Page 33 of Forbidden Vengeance

I text back a quick yes to Bella but continue ignoring Anthony. I’m not in the mood to deal with him. Maybe the radio silence will give me time to figure out how to handle this growing complexity.

“Good afternoon, Miss Santiago.” The doorman tips his hat—James, who’s worked here for twenty years and still brings me coffee some mornings. I can’t help but smile, remembering Mario’s scathing assessment of my building’s security.

“A blind grandmother with a cane could breach this place,”he growled during one of his recent visits.“The doorman doesn’t even carry a fucking weapon. The security cameras have three blind spots in the lobby alone. And don’t get me started on the service entrance.”

I take the elevator up, my mind already on a hot shower and maybe a nap before dinner with Bella. My feet ache from the Louboutins, and morning sickness has left me exhausted. But when I step out onto my floor, something makes me pause.

A cream-colored envelope lies in front of my door, my name written in elegant calligraphy. No return address. Curious, I pick it up, sliding my finger under the flap.

White powder explodes outward, coating my hands, my clothes, floating in the air around me. A note flutters to the ground:

Enjoying your game with both DeLuca and Calabrese? Ask Sophia how that worked out for her. Some games leave permanent scars.

The powder settles on my skin like a death sentence.

12

MARIO

Istare out the jet’s window, rage building with every mile between Elena and me. Who the fuck does Seamus O’Connor think he is, summoning me like some errand boy? I’m Mario fucking DeLuca. I had Manhattan crime families trembling at my name before O’Connor ever offered his “sanctuary.”

The memory of owing anyone anything burns like acid in my throat. Five years ago, I needed O’Connor’s protection, his resources, his connections. But I’ve more than repaid that debt with blood and loyalty.

Now he treats me like a trained dog, expected to come running at his whistle.

My hands itch for a gun, for the satisfaction of violence. Instead, I watch Boston’s coastline emerge through clouds, its old money mansions and historic architecture a poor substitute for New York’s grandeur.

Everything about this city feels like exile—which, I suppose, was the point.

The car waiting on the tarmac delivers me straight to the O’Connor compound in Beacon Hill. The mansion sprawlsacross two acres of prime real estate, its red brick walls rising three stories behind wrought iron gates that could stop a tank.

Where the Calabreses flaunt their wealth with gaudy excess, the O’Connors hide theirs behind historic preservation and old-world sophistication. Guards patrol the immaculate grounds in tailored suits that barely conceal their weapons, while state-of-the-art security cameras track every movement from behind classical cornices.

The driveway curves past manicured gardens where I know landmines are buried beneath prize-winning roses. The garage alone could house thirty cars, though Seamus prefers to display his vintage collection in a separate building that used to be a carriage house. Everything about the compound screams old money, old power, old blood.

Patrick Lynch materializes in the marble foyer like the fucking cockroach he is. O’Connor’s second-in-command stands just under six feet, but his bantam rooster attitude makes him seem smaller. That perfectly styled red hair and those cold green eyes—so like his cousin Seamus—broadcast his family connection, while the expensive suit can’t quite hide his dockworker’s build.

A badly healed broken nose mars what might otherwise be handsome features, a souvenir from his days running protection rackets on the waterfront.

“Finally decided to grace us with your presence?” His accent is thick with disdain. “The Boss has been waiting.”

“Careful, Patrick.” I smile, letting him see the violence behind it. “Wouldn’t want to test my patience today.”

“Big man in New York, were you?” He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of expensive scotch on his breath. “Playing house with your brother’s event planner while real work needs doing?”

My hand finds his throat before he can blink. “Say another word about her and they’ll never find all your pieces.”

Lynch jerks away, straightening his tie with shaking hands. A bruise is already forming where my fingers dug in, but his eyes still glitter with satisfaction. He knows he’s struck a nerve.

“The Boss is waiting in his study.” His smirk widens as he rubs his throat. “Try not to keep him waiting any longer…lackey.”

The word hits like a slap. Five years I’ve spent building my own power base here, making myself indispensable to O’Connor’s operation. Yet this dock rat still sees me as an outsider, a servant called to heel.

My fingers itch to show him exactly how sharp this dog’s teeth are.

But O’Connor’s waiting, and even my rage has limits. For now.

I adjust my Brioni tie before entering the lion’s den. Seamus’s office hits me with a wall of whiskey and Cuban cigar smoke, the scents as much a power play as the room itself. Dark wood panels line walls that have witnessed a century of violence disguised as business. A Monet hangs above a fireplace that’s seen more evidence burned than it has logs.

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