The sound of the shower starting reminds me that she's just twenty feet away. Naked. Wet. Probably thinking about our confrontation last night. The way I grabbed her chin. The way she looked at me like she wanted me to kiss her again.
I run my hands through my hair. Living with Elena is like being slowly tortured. Every day I'm surrounded by her scent, her presence, the knowledge that she's sleeping in that bed just down the hall.
And every day I have to maintain professional distance while my control erodes a little more.
But last night changed something. When I touched her face, when I looked into her eyes and told her I'd find out what she was hiding, I saw something flicker there. Not just defiance or anger, but heat. Recognition.
She wants me just as much as I want her. The question is what we're going to do about it.
Because this game we're playing—bodyguard and client, predator and prey, man and woman circling each other like we're afraid to get too close—it can't last forever.
Something's going to break soon. I just hope it's Elena's walls and not my sanity.
CHAPTER 21
Marco
Elenaand I have spent the past few days locked in a cold war, barely speaking beyond the absolute necessities. We're back to hating each other, it seems. But I don't hate her—not even close. I care about her wellbeing, probably more than she cares about her own.
After discovering that the debt threatening her isn't even hers, but her father's debt to the Irish, I'm on constant high alert. Elena's in serious danger if the Costellos are involved. They don't negotiate. They don't show mercy. They take what they want, and right now, they want to use her as leverage against Elio.
I've also figured out her communication method. Every time she visits her favorite cafe, she either escapes or attempts to escape within twenty-four hours. I don't know exactly how she's receiving messages there—maybe it's coded in her order, maybe someone's slipping notes into her bag—but the pattern is undeniable.
Rafa's investigating the cafe's staff and regular customers, but I decided to test my theory directly. This morning, I offered to take Elena there myself.
"I thought we could grab coffee," I'd said casually, watching her reaction. "That place you like."
She'd looked at me with deep suspicion, those caramel eyes narrowing like she was trying to read my mind. But eventually, she agreed. I caught a hint of a smile when we walked out the door—not at me, but at some private thought that made my chest tighten with unease.
We spent about an hour at the cafe. Elena ordered her usual latte and grabbed one of those chocolate croissants she's always buying. She didn't speak to me the entire time, not even after we returned to the apartment. Not even a thank you for the outing.
Brat.
But I got what I needed. Confirmation that something passed between Elena and someone at that cafe. I just couldn't figure out how.
Now it's past midnight and Elena retired to her room hours ago. The apartment is dark except for the city lights filtering through the windows. I'm stretched out on the couch, fully clothed, pretending to sleep while every muscle in my body stays coiled and ready.
I know she received a message today. I know she's planning to sneak out. And this time, I'm going to let her think she's succeeded.
The soft creak of her bedroom door makes my pulse spike but I keep my breathing steady and even. I hear her bare feet on the hardwood floor, moving silently toward the front door. She's good at this—too good. How many times has she done this before I moved in?
She pauses near the couch. Probably checking to make sure I'm really asleep. I let my lips part slightly, add a soft snore for effect. After what feels like an eternity, she moves to the door.
The click of the lock turning is barely audible. Elena eases the door open and closed with surgical precision, taking care not to let it slam.
The moment it clicks shut, I'm off the couch and at the window. I watch her emerge from the building and walk to the street, where she hails a cab with the confidence of someone who's done this countless times.
I'm out the door and down the stairs before the cab even starts moving. Tony pulls the black Range Rover up to the curb just as I hit the sidewalk.
"You saw her get into the cab?" I ask, jumping into the passenger seat.
"Yes, sir," Lorenzo confirms from the back. "We've been tracking it since she left the building."
Tony floors it, weaving through late-night traffic to keep the cab in sight. My hands are clenched into fists in my lap. Every instinct screams at me to call this off. To have Tony ram the cab and drag Elena out before she gets herself killed.
But I need to know what she's walking into. Need to understand the full scope of the threat she's facing.
The cab winds through Manhattan. Past Times Square with its garish lights. Through the theater district. Finally stopping in front of an upscale club in Midtown. Even from a distance, I can see the understated elegance that screams money and power. No gaudy neon signs or velvet ropes—just sleek black facades and doormen in expensive suits.
