Page 24 of Forbidden Vengeance

I flee down the marble hallway, my Louboutins clicking against stone as I search desperately for a private bathroom. Not the main powder room—too many socialites comparing jewelry and sharing gossip. I need somewhere private, somewhere I won’t have to explain why New York’s most sought-after event planner is vomiting at her own perfectly orchestrated gala.

Please, let there be another bathroom. Please, let it be empty.

I barely make it to a private bathroom before violent nausea overwhelms me. My knees hit hand-painted Italian tiles as I retch, each heave making my body shake. The caviar station, the roses, the truffles—everything I’ve been fighting to keep down comes up in painful waves until I’m left with nothing but bile and regret.

When it finally passes, I stay kneeling for a moment, hands trembling as I reach for toilet paper to wipe my mouth. My throat burns, and I can feel cold sweat beading at my temples. The lavish sconces cast merciless light as I slowly pull myself up, using the gold-plated towel rack for support.

My reflection makes me wince. My face is ghost pale except for two fever-bright spots on my cheeks, mascara smudged beneath my eyes. So much for the two hours my makeup artist spent perfecting this look.

“That won’t do,” I murmur. I dig through my Bottega Veneta clutch for lipstick and concealer, determined to salvage what I can of my appearance.

The door opens, admitting three women I recognize from the Rossetti inner circle. Their voices bounce off marble walls as they cluster around the mirrors.

“Did you see Siobhan O’Connor with the youngest Vitale brother?” one stage-whispers, adjusting her décolletage. “That dress must have cost a fortune—way too good for a simple family dinner.”

“Daddy’s money,” another sniffs, reapplying her lipstick. “Though I heard she’s been meeting with Sean Murphy more than business requires, if you know what I mean…”

I resist rolling my eyes as I touch up my own makeup. Their gossip is amateur hour—missing all the actually interesting details about Siobhan’s expanding influence among the younger captains.

The bathroom door swings open again, and the temperature drops ten degrees. Siobhan O’Connor stands in the doorway, resplendent in Alexander McQueen, her smile sharp as a blade.

“Ladies,” she purrs, making the word sound like a death sentence. “Don’t let me interrupt. You were saying something about my dress? Or was it my…business meetings?”

The women freeze like rabbits scenting a wolf. One actually backs up a step, clutching her Hermès bag like a shield.

“Though if you’re so interested in my personal life,” Siobhan continues, examining her manicure, “perhaps you’d like to discuss it with your husbands? I’m sure they’d befascinatedto hear how their wives spend their time spreading rumors about an O’Connor.”

They scatter like startled birds, nearly tripping over their Louboutins in their haste to escape.

Silence falls as Siobhan moves to the mirror beside me. I continue fixing my makeup, hyperaware of her presence. She’s close enough that I can smell her perfume—something exclusive and French.

“That shade of Dior suits you,” she says casually, as if she hadn’t just terrorized three women into fleeing. “Though you’re looking a bit peaked around the edges.”

I meet her eyes in the mirror, my pulse quickening. Siobhan O’Connor doesn’t do casual conversation. Every word from her is calculated, even if I don’t yet understand the equation.

“The hazards of event planning,” I reply carefully, watching her adjust her already perfect lipstick. “Everyone wants everything to be flawless.”

“Flawless,” she repeats, something bitter in her tone. “Like good daughters should be, yes? Perfect little ornaments for powerful men to display.”

Her words hit closer to home than I’d like. I think of Anthony’s possessive touches, the way he parades me at events like a prize thoroughbred.

“Though some of us,” Siobhan continues, turning to face me directly now, “are tired of being ornamental. My father still calls me his ‘little colleen,’ you know.”

Her laugh carries pure ice as she smooths her dress. “Even while I manage half our legitimate enterprises. Men like him and Anthony—they’ll never see us as more than decorative accessories.”

There it is. The real conversation beneath the pretense. I study her reflection carefully. “Then let them underestimate us.”

“Has that worked well for you?” Her smile turns predatory. “Carrying Calabrese’s heir while playing a much bigger game?”

Her words hit me like a blow to the face. The O’Connors know.

It’s bad enough that Mario knows, but if Seamus O’Connor’s daughter knows about my pregnancy…My fingers grip the marble sink before I can stop myself.

Siobhan tracks the movement, a sly smile playing at her perfectly painted lips, and sudden horror washes through me. Had she just been fishing? Did I just confirm her theory with my reaction?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.

“No?” Siobhan’s smile widens. “The way you’re gripping that sink suggests otherwise.”

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