Page 2 of Forbidden Vengeance

I squeeze back, pushing down the guilt that threatens to surface. “What are best friends for?”

Another buzz from my clutch. I know without looking it’s Mario again. He’s probably impatient for details about the security changes, about which families are here, about every subtle shift in allegiance that this baby shower represents.

This isn’t just a celebration—it’s a display of power, a statement about the DeLuca family’s strength even after the scandal of Mario’s exile.

I excuse myself to check on the kitchen staff, using the moment alone to quickly type:Increased security due to Calabrese movement in Brooklyn. Full details later.

His response is immediate:Careful, little planner. You’re playing with fire.

I almost laugh. As if I don’t know that. The memory of our first meeting floods back, as vivid as if it happened yesterday instead of six months ago.

I was working late at my office, finalizing details for a charity gala. The kind of event where blood money gets laundered through silent auctions and champagne toasts. The hallway was dark except for the soft glow from my office, and I remember thinking I should call my car service instead of walking to the parking garage alone.

That’s when I saw him—Mario DeLuca, emerging from the shadows like some dark angel in an expertly tailored suit. Irecognized him immediately, of course, although I lied to Bella about not knowing him.

Everyone knew about Matteo’s exiled brother, the DeLuca who chose revenge over family loyalty. But pictures didn’t do him justice. Didn’t capture the dangerous grace of his movements or the intensity of his gaze as he studied me.

“Working late, little planner?” His voice was smoke and silk, nothing like Matteo’s controlled tones. He moved closer, and I caught the scent of expensive cologne mixed with something darker. “Always so efficient, so…overlooked.”

I should have been terrified. Should have called security or screamed or run. Instead, I felt something wake up inside me—something hungry and ambitious that I’d tried desperately to deny.

“What do you want?” I asked, proud that my voice didn’t shake.

His smile was sin itself. “The question is…what do you want, Elena? To keep playing the perfect society planner? Or to show them all what you’re really capable of?”

He reached out, adjusting my sleeve where it had risen slightly. The touch was barely there, but it sent electricity through my entire body. “I’ve been watching you,” he continued. “The way you gather secrets like others collect art. The way you see everything while pretending to see nothing. You’re wasted on them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But I did. Of course I did.

“Don’t you?” He leaned closer, and I caught a glimpse of a scar along his jaw—a reminder that this man was as dangerous as he was compelling. “Tell me, Elena…don’t you ever get tired of being underestimated? Of being treated like part of the decorations while you’re smarter than half the men in those rooms?”

I remained silent, but something must have shown in my face because his smile widened. “Let me show you what you could really be,” he whispered. “Let me show you how to turn their underestimation into power.”

I should have said no. Should have walked away. Instead, I heard myself ask, “And what do you get out of it?”

“Smart girl,” he praised, and the approval in his voice shouldn’t have thrilled me the way it did. “I get an ally they’ll never suspect. And you…you get to become who you were always meant to be.”

He pulled out a burner phone, already programmed with his number. “Your choice, little planner. Stay small and safe, or…” His eyes traveled over me in a way that made my skin tingle. “…play with fire.”

I took the phone.

Now, six months later, I’m in so deep I can barely remember what it felt like to be that other Elena—the one who was content with being overlooked. The one who hadn’t yet tasted real power or felt the addictive thrill of Mario’s approval.

The party continues around me, a glittering facade of normalcy. Movement near the French doors catches my eye—Bianca, Matteo’s eighteen-year-old daughter, slips into the room like a shadow in Balmain jeans.

She has Matteo’s striking looks—long dark hair and those piercing blue-gray eyes—despite not being biologically his.

Another secret I’m not supposed to know, though Mario made sure I understood the truth about his brother’s heir.

Bella spots her stepdaughter and her whole face lights up. “Bianca! I thought you were staying at school today.”

“And miss all this?” Bianca’s smile is genuine, though there’s still a hint of wariness in her stance. “Besides, I wanted to see the ultrasound photos of my siblings.”

The word “siblings” catches slightly in her throat, and I notice how her hand tightens on her Gucci clutch.

Seven months ago, she was an only child, secure in her position as Matteo’s heir. Now she’s about to become a big sister to twins who will be Matteo’s biological children.

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