Page 25 of Forbidden Vengeance

Another wave of nausea hits, more violent than before. I try to swallow it back, but Siobhan must see me struggling because she makes a thoughtful sound.

“You should probably let yourself vomit,” she says casually. “It’s not good for the baby to fight it, you know.”

The horror spreading through me can’t compete with my rebellious stomach. I barely make it back to the toilet before I’m retching again, my body betraying every secret I’ve tried to keep.

Strong hands gather my hair back, and Mario’s familiar cologne mingles with the metallic taste in my mouth. Of course he’s here. He’s always watching, always one step ahead.

“How”—I gasp between heaves—“did you get past security?” The Vitucci mansion is supposed to be impenetrable. I personally vetted every guard, planned every patrol route.

The British royal family has less protection than this gala.

“You call this security?” Mario scoffs, his fingers cool against my neck. “A blind grandmother with a cane could breach the east garden entrance. Honestly, little planner, I expected better from you.”

I want to kill him for that criticism, but another wave of nausea takes precedence.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I gasp “Your brother?—”

“Is too busy hovering over his pregnant wife to notice me.” Mario’s voice holds none of its usual edge, his fingers stroking down the back of my neck.

“Well,” Siobhan drawls from behind us, “this has been enlightening. Do try to keep your…liaison…discreet. Though I suspect that ship has sailed.”

She pauses at the door. “Oh, and Elena? When you’re ready to have a real conversation about the future of our organizations, you know where to find me. Assuming the morning sickness allows, of course.”

The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a threat.

I rest my cheek against the cold porcelain, my face burning from the combination of vomiting, embarrassment, and fear. “She knows,” I whisper, the words barely audible. “Mario, she knows I’m pregnant.”

His jaw tightens, but his hands remain gentle as he produces a monogrammed handkerchief, the DeLuca crest mocking me with its promise of family loyalty. “Siobhan knowing changes nothing,” he says, though something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “She’s playing her own game.”

“A game where she holds all the cards.” My voice cracks. “If she tells Anthony?—”

“She won’t.” His certainty makes me look up. “Siobhan O’Connor doesn’t waste leverage this valuable on petty revelations.”

He guides me to sit on the marble counter, his hands lingering on my waist. The bathroom’s soft lighting catches the silver at his temples, highlighting his resemblance to Matteo—that same protective instinct barely masked by calculated control.

“The Irish are moving weapons through Anthony’s shipping routes,” I report, trying to change the subject, trying to ignorehow his proximity makes my pulse race. “Using the legitimate business as cover for—” Another wave of nausea cuts me off.

Mario’s hand finds my lower back, rubbing slow circles that somehow ease the churning in my stomach. The gesture feels startlingly intimate—more so than any of our heated moments or calculated encounters.

“The baby comes first,” he says quietly. “Before intel, before revenge, before everything.”

“Why?” I meet his eyes in the mirror, seeing something there that makes my breath catch. “I’m just another asset. A way to get information about your brother’s empire.”

His other hand comes up to my neck, thumb brushing my pulse point. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself, little planner?”

“Mario—”

“When are you going to admit that this stopped being just business a long time ago?” His voice drops lower, making heat pool in my stomach despite my nausea. “That maybe there are some games worth losing?”

His fingers brush my stomach, sending electricity through my body. “Some games change the players as much as the rules,” he murmurs, his voice a husky growl.

I turn to face him, our faces inches apart. “And what happens when everyone realizes you’re playing a different game entirely?” I whisper.

The sound of approaching voices and clicking heels in the hallway makes him pull back with a curse. “We’re not done with this conversation.” His dark eyes scan the bathroom before landing on the narrow window near the ceiling. “I’ll find you later.”

“How are you possibly—” But he’s already moving, using the towel rack as leverage to reach the window with graceful efficiency that would be impressive if it weren’t so infuriating.

“By the way,” he adds, pausing at the window, turning his head back just enough so I could see an infuriating smirk on his lips, “tell my brother his security protocols need work.”

---