Page 43 of Forbidden Vengeance

She goes still in my arms, and for a moment I think I’ve said too much, revealed too many of my cards. But then her hand comes up to trace the scar Bella’s bullet left, her touch featherlight but burning.

“Dangerous words,” she whispers, but I catch the slight tremor in her voice. “Especially for a man who just declared war on Seamus O’Connor.”

I catch her hand, pressing it flat against my chest where my heart beats too fast, too hard. “Some wars are worth fighting.”

The look she gives me is equal parts wonder and terror, like she’s finally realizing this stopped being a game a long time ago.

15

ELENA

Igrip the arms of the waiting room chair, my Cartier bracelet catching fluorescent light as another wave of anxiety hits. The private clinic Mario arranged is a study in understated wealth—all cream walls and mahogany trim, abstract art worth small fortunes hanging above Italian leather chairs. The kind of place that treats gunshot wounds without police reports and writes prescriptions for people who don’t officially exist.

The reception desk is staffed by women who look more like models than medical professionals, but their eyes hold the sharp intelligence of people who know how to keep secrets. A man in an expertly tailored suit sits in the corner, pretending to readThe Wall Street Journalwhile actually watching the door. Private security, clearly—the gun beneath his jacket making that extremely evident.

Still, my heart races every time the door opens, expecting Anthony’s men or worse—Bella. I can’t shake her hurt expression from yesterday, or Matteo’s cutting words:“You’re already hurting her.”

“Ms. Santiago?”

The nurse—middle-aged and elegant in clean scrubs—calls my real name rather than one of my carefully crafted aliases. Mario’s influence, no doubt. I rise on shaky legs, surprised when a familiar hand steadies my elbow.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, even as something warm unfurls in my chest at Mario’s presence. He looks devastating in a casual Armani charcoal suit, the material molding to his broad shoulders like a lover’s touch. With his dark hair slightly tousled and those dark eyes intense, he plays the role of supportive partner perfectly.

“We already discussed this,” I whisper furiously. “It’s not safe for you to be seen here. If Anthony, Matteo, and O’Connor have people watching?—”

“I told you last night,” he murmurs, his hand warm on my back as he guides me forward. “I’m done hiding.”

“This isn’t about hiding,” I insist. “It’s about survival. You can’t just?—”

“I can’t, huh?” His smile holds an edge. “Too bad, little planner. You’re stuck with me.”

“Mario—”

“Shut up and let me do this,” he growls, but his hand is gentle at my lower back as we follow the nurse down a hallway lined with more expensive art. Each door we pass is numbered in discreet gold lettering, no names, no specialties listed. A place designed for people who need to disappear.

The nurse leads us into an examination room that looks more like a luxury hotel suite than a medical facility. The ultrasound machine is plated in gold, and even the examination table is covered in what looks like Egyptian cotton.

“The doctor will be right in,” the nurse says, closing the door with practiced discretion.

“You’re insane,” I tell Mario, but my hand finds his anyway. “Being here together…it’s like painting a target on both our backs.”

His fingers interlace with mine. “Let them try.”

My phone buzzes and I fish it out of my Chanel clutch, grimacing when I see Anthony’s name on the screen. I hit decline before stuffing it away again.

With everything that happened yesterday, I completely forgot about Anthony. Probably not my smartest move.

“Who was it?” Mario’s voice is deceptively casual.

“Anthony.”

His face darkens, jaw tightening in that way that makes his scar more prominent. The muscle in his cheek ticks—a tell he probably doesn’t realize he has. Jealousy looks good on him, though he’d rather die than admit that’s what this is.

Something warm and smug unfurls in my chest. It’s nice to feel wanted.

My phone starts dinging rapidly—the sound of multiple incoming texts. I pull it out again, biting my lip as I read:

Where are you? I heard about the hospital.

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