Page 28 of Forbidden Vengeance

“Get me the security details for the Calabrese estate.” I start laying out what I’ll need—a ceramic knife that won’t trigger metal detectors, garrote wire thin as silk. “Guest list, patrol routes, everything.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” A pause. “Or worse, get her killed.”

“Just get me what I need.” I study my reflection as I knot my tie. “And Dante? Make sure my return ticket to Boston isn’t traceable. Wouldn’t want O’Connor getting any ideas about tonight’s…detour.”

“This is suicide.” But I hear him already typing. “The Calabreses have tripled security since Johnny’s death. Even the waiting staff are vetted?—”

“Then I guess we better make sure my credentials are impeccable.” I check the knife’s edge. “Send everything to my secure phone. I’ll be dark after 8 p.m.”

“Mario…” Dante rarely uses my first name. “Is she worth it?”

I think of Elena’s face when I called her a whore, of her trembling hands and steel spine. Of how she matches me move for move in this deadly game we’re playing.

“Just get me in, Dante. I’ll handle the rest.”

I’ve survived prison,exile, and Giuseppe DeLuca’s particular brand of lessons in control. But watching Elena play her role at this Calabrese gathering tests every ounce of that hard-won restraint.

Anthony parades her through the crowd like a prized thoroughbred, his hand possessively splayed across her bare back. Every touch, every whispered word in her ear is a calculated display of ownership.

Look what I have, his every gesture screams.Look who shares my bed.

She wears light blue silk that falls over her curves, the color making her look ethereal under the ornate chandeliers. The dress is a masterpiece of suggestion—modest from the front but dipping dangerously low in the back, leaving an expanse of creamy skin exposed to Anthony’s wandering hands.

Her bare arms are elegant, shoulders touched golden by late summer sun. She moves like a goddess among mortals, all dangerous curves and intentional elegance.

Getting into the Calabrese mansion was almost insultingly easy. A service entrance with lazy guards, security cameras with predictable blind spots—it’s almost amusing how these so-called crime families have gotten soft. The DeLuca exile slipping in right under their noses.

The mansion itself is exactly what you’d expect from new money trying to look old—marble everything, gold leaf dripping from coffered ceilings, artwork chosen for price tags rather than taste. Chandeliers bigger than cars hang over a ballroom that could fit a small army. Which it practically does tonight—for a “family function” there must be a hundred people here, all dripping in diamonds and designer labels.

I stick to the shadows near carved columns, watching. Always watching. Elena moves through the crowd like she was born to this world, but I see the tension in her shoulders, the wayher smile never quite reaches her eyes. Anthony keeps her close, touching her constantly—a hand at her waist, fingers trailing down her spine, lips brushing her ear.

My teeth grind as she laughs at something he whispers, tilting her head to give him better access to her neck. He takes the invitation, nose skimming her bare shoulder in a gesture that looks intimate but feels possessive. Playing the besotted lover while his hands mark his territory.

The crystal tumbler in my hand cracks. Every touch, every false laugh, every moment she lets him claim her makes my blood boil. This is the game we chose—the game I taught her to play. So why does watching her excel at it feel like swallowing broken glass?

Through the crowd, I watch Elena lean close to Anthony, whispering something that makes him smile indulgently. Then she’s moving away with practiced grace, her blue silk dress a beacon in the gaudy splendor of the Calabrese mansion.

I follow, keeping to shadows, my feet silent on highly polished floors—another of Giuseppe’s lessons serving its purpose. Elena moves with purpose down ornate hallways, past Renaissance paintings probably bought with blood money, beneath sconces that cast her shadow in duplicate.

She stops at a heavy wooden door, glancing both ways before reaching beneath the neckline of her dress. My breath catches as she withdraws a key from God knows where. The lock clicks and she slips inside like a ghost.

I count to ten before following.

She’s alone in what must be Anthony’s study, her fingers dancing over file folders with practiced efficiency. “You shouldn’t take such risks,” I growl, emerging from the shadows.

Elena jumps, her body tensing as she spins to face me, her fingers freezing mid-motion over the stack of folders. Her eyes,wide with alarm, narrow as recognition replaces fear. Her chin tilts upwards, defiant even now.

“My condition is exactly why I can take these risks,” she counters, but there’s a tremor beneath her usual bite. Her gaze flickers to the space behind me, calculating exits, always ten moves ahead.

“And what the fuck are you doing here?” she snaps, though her voice loses its edge as I close the distance between us. “Shouldn’t you be back in Boston, wagging your tail for O’Connor?”

I ignore the jab, stopping just short of touching her. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Close enough to catch the faint notes of her perfume. “You shouldn’t take such risks,” I repeat, softer this time, the words laden with something I can’t quite name.

She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “Anthony would never suspect?—”

My control snaps like a wire under too much tension. Her words are cut off as I reach for her, unable to hold back another second. My hands close around her arms, pulling her to me, and my lips crash against hers with a ferocity that shocks even me.

There’s nothing restrained about this kiss, nothing calculated. It’s fire and desperation, need and fury, and she meets it all with equal force.

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