"Go be of assistance to someone else," I chuckle.
He laughs before hanging up, but my mood doesn't lighten. It's clear that the Costellos will come directly for Elena next.
I've got to get more information out of her. Her secrets are only digging her deeper into danger, and I'm not willing to risk Elena's life for her father's debt. Not now. Not ever.
The sound of Elena moving around the apartment pulls me from my thoughts. I close my laptop and walk to the living room, where I find her grabbing her watering pot from under the kitchen sink.
Watching her tend to her plants is like watching someone perform a meditation ritual. She looks genuinely happy as she moves from plant to plant, checking leaves, adjusting their positions to catch better light. It's such a contrast to the tense, guarded woman I've been living with for the past few weeks.
She walks right past me without acknowledgment and begins watering the plants in the living room. Her movements are graceful, deliberate. She moves down the hall to the single plant in the bathroom, then disappears into her bedroom.
The innocent act is getting old. I know another escape attempt is coming—I can feel it in the way she moves, the careful distance she maintains, the way she's been watching me when she thinks I'm not looking.
I still don't know how she's communicating with her contacts. Despite all my surveillance, all of Rafa's digital monitoring, she's managed to set up meetings without leaving any electronic trail. It's impressive and infuriating in equal measure.
Elena returns to the kitchen and puts away her watering pot, then walks to the front door to lace up her running shoes. She hasn't spoken to me all day, and barely anything over the past few days. We've gone from heated confrontations and sexual tension to this cold war of silence.
Honestly, I'd prefer the bratty answers over this arctic treatment. At least when she was fighting with me, I knew what she was thinking. This silence is her way of trying to maintain control. Of dictating how and when we communicate.
She doesn't even look in my direction before stepping out the door. I immediately text Lorenzo to let him know she's on her way down, then move to the living room window to watch. I see her turn right out of the building. Lorenzo falls into step about half a block behind her.
Perfect. Now I have time to search her room.
I wait until they're a full block away before heading down the hallway. The moment I enter Elena's bedroom, her signature scent hits me—jasmine and vanilla, warm and intoxicating.
She smells so damn good and my body responds immediately. My cock stirs, pressing against my jeans. I have to adjust myself before I can focus on the task at hand.
Get it together, Marco.
The room is mostly clean and organized with only a few items out of place. Plants hang near the windows and cluster on every available surface—her dresser, bedside tables, the small corner desk. Her bed is unmade, sheets rumpled in a way that makes me think about her sleeping here. Maybe restless. Maybe dreaming.
I start with the obvious places. Dresser drawers—nothing but clothes. Closet—same. Under the bed—just dust bunnies and a lone sock.
The desk yields only one item of interest: an empty envelope in the single drawer. I turn it over in my hands, looking for any identifying marks, but it's completely blank. Still, the fact that she kept an empty envelope suggests it held something important.
I move to her bedside table and pull open the drawer. Inside I find the usual—chapstick, hair ties, a notepad and pen, nail polish. Nothing useful.
I continue searching—checking for loose floorboards, looking behind picture frames, running my hands along the underside of furniture. Elena's too smart to hide anything obvious, but I have to try.
My phone buzzes with a text from Lorenzo:Heading back. 5 minutes.
Shit.
I quickly scan the room to make sure everything looks exactly as I found it, then head back to the living room. Frustrated and empty-handed.
No burner phone. No secret laptop. No hidden documents. Nothing that suggests how she's been communicating with her contacts.
I hear the front door open. Elena's footsteps head toward her bedroom without pause. Right on schedule—she'll shower now, just like always.
I lean back against the couch and close my eyes. The frustration builds like pressure in a boiler. I'm missing something. Some crucial piece of the puzzle that would make everything else fall into place.
Elena's getting antsy. I can feel it. The way she's been moving around the apartment, the careful distance she maintains, the way she watches me when she thinks I'm not looking—it all points to someone planning their next move.
I just need to be patient. She'll make her play soon, and when she does, I'll be ready. No more escape attempts that end with her getting hurt. No more close calls in dark alleys.
Next time, I'll let her think she's outsmarted me. I'll follow at a distance. Let her lead me to whatever meeting she's so desperate to attend.
And then I'll make sure it's the last time she puts herself in danger for her father's mistakes.
