"What is that?" she asks, pointing to the bag in my hand with obvious suspicion.
I drop the bag next to her couch and settle into the cushions. Lean back and rest my ankle over my knee in a gesture designed to communicate that I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.
"I'll be your shadow for the foreseeable future," I announce, unable to suppress a slight grunt of displeasure. "That bag has enough clothes and supplies for a week. Maybe longer depending on how cooperative you decide to be."
Her eyes widen slightly as the implication sinks in.
"I'm moving in," I clarify since she seems too stunned to speak. "You'll have a personal escort twenty-four seven. When you sleep, I sleep. When you eat, I eat. When you shower—" I pause for effect. "Well, I'll be right outside the door."
"Like hell you will," she snaps. The shock wears off fast and she uncrosses her arms to stomp over to where I'm sitting. "You better get up right now and leave. You are not welcome here."
I notice her headache isn't severe enough to prevent her from raising her voice and getting confrontational. Interesting.
"Since you've decided to ditch your protective detail and play hide-and-seek with security cameras, I'll just position myself close enough to ensure you can't do anything without my knowledge," I explain in my most authoritative tone. "That means living here. Sleeping on your couch. Following you to work. Sitting outside bathroom doors. Whatever it takes."
She scoffs at this announcement, and I stand up so I can look down at her properly—a psychological advantage I'm not above using.
"This is ridiculous! I'm not a child!" she protests, though her behavior suggests otherwise.
"You're sure as shit acting like one," I respond curtly, letting my gaze bore into hers. "Sneaking around, evading your protective detail, throwing peace signs at security cameras like this is some kind of game, having secret meetings in disgusting, shady bars late at night with greasy, middle-aged criminals. Oh, and let's not forget the constant bratty comments. That sounds exactly like childish behavior to me."
"You liked the peace sign, huh?"
That's what she takes from my entire litany of concerns? Nothing else registers except the fact that I saw the video footage of her bathroom escape? I sigh heavily and run my hand down my face, already feeling the tension headache that comes from dealing with Elena's selective hearing.
"Elena," I warn, my voice carrying a note of dangerous patience.
She rolls her eyes and holds her head like she's in genuine pain. "Alright, alright. See? You made my headache worse, just like I knew you would." She hisses slightly and rubs her temples for emphasis.
"Happy to be of assistance," I reply flatly, tipping an imaginary hat in her direction.
She looks at me with clear annoyance, apparently not appreciating my sarcasm. "You are overstepping, Marco. This is my life, and I can do whatever I want."
"So what you want is to make suggestive comments to old men in seedy bars?" I ask, bringing the conversation back to the real issue—her meeting with Marcello and whatever the hell she thinks she's accomplishing with these dangerous encounters.
She smirks at my question and steps closer to me, and I immediately recognize this as one of her tactics. She likes to invade my personal space when she's trying to manipulate or distract me. I become acutely aware of her body heat, the way her nipples are still clearly visible through that thin camisole, now pressed against my chest. I can feel my body responding despite my better judgment.
Calm down, you horny bastard.
"The only suggestive comments I made were toward you," she says with that same infuriating smirk. "Are you calling yourself old?"
She's attempting to distract me, to deflect from the serious conversation we need to have about her reckless behavior. ButI don't react to her provocation. She can't get to me—I'm in control here, no matter what my body might be telling me.
"You will have a babysitter until you stop acting like a damn criminal. End of conversation." I turn and sit back down on the couch, projecting an air of complete indifference to her attempts at manipulation.
She huffs in frustration and stomps down the hallway toward her bedroom, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the walls. I rub my hands down my face and sigh again, already feeling the weight of what I've committed myself to.
This is going to be absolute torture. In my line of work, people always do what I say without question. No one challenges my authority or fights me at every turn. Elena, however, seems to view my instructions as personal challenges rather than reasonable requests for her own safety.
I'm already regretting this decision, but there's no backing out now.
I walk into her kitchen and look around, taking inventory of the space while leaning against the island. From this position, I have a clear view down the hallway to her bedroom door. I can hear her muttering and banging around in there, probably throwing things or pacing like a caged animal.
The sounds make me smirk despite my frustration. She can fight me all she wants, throw whatever tantrum seems appropriate. It doesn't matter. I'm not going anywhere, and the sooner she accepts that reality, the easier this will be for both of us.
But as I stand there listening to her obvious distress, I can't help but wonder what's really driving her behavior. The Elena I've observed at family gatherings has always been composed, intelligent, and fiercely protective of Rina and Sofia. This version—the one meeting with criminals and evading security—suggeststhere's something significant happening that she doesn't feel comfortable sharing with the family.
Whatever it is, I'm going to find out. Even if it means camping out in her living room until she cracks and tells me the truth.
