Page 14 of Forbidden Vengeance

I find the coffee machine and quickly pour us two cups in white Styrofoam containers before walking back, keeping my eyes straight ahead.

Bianca accepts the terrible coffee wordlessly. Now we wait.

I pull out my phone, needing distraction. An encrypted email catches my eye—communications between Sean Murphy and several major fintech companies that my tracking algorithm flagged.

Interesting.

He’s been meeting with legitimate banking institutions, discussing blockchain integration and digital payment systems. There are references to Singapore accounts, cryptocurrency wallets, everything needed to move millions without leaving a trace.

These aren’t just modernization efforts; they’re a complete overhaul of how the Irish handle their money. If Murphy succeeds, it could change everything about how we track their operations.

No wonder Siobhan trusts him so completely.

Time crawls by until finally, after what feels like years, Matteo emerges. His tie is completely undone now, hanging loose around his neck. I’ve never seen New York’s most feared don look so utterly drained. The invincible Matteo DeLuca suddenly seems…human.

Bianca and I jump up simultaneously.

“Bella?” I ask weakly, my heart pounding.

“She’s stable,” he says, voice rough. “They stopped the labor. She’ll need to stay a few days for observation, then strict bed rest until she’s closer to term.”

Bianca launches herself at her father, sobbing into his chest. The relief flooding through me is so intense I have to grip the chair to stay upright.

But the hollow feeling in my chest won’t leave. The weight of secrets and lies suddenly feels suffocating.

“I need air,” I mumble, already moving toward the exit.

Mount Sinai’s garden is one of those hidden Manhattan treasures, tucked away from the chaos of Fifth Avenue. Stone pathways wind between carefully maintained beds of roses and hydrangeas, their blooms stubbornly holding on despite the chill in the air.

A small fountain trickles nearby, its gentle sound almost masking the city noise beyond the hospital walls.

I find a quiet corner near a cluster of white roses, letting the evening air clear my head. The sun is setting behind the hospital building, painting the garden in soft golds and lengthening shadows. For a moment, I try to sort through the tangle of emotions choking me—relief about Bella and the twins, guilt about my deceptions, that electric tension with Mario that won’t leave my skin.

Movement catches my eye as I drift deeper into the garden. Of course he’s here. Mario leans against one of the garden’s stone pillars, cigarette smoke curling like accusation in the air.

I should be surprised to see him, but I’m not. He’s always watching, always one step ahead.

“Playing the devoted friend?” His tone holds something almost gentle. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of how complicated loyalty becomes when you’re betraying the people you love.

“She trusts me,” I whisper, the words tasting like ash. “Theyalltrust me.”

Except maybe Matteo.

Mario’s laugh rings hollow as he stubs out his cigarette. “Trust is weakness in our world, little planner. You know that better than most.” But when he moves closer, his hand coming up to cup my face, there’s nothing weak about the electricity that surges between us. “The question is…do you trust me?”

The kiss that’s been building between us all evening hovers like smoke in the air. I lean forward, drawn by that magnetic DeLuca pull I’ve been fighting for months. His breath fans across my lips, and?—

“Elena?” Bianca’s voice cuts through the garden like a blade. “Dad’s asking for you. Something about the security protocols…”

I step back from Mario as if burned, straightening my jacket with hands that don’t quite shake. His knowing smile follows me back into the hospital, a promise or a warning of what’s to come.

6

MARIO

The hospital garden fades into background noise as I watch Elena disappear back inside, her Stella McCartney dress a flash of black against institutional white. The ghost of her skin beneath my palm lingers—soft but electric, like everything about her. The cool air carries a bite that does nothing to cool the heat she left behind.

Her scent stays with me too, something expensive and subtle that makes my blood heat. Not Chanel No. 5, thank fuck. She’s too smart forthatparticular mistake. Too smart to wear the same perfume as half the society wives in Manhattan, the same scent my mother wore.

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