Page 20 of Forbidden Vengeance

All the while, my mind catalogs details: a burner phone on his desk I hadn’t noticed before, files labeled with dates that match suspected trafficking incidents, a calendar showing meetings with shell companies I’ve been tracking.

When Anthony finally falls asleep, I’ll have work to do. But for now, I arch beneath him, playing the role of the perfect mistress.

I try not to think about how different Mario’s touch felt in that parking garage—electric and real in a way that makes this feel like a pale imitation. I can’t afford that comparison, not now. Not with Anthony’s child growing beneath my heart and evidence of human trafficking waiting to be discovered.

So I lose myself in the performance, letting Anthony claim what he thinks is his, while behind my closed eyes, I plan how to use every scrap of information to my benefit.

Later,after Anthony falls asleep, I slip into his massive bathroom. Everything is marble and gold, obscenely luxurious like the rest of his penthouse. An ornate chandelier casts dancing shadows across Italian tile as morning sickness hits me like a freight train.

I barely make it to the toilet, my knees bruising against the marble as I retch. Everything burns—my throat, my eyes, my pride.

When I can finally stand, I study my reflection in the gilded mirror.

I look exactly like what I am: a woman playing too many dangerous games. My lipstick is smeared, my carefully styled hair mussed from Anthony’s hands. Beneath my La Perla lingerie, his child grows like a time bomb.

Mario’s warning echoes in my head:“Be careful playing with fire, little planner. Some burns leave permanent scars.”

I rest my hand on my stomach, feeling the slight swell that might be real or might be my imagination. A baby should be a weakness—a vulnerability in a world that preys on soft things. But maybe that’s exactly what I need—a weapon no one will see coming.

After all, hasn’t Mario taught me how to turn weakness into strength? How to make everyone underestimate me until it’s too late?

I fix my lipstick with steady hands, already calculating next moves. Anthony stirs in the other room, calling my name. Time to play my part.

Let them all think I’m just another ambitious woman who got herself pregnant by a powerful man.

They’ll never see me coming.

8

MARIO

The surveillance photos spread across my desk mock me with fresh revelations. Elena leaving her ob-gyn appointment, clutching a manila envelope against her designer blazer.

The timestamp reads just two hours ago.

I flip through more recent shots—her ducking into a pharmacy, emerging with a paper bag. Stopping at a coffee shop but ordering tea instead of her usual triple espresso.

Each image adds another piece to a puzzle I should have seen coming.

“Latest report from Mount Sinai,” Dante announces, striding into my office. He drops a thick folder next to the photos. “Full records from her appointment today.”

I scan the medical documents, though I already know what they’ll confirm. HCG levels. Gestational age estimates. Prenatal vitamin prescriptions.

Elena Santiago is pregnant with Anthony Calabrese’s child.

“Have you verified this?” My voice sounds distant, controlled, though something primal and possessive claws at my chest.

Dante nods. “Three separate sources. The blood work doesn’t lie.”

The rational part of my brain—the part Giuseppe beat into both his sons—knows this was always a possibility. Elena’s role required getting close to Anthony, gathering intelligence by any means necessary.

Yet seeing the proof makes me want to burn Boston to the ground and salt the earth.

“Any movement from the Calabrese camp?” I maintain my mask of professional interest, though Dante knows me well enough to see through it.

“Nothing yet. She hasn’t told Anthony.” Dante hesitates. “But there’s more. Those Vietnamese shipping manifests we’ve been tracking? They’re moving again. Three containers arriving Thursday, marked as ‘specialty imports.’”

“Human cargo,” I translate flatly. The trafficking operation we’ve been investigating for months, hidden behind legitimate business fronts. “Location?”

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