That's why I'm in this situation now. His gambling debt is enormous, and the Irish don't like to wait for payment. They especially don't like waiting when the debtor vanishes without a trace.
After Dante killed Kieran, I was approached by some low-level Irish errand boy about my father owing money to their organization. Of course they know exactly who I am—Elio Messina's daughter. Everyone in this world knows the Messina name, knows what my father did, knows the disgrace he brought on our family. The Irish made it very clear during that first approach: they see me as leverage. If they can't find Elio, they'll pressure his daughter until he surfaces or until I find a way to pay his debts myself.
What makes this situation even more complicated is that the Costellos also know who I am and what I mean to both Elio and the Italian organization. That's why they're pressuring me instead of just writing off the debt. They see an opportunity to create chaos within Vito's organization, to drive a wedge between my family and the Rossos. Classic Irish strategy—turn your enemy's weakness into a weapon against them.
I didn't know anything about my father's financial troubles until that first approach. I haven't seen him in years, though we do talk occasionally. Come to think of it, it's been almost a year since we've spoken, which isn't entirely unusual but definitely longer than normal.
Movement in my peripheral vision pulls me from my thoughts. Red shirt is making his move, trying to get closer to my position. He settles at the table next to mine and opens his menu, probably thinking he's being subtle. The classic overconfidence that comes with underestimating your target.
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at this man's ego and take a sip of my coffee, deliberately ignoring his presence. This outdoor patio at my favorite cafe is one of the few places in New York City where I can actually relax. The black wrought iron fence surrounding the space is covered in planter boxes filled with colorful flowers, and vines hang down from the planters to wrap around the fence bars. It looks like a secret garden tucked away in the middle of Manhattan's chaos.
The peace doesn't last long. I watch red shirt signal to someone—probably blue shirt who's been stationed across the street. They're tightening the circle, which means they're planning to move on me soon. Time to go.
I wave down the waitress and pay my bill, leaving cash on the table with a generous tip. No need to waste time with a card transaction when I need to move quickly. As I stand, I grab mypurse and start walking toward the interior of the cafe, like I'm heading for the restroom.
Red shirt shifts in his seat, preparing to follow. Good. Let him think he knows what I'm doing.
But instead of turning toward the bathroom, I take a sharp left through the kitchen doors. The staff barely glances up—I've been coming here long enough and tipping well enough that they're used to my eccentricities. One of the line cooks even gives me a knowing nod as I move past.
"Back door?" I ask sweetly.
He jerks his thumb toward the rear exit without missing a beat in his prep work.
I slip through the back entrance into the alley behind the building. The metal door closes behind me with a solid thunk, and I'm already moving, heels clicking against the pavement as I head for the opposite end of the alley. Red shirt will figure out I've bolted eventually, but by then I'll be three blocks away with a completely different appearance.
The beauty of Manhattan is that you're never more than a few steps away from a place to disappear. I duck into a boutique, grab a baseball cap and sunglasses from a display near the entrance, and purchase them quickly. The cashier barely looks up from her phone.
Two minutes later, I emerge looking like a completely different person. Hair tucked under the cap, sunglasses hiding half my face, and I've ditched my distinctive jacket in my bag. I blend into the stream of pedestrians heading toward the subway entrance.
I don't go down into the station though. That's too obvious, too easy to trap someone if you have enough bodies. Instead, I grab a taxi and give the driver an address six blocks from my actual destination. Always keep them guessing. Always stay three moves ahead.
As the taxi pulls away from the curb, I catch a glimpse of red shirt emerging from the cafe, head swiveling frantically as he searches for his lost target. His phone is already out, probably calling for backup and reporting his failure.
Let him report it. Let them all know that Elena Messina isn't as easy to control as they think. I've been playing this game since I was sixteen years old, and I've gotten very, very good at it.
The question now is what happens when Vito finds out I've slipped my leash again. The surveillance will get tighter. The watchers will get better. Eventually, they'll send someone I can't outmaneuver.
But that's a problem for future Elena. Right now, I have a meeting to get to, and I can't afford to be late. The Irish don't like to be kept waiting, and I need to figure out exactly what game they're playing before this whole situation explodes in all our faces.
The taxi drops me off near Washington Square Park. I pay the driver and start walking, keeping my pace casual but my senses alert. No more obvious tails that I can spot, but that doesn't mean I'm alone. It just means whoever's following me now is better at their job.
I wind my way through the park, taking a deliberately circuitous route that lets me check for surveillance. Nothing stands out, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. Maybe I'm just paranoid. Or maybe I've finally graduated to a level of threat that requires more sophisticated monitoring.
Either way, I've bought myself some time and some freedom. In this life, that's all you can really ask for.
CHAPTER 4
Marco
The next morning,I'm standing in my office staring at Tony like he's personally responsible for every headache I've had in the past twenty-four hours. Which, to be fair, he kind of is.
"Walk me through yesterday again," I say, keeping my voice level even though what I really want to do is throw something at his head. "The part where you lost Elena Messina in broad daylight."
Tony shifts his weight from foot to foot. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to speak. "She went inside the cafe. Looked like she was heading for the bathroom. I followed her in but?—"
"But what?" I cut him off.
"She went through the kitchen," he admits, his face flushing. "By the time I realized what was happening, she was already out the back. I checked the alley but she was gone. Completely gone."
