Page 109 of Forbidden Vengeance

The words should sting, but there’s something different in his tone now—less venom, more weariness. Still, I bristle. “That’s rich coming from the don who exiled his own brother.”

“And yet here you are.” Matteo’s eyes drift to Stella. “Making me an uncle.”

“Yeah, well.” I shift uncomfortably. “Wasn’t exactly planned.”

“Nothing about you ever is.” But there’s almost amusement in his voice now. “You always did like throwing wrenches in my carefully laid plans.”

“Someone had to keep you humble,” I shoot back.

We lapse into awkward silence, both watching as Elena carefully hands Stella to Bella. The moment feels fragile, like one wrong word could shatter everything we’ve built tonight.

“She’s beautiful,” Matteo says finally, his voice rough. “Looks like Elena.”

I sigh with relief. “Thank God for that. I don’t think I could stomach looking at a female Anthony Calabrese.”

His lips twitch. “It’s better looking than your face.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “That’sthe comeback you have? How old are you? Twelve? Christ, Matteo, you need help.”

The banter feels strange now, like putting on an old coat that doesn’t quite fit anymore. We’re not who we were before—before the exile, before Elena, before our children changed everything.

I watch as Bella cradles Stella, my protective instincts warring with the undeniable rightness of the moment. She leans down, studying my daughter’s features with a gentle smile.“Welcome to the family, little one,” she says softly, then looks up at me. “Both of you.”

The words hit me harder than any bullet. This acceptance from the family I once tried to destroy—it means more than I can process. Beside me, Matteo moves to check on the twins, his movements sure and practiced as he adjusts their blankets. I remember Giuseppe’s sneering voice: “Children make you weak. Family makes you vulnerable.”

But watching my brother with his children, seeing how naturally he’s adapted to being a new father despite Giuseppe’s poison, I realize how wrong our father was. Matteo hasn’t gone soft, he’s never been soft—he’s grown stronger, found purpose beyond power and control.

“I never thought we’d be here,” Matteo says quietly, not looking at me. “You, me, our children together.”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Guess we both learned some new tricks.”

He snorts. “Like not immediately trying to kill each other?”

“Baby steps, brother.” The word feels strange on my tongue—not wrong, just unpracticed. “We’ve got time.”

Looking at Elena and our daughter, at Bella with the twins, at my brother who chose family over tradition, I finally understand what real power is. It’s not about blood or territory or maintaining iron control. It’s about love. About family. About being better than the darkness that created you.

Giuseppe taught us that power comes from what you’re willing to destroy. But he was wrong about that, like he was wrong about so many things. Real power comes from what you choose to protect, from the family you build rather than the empire you inherit.

And watching my daughter in my sister-in-law’s arms, seeing my brother’s careful attention to his own children, I know we’ve all chosen something stronger than tradition.

We’ve chosen love.

EPILOGUE: ELENA

The DeLuca chapel is still as beautiful as I remember—still all old-world elegance and carefully curated power. Afternoon light streams through stained glass windows, casting jewel-toned shadows across marble floors that have witnessed generations of family ceremonies.

But this time I walk these hallowed halls with different purpose, Stella sleeping peacefully in my arms while I review the final christening arrangements.

At four months old, our daughter is pure angelic perfection. Her dark lashes fan against cherub cheeks, her rosebud mouth slightly parted in sleep. She has my eyes and nose, but there’s Calabrese in her jawline—though I see only love when Mario looks at her, never a trace of the biology that could have torn us apart. Her hair has grown into wispy dark curls that refuse to be tamed, a trait that makes Mario joke she’s already inherited his stubborn nature, even if not his genes.

I study the elaborate floral arrangements lining the chapel’s stone walls—white roses and lilies creating a path toward the baptismal font, their perfume mixing with centuries of incense and candle wax. Delicate glass vases catch the coloredlight, scattering rainbows across careful arrangements of white hydrangeas and baby’s breath.

Everything is exactly as I planned, each detail perfect for my daughter’s special day.

“The families are confirmed,” I tell Mario, shifting into event planner mode as I mentally review my checklists. “The Vituccis, the O’Connors, even the Calabreses—though Anthony’s cousins sent their regrets.”

Their absence speaks volumes—a public acknowledgment that any biological claim Anthony might have made from his federal prison cell holds no weight against the family we’ve chosen.

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