I pinch the bridge of my nose. Three men tailing her and she slipped past all of them like they were nothing. Walked right through a kitchen and out the back door while they stood around with their thumbs up their asses.
"And the other two?" I ask, though I already know the answer is going to piss me off.
"Charlie was covering the front. Giuseppe had the side street. Neither of them saw her exit. We searched the area for twenty minutes before..." He trails off.
"Before you had to call it in and admit you'd lost her." I finish his sentence for him. My voice is flat, emotionless. The kind of tone that makes men nervous because they can't tell if I'm about to explode or if I'm already past anger into something worse.
Tony nods miserably. "Yes, sir. We have no idea where she went."
But now Vito's made it official. Elena's my responsibility. Which means every time she pulls a stunt like this, it reflects on me.
"How long was she gone?" I ask.
"Four hours. We picked up her trail again when she returned to her apartment that evening."
Four hours. Elena Messina bought herself four hours of complete freedom, and my men have absolutely no idea where she went or what she did. That kind of skill doesn't develop overnight. She's been practicing this. Planning for it.
The thought should concern me more than it does. Instead, underneath my frustration is something else: respect. Elena just outmaneuvered three trained operatives without breaking a sweat, and she did it so smoothly that they're still not entirely sure how she managed it.
"Did you actually go into the bathroom?" I ask, though I already know it doesn't matter.
"I went in after I realized she'd gone through the kitchen. Empty. But by then..." He spreads his hands helplessly.
"By then she was long gone," I finish. "Changed her appearance, probably. Baseball cap. Sunglasses. Differentjacket. Blended into the crowd before any of you even realized she'd bolted."
Tony's eyes widen slightly. "How did you?—"
"Because that's what I would do," I tell him. "And Elena's smarter than people give her credit for."
I raise an eyebrow, and he shrinks back immediately, remembering exactly who he's talking to.
"You're dismissed," I tell him. My tone makes it clear he's failed spectacularly. "Next time you're assigned to Elena's detail, try not to lose her before she's been out of your sight for ten seconds. Think you can manage that?"
Tony lowers his gaze and walks out with the two other men trailing behind him. Their collective shame hangs over them like a cloud.
Fucking idiots.
But underneath my annoyance is a more pressing concern: where did Elena go during those four hours? What was so important that she'd risk Vito's wrath by ditching her protection? And more importantly, who was she meeting?
The question gnaws at me for the rest of the morning. I pull up what surveillance footage we do have—grainy shots of her entering the cafe, nothing of her leaving. My men weren't positioned to cover the kitchen exit because they didn't think she'd be bold enough to actually run.
They underestimated her. I won't make the same mistake.
By afternoon, I've made a decision: I'm handling Elena's surveillance personally from now on. My men clearly can't be trusted to keep track of someone who doesn't want to be tracked, and Vito needs to know what she's up to.
More than that—and I hate admitting this even to myself—I need to know. Elena Messina has gotten under my skin in a way I don't fully understand yet. The way she moves through the world, always aware, always three steps ahead. The challenge inher eyes when she looks at me. The confidence that borders on reckless.
It's dangerous. She's dangerous. Not because she'd hurt anyone—I don't think that's in her nature—but because she makes people underestimate her. Makes them think she's just Rina's pretty cousin who doesn't understand the life we lead.
But I'm starting to suspect Elena understands this life better than any of us realize.
I spend the rest of the day tracking her movements through our network. It's easier now that I know to look for the patterns. She's careful, but everyone has tells. Everyone has routines they fall back on when they think no one's watching closely enough.
By evening, I've found her trail. And it leads to one of the seediest bars I've ever had the misfortune to locate.
The neighborhood itself is a testament to urban decay. Prostitutes work the corners. Drugged-out lowlifes stumble between buildings. Trash litters every available surface. Cars with busted windows sit in varying states of destruction for blocks.
What the hell is Elena doing in a place like this?
