Page 36 of Forbidden Vengeance

Straight to voicemail.

I try again. And again.

Nothing.

Anthrax. The word echoes in my head.

With trembling fingers, I call Dante. I don’t even wait for him to say anything. “Get the jet ready. Now.”

“Boss?” Confusion colors his voice. “O’Connor made it crystal clear?—”

“I don’t give a FUCK what O’Connor made clear!” The roar tears from my throat as I sweep everything off my desk. Glass shatters. Papers flutter. “Get the fucking jet ready. I’m going back to New York.”

Dante sucks in a deep breath. “Mario, he’ll kill you?—”

“Permanently.” The word comes out like a death warrant. “I’m done being O’Connor’s bitch. Done playing these fucking games. Get the jet ready or I’ll fly commercial.”

There’s a long pause as Dante tries to make sense of what I’m saying. “Mario, what happened?”

“Elena…” My voice cracks. “Someone sent her anthrax. She’s…I need to?—”

“Fuck.” Dante understands immediately. “I’ll have the jet ready in forty minutes. But Boss? This means war with O’Connor.”

I think of Elena opening that envelope. Of the baby growing inside her. Of all the ways I’ve failed to protect them both. “Let them come.”

13

ELENA

The hospital room is sterile white and oppressively quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. I close my eyes, but all I can see is that white powder settling on my skin like death made tangible.

The last three hours replay in my mind like a nightmare. The powder exploding outward, coating my hands, my clothes, floating in the air around me. The note fluttering to the ground. My hands shaking so badly I could barely dial 911.

“Please,” I begged the operator, my voice breaking. “I’m pregnant. There’s white powder everywhere.”

What followed was like something from a disaster movie. First responders flooding my building within minutes. The screech of sirens, the flash of emergency lights turning Fifth Avenue into a carnival of red and blue. Men in hazmat suits materializing in my hallway like astronauts, their voices muffled behind protective masks as they ordered me not to move, not to touch anything.

“Try not to brush off the powder,” one had instructed while another took photos. “Keep your hands away from your face. Breathe normally.”

Breathe normally. Right. With potentially lethal powder coating my skin and a baby to protect.

James the doorman’s face had been ghost white as they evacuated the building. “Miss Santiago…” he’d started to say, but hazmat-suited figures had pushed him back. I watched my neighbors being hurried out—the hedge fund manager from 12B still in his silk pajamas, the society widow from 9A clutching her Pomeranian.

All of them staring at me like I was already dead.

The ambulance ride felt like a blur of terror and clinical questions. Paramedics in protective gear asking about my medical history, my pregnancy, any symptoms. “How far along are you?” one had asked, her eyes kind behind her mask.

“Ten weeks,” I’d whispered, tears finally breaking free. “Will my baby…?” I couldn’t finish the question.

Now, hours later, that fear claws at my throat. If this is anthrax, what does that mean for my child? The doctors speak in careful terms about “monitoring the situation” and “preventative antibiotics,” but I see the concern in their eyes when they look at my chart.

“Is there anyone we should call? Family?” A nurse asks me.

Mario’s face flashes in my mind immediately. My hand actually twitches toward my phone before I stop myself. I can’t call him. Not with O’Connor’s threats hanging over his head. If he comes rushing back to New York, Matteo will know within hours. The DeLucas have eyes everywhere—in hospitals, police stations, even emergency dispatch.

One call to Mario could be his death.

“Ms. Santiago?” The nurse prompts gently. “Perhaps Mrs. DeLuca? We have her listed as your emergency contact.”

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