Page 110 of Forbidden Vengeance

Mario steps closer, and I can’t help but smile as I hand Stella to him. It never fails to amaze me how this dangerous man transforms completely around our daughter. His entire body softens as he cradles her, those lethal hands impossibly gentle as he adjusts her blanket. The tender look in his eyes when she snuggles closer in her sleep makes my heart ache—this man who chose to be her father in all the ways that truly matter.

“And Matteo?” he asks, though we both know his brother was the first to accept the role of godfather. The question carries weight—evidence of the careful bridge being rebuilt between them.

“Already arguing with Bella about whether the twins get to help carry the candle,” I say, my smile holding real warmth now. Four months of careful reconciliation have thawed most of the ice between us, though some scars may never fully heal.

I smooth my hand over the christening gown laid out on a nearby pew—delicate white lace and silk that generations of DeLuca children have worn. The same gown that Arianna wore just months ago, though Giovanni had his own separate gown as tradition dictates for DeLuca twins. The old fabric is impossibly soft under my fingers, carrying the weight of history and family—a history that will now include our daughter, chosen and claimed by love rather than blood.

Sunlight paints Stella’s christening gown in jewel-toned light. The ancient lace catches fragments of ruby and sapphire, transforming my daughter into a living masterpiece. She rests in Matteo’s arms, her dark eyes fixed on his face with that peculiar intensity she gets when studying someone new. Her tiny fist is crammed firmly in her mouth, drool dampening the pristine gown that’s witnessed generations of DeLuca ceremonies.

Matteo holds her with unexpected gentleness, his usual stern expression softened by something I’ve only seen him show his own children and Bella. He looks almost regal in his hand-stitched black suit, every inch the don, but there’s a tenderness in how he cradles Stella that makes me blink back tears.

“Try not to drool on your uncle Matteo, little star,” Mario murmurs, and I catch the hint of a smile playing at Matteo’s lips.

Bella stands beside them as godmother, radiant in pale pink silk, her eyes bright with pride. She reaches out to smooth Stella’s unruly curls, and my daughter responds with a gummy smile that makes the assembled families murmur in appreciation.

“She’s got your charm,” Bella whispers to me, and for a moment I’m overwhelmed by how far we’ve come—from betrayal to this moment of pure joy.

The priest begins the blessing, his Latin rolling through the chapel like music. In the front pew, nine-month-old Giovanni sits perfectly still in Bianca’s lap, his tiny suit matching his father’s, already showing that innate DeLuca gravitas. Beside them, Arianna fusses with her cloth book, her spirit refusing tobe contained by ceremony. She drops the book and reaches for Stella with a delighted squeal that echoes off ancient stone.

“Hush, Aria,” Bianca murmurs, but she’s smiling at her baby sister.

I catch Mario’s eye across the marble font, seeing in his face the same fierce pride I feel. His hand rests protectively on the baptismal font’s ornate rim, those lethal fingers gentle against centuries-old stone. The same gentleness he shows our daughter, biology be damned.

“Who brings this child before God?” the priest intones.

“We do,” Mario answers, his voice carrying all the weight of choice rather than blood. The families shift in their pews, a ripple of acknowledgment passing through New York’s most dangerous people.

Stella barely reacts as holy water touches her forehead, too busy studying the glittering crucifix hanging above the altar. “Stella Maria DeLuca,” the priest pronounces, and I remember another child in another chapel—myself, years ago, watching society christenings. That girl could never have imagined this moment: standing beside Mario DeLuca, our daughter blessed by the family that once condemned him, our future secured not through games or manipulation but through honest strength.

“May God and all the saints protect her,” Matteo adds formally, and there’s real warmth in his voice as he hands my daughter back to Mario.

I watch my chosen family gather around us—Matteo and Bella with the twins, Siobhan looking uncomfortable but present in the back pew, Dante hovering near the back, Marco and Sofia Renaldi beaming in a middle row.

These people who fought beside us, who chose evolution over tradition.

Stella reaches for me from Mario’s arms, and I gather her close, breathing in her sweet baby scent. That girl I used tobe could never have imagined this happiness, this sense of belonging. This family built on choice rather than blood.

After the ceremony, I move through the crowd at the mansion with practiced ease, watching our carefully curated worlds blend together. The grand ballroom echoes with laughter and conversation, with paper-thin Venetian glasses ringing like bells when touched, their rims traced with gold.

But I’m not just the event planner anymore, not just the society girl playing power games. I’ve earned my place in this world, built something real from all our complicated pieces.

Mario finds me on the terrace later, Stella sleeping peacefully against his chest while the party continues inside. Her christening gown spills over his arm like frozen moonlight, her tiny fingers curled into his shirt. The sunset paints them both in gold, this dangerous man and the daughter he chose to love.

“Having regrets?” he asks quietly, but his smile says he already knows the answer. His free hand finds mine, those strong fingers intertwining with my own.

“Only that we didn’t choose this sooner,” I respond, leaning into his side. Because that’s what we did, isn’t it? Chose each other, chose family, chose to be more than our pasts or other people’s expectations.

Through the glass doors, I watch Bella spinning with Arianna while Giovanni observes from Matteo’s arms, his tiny face serious. The don moves easily between both sides of the family now, his previous rigid formality softening into something more natural. Even Bianca has started to thaw, her initial hostility melting each time she cradles Stella.

The gathering represents everything we’ve built—Irish crews mixing with DeLuca security, young leadership talking modernization with Siobhan’s people. The next generation claiming their birthright not through violence, but through careful alliance.

Through choice.

Stella stirs against Mario’s chest, those dark eyes blinking open to study the sunset. My daughter—ourdaughter—born into one world but claimed by another. Chosen and protected and loved.

“We did it,” I whisper, watching the future unfold in the ballroom behind us. All the pieces we fought for finally falling into place.

Mario’s arm tightens around me as Stella drifts back to sleep, safe in the embrace of the father who chose her. “No,” he corrects gently. “We’re just beginning.”

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