned back to face the sea.


Hands bracing the railing, knuckles white with force.


"Luca." I stepped closer, standing behind him. "Did you know about this before?"


Wind howled between us, blowing my hair across my face.


He was silent a long time before speaking, exhausted:


"No."


I hummed in acknowledgment—the answer wasn't unexpected.


He turned to look at me.


That earlier easy smile was gone. He tried to pull at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were full of shattered things—like crushed glass, every shard catching light, every shard edged with blood.


"If I'd known," he said, "I never would have let you go through any of that."


Wind rose again, fiercer.


Bougainvillea petals were swept into the air, spinning between us, then falling.


"Is it because my name is Marino," he stared at me, "that you needed to confirm first—whether I'd betray you?"


I met his eyes directly.


"Yes."


The instant the word left my mouth, I saw his pupils contract.


Very subtle.


If I hadn't been standing this close, I'd never have noticed.


But I saw it.


Inside that contraction was too much—stung pride, questioned sincerity, and something deeper, something even he probably couldn't name. A grievance.


He turned away, facing the sea again.


The sky had mostly darkened. The sea had shifted from gold to leaden gray. The distant lighthouse began to flash.


"But I am a Marino," he said. "And Enzo is my grandfather. Even though… I don't agree with many things he's done. What he did to Claire, to you, to Adrian—I don't agree with any of it."


His fingers tightened on the railing, then released.


"But he's my family."


He said this very slowly. Very heavily.


I understood.


He was telling me his bottom line.


The terrace went terrifyingly quiet—even the distant waves seemed to pause.


Only my heartbeat, striking against my ribs one beat at a time, a muffled ache.


I couldn't name the feeling.


Was it disappointment? Or an ending I'd always foreseen?


I only felt—some corner inside me that had just begun to warm was doused again with cold water.


Hissing white steam, then nothing.


I walked to his side, standing shoulder to shoulder.


Both of us facing the sea.


About thirty centimeters between our shoulders.


Very close.


But those thirty centimeters were like an invisible fissure, stretching from our feet all the way to the horizon.


"I understand," I said.


He turned to look at me.


I didn't look at him.


"But Enzo's hands are soaked in my family's blood," I said, voice very calm. "You know how people like us are—we'll give everything for family. Until death."


Wind rose again.


Blowing my hair across my face, obscuring half my vision.


"He must pay."


I turned and looked at him.


Night had fully fallen. His face in the darkness was only a vague outline—the line of his jaw, the arc of his nose, and those bloodshot eyes.


"No matter which side you choose to stand on."


The wind on the terrace keened through the gaps in the railing, like some ancient, mournful instrument.


His lips moved.


But said nothing.


I walked past him.


My shoulder brushed his arm—through the thin knit of his sweater, that instant of contact carried body heat, scalding enough to quicken my steps.


At the elevator, I pressed the button.


The doors opened.


I stepped in, turned, faced him.


He still stood at the terrace's edge, back to me, facing the sea.


Wind had blown his hair even wilder.


Shoulders slumped, hands bracing the railing, his entire silhouette in the night looking lonely enough to make your chest ache.


The elevator doors began to close.


In the final instant before the last gap disappeared—


He turned his head.


Through the narrowing slit, I saw his lips moving.


But the doors sealed shut.


I didn't hear what he said.


The elevator descended.


Numbers dropped from 12 to 11, 11 to 10.


I leaned against the elevator's metal wall, the back of my skull pressing cold steel.


Closed my eyes.


He chose Enzo.


I should have known.


Blood, family, loyalty—in his world, these things always came first.


Before truth.


Before justice.


…Before me.


The elevator arrived.


Doors opened.


I opened my eyes and stepped out.


The corridor was long, lights bright, footsteps echoing on marble.


Every step steady.


Every step heavy.


Back in the room, Adrian sat on the sofa waiting.


He saw my expression and asked nothing.


Just stood, walked over, and pulled me into his arms.


I buried my face in his chest.


Didn't cry.


Just closed my eyes, listening to his heartbeat.


Steady, strong, like a drum.


"He chose Enzo," I said, voice muffled in his shirt.


Adrian's arms tightened slightly.


"I know," he said.


His chin rested on my head, lips against the part in my hair.


"Then we proceed as planned," he said. "Enzo will pay."


I nodded.


His palm covered my back, fingers spread, patting slowly, rhythmically.


Like soothing a wounded animal.


Or winding up a soldier.


I took a deep breath and pulled back from his arms.


"Tomorrow we go back to Chicago," I said. "Time to fight."