Page 31 of Forbidden Vengeance

Iwake to unfamiliar sheets that smell like Mario’s cologne. My body aches deliciously, evidence of last night’s desperation mapped across my skin in bruises and bite marks. The safe house is exactly what I’d expect from a DeLuca bolt-hole—floor-to-ceiling windows with bulletproof glass, sleek furniture positioned for optimal sight lines, everything a perfect balance of luxury and tactical consideration.

My mind drifts to that first encounter in Anthony’s study days ago. The way Mario claimed me on that desk, papers scattering like confetti around us. How perfectly right it felt, how completely he consumed me.

I’d slipped back to Anthony’s side afterward, lipstick carefully reapplied, not a hair out of place, playing the devoted mistress while still feeling Mario between my thighs.

“Stay tonight,” Anthony had suggested—ordered, really—his hands possessive on my waist. But after having Mario, Anthony’s touch felt hollow.

“Early meeting tomorrow,” I’d demurred, playing shy. “Rain check?”

Mario was waiting at my apartment, and we’d spent the rest of the night claiming each other against every surface. The kitchen counter, the shower wall, the Italian marble table with its bullet holes—nowhere was safe from our hunger.

Since then, it’s like a dam has broken. We’re insatiable, meeting wherever and whenever we can. His car in underground parking garages, empty offices during charity galas, once in a private box at the opera while the Calabrese family sat unaware in their usual seats below.

I find his shirt on the floor and slip it on, the fabric cool. His scent envelops me—expensive cologne, coffee, that underlying hint of danger that makes my pulse race.

The kitchen doorway frames him like a painting of a fallen angel. Shirtless, dangerous, perfectly at ease as he makes coffee I can no longer stomach.

Scars map his broad back—bullet wounds, knife marks, a burn that spans his left shoulder blade. The scratches I left last night stand out red against olive skin, making something primal surge in my chest.

He turns at my approach, and his eyes darken at the sight of me in just his shirt. I can’t help but stare—he’s all lean muscle and deadly grace, more scars scattered across his chest telling stories I’m afraid to ask about. A tattoo in Italian script curves along his ribs, partially hidden by an old knife wound.

He reaches for a second coffee mug but I shake my head, my stomach already protesting the smell.

His chuckle is low and knowing as he produces a cup of ginger tea instead. “Thought this might sit better, little planner.”

The gesture—so thoughtful, so domestic—creates an awkward tension I hate. We’ve crossed every line imaginable. I’m carrying Anthony Calabrese’s child, betraying my best friend’s family in ways that would get me killed if discovered. And yet…

Mario studies me over his coffee cup, those dark eyes probing beneath my skin. “What?” I ask, defensive.

“Come to Boston with me.”

The teacup nearly slips from my fingers. “What?”

“Not permanently,” he clarifies, something dark flashing in his eyes. “But O’Connor’s breathing down my neck, and I need to handle some business there. You could work remotely for a few days, gather intel on the Irish operations firsthand.”

The practical suggestion doesn’t match the intensity of his gaze. This is about more than intelligence gathering, more than our careful game of strategy.

But admitting that would make this real in ways neither of us is ready to face.

Mario’s hand finds my stomach, the gesture more intimate than anything we did last night. I force myself not to lean into his touch, even as warmth spreads from where his palm rests against me.

“Anthony’s getting suspicious,” he says, his voice low. “He’s been asking questions about where you disappear to.”

God, don’t I know it. Finding excuses not to see Anthony has become increasingly difficult. I’ve stopped sleeping with him entirely—I can’t stomach it anymore, not after Mario. Even if it means losing access to vital intelligence, the thought of Anthony’s hands on me makes my skin crawl.

As if summoned by the thought, my phone buzzes with Anthony’s ringtone. The sight of his name makes bile rise in my throat—or maybe that’s just morning sickness.

I’ve been playing this game for months, letting him think he’s claiming something precious while I steal his secrets. But now…

“Bella’s watching too,” I admit, remembering our encounter at the opera three nights ago.

I’d slipped away from the Calabrese family box, making some excuse about needing air. Mario was waiting in a darkenedcorridor, and within moments he had me pressed against the wall, thrusting into me while Puccini’s aria soared in the background.

I’d been heading back to the box, still trembling from our tryst, when Bella emerged from the powder room. The look in her eyes stopped me cold.

“Elena?” Those artist’s eyes had taken in everything—my flushed cheeks, the slight disarray of my hair, the way I couldn’t quite meet her gaze. She reached out, adjusting the strap of my dress that had slipped. “What’s going on with you lately?”

I’d made some excuse about feeling warm, needing air, but I saw the understanding in her expression. The hurt. Those eyes that see too much, that understand too well.

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