Page 45 of Forbidden Vengeance

On the monitor, a grainy black and white image appears. The most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard fills the room. Quick, strong, like galloping horses or hummingbird wings.

My baby’s heartbeat.

“Is that normal?” I ask anxiously as the heart continues its rapid flutter. “The heart rate?”

“Perfectly normal,” Dr. Matthews assures me. “Would you like to know the sex? Our equipment can detect it earlier than standard machines.”

I nod, unable to form words. A sharp intake of breath draws my attention to Mario, who’s standing, transfixed by the monitor. He moves closer, his eyes never leaving the screen, until he’s standing beside me. His usual predatory grace is gone, replaced by something almost reverent as he watches this tiny life dance across the screen.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor announces.

A daughter. The word echoes in my chest like a bell. I’m having a little girl. Emotions I can’t even name surge through me—fierce love, bone-deep terror, wild joy. I imagine a tiny face, wonder whose features she’ll have. Will she have Anthony’s dark eyes? My blonde hair?

Will she be as calculating as her father, as ambitious as her mother?

Dr. Matthews points out her features—the dark curve of her head, the bright spot of her beating heart, tiny arms and legs that look like delicate butterfly wings.

She’s still so small—barely over an inch long—but already I can see she’s perfect. As we watch, she shifts position, her tiny legs kicking out in a flutter of movement that makes my eyes burn with unexpected tears.

“That’s her spine,” the doctor says, tracing a curved line. “And here—” he moves the wand slightly, “you can see her profile. That’s her nose, her forehead. At ten weeks, she’s starting to look more like a tiny baby.”

Mario’s hand finds mine, his fingers intertwining with my own. When I look up, I see his carefully constructed walls crumbling. The dangerous man who makes hardened criminals tremble looks utterly undone by this grainy image of new life.His throat works as he swallows, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of raw emotion in his eyes before he can hide it.

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Mario DeLuca look afraid.

The baby shifts again—a complete somersault this time, like she’s showing off for her audience—and his grip on my hand tightens.

I understand his fear. This little girl, barely formed but already so real, will be born with a target on her back. A Calabrese heir. The child of a woman who betrayed her father. The daughter of a man who would burn the world to claim what’s his, being watched by another man who would die to protect her despite having no claim to her at all.

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat again?” Dr. Matthews asks softly, clearly reading the emotion in the room.

I nod, and that magical sound fills the space once more. Mario’s hand trembles slightly in mine, and I pretend not to notice when he quickly wipes his other hand across his eyes.

Dr. Matthews prints out several ultrasound photos, each one capturing my daughter from different angles. “Take it easy,” he instructs, handing me the prints. “Prenatals daily, moderate exercise, and—” his eyes flick to Mario with something like recognition, “try to keep stress levels down.”

I tuck the photos into my clutch, promising to follow his instructions. The moment he leaves, silence fills the room.

But I catch Mario’s eyes darting toward my bag for the third time in as many minutes. Something warm and liquid unfurls in my chest, like honey spreading through my veins. The dangerous Mario DeLuca, who made his name putting bullets in people’s heads, wants to see baby pictures.

I undo the clasp of my clutch. “Would you like one?” I ask softly. “To keep?”

He startles, though he covers it quickly with that practiced DeLuca control. “Why would I want photos of another man’s child?”

But there’s no bite to his words, no real resistance. I saw his face when that tiny heartbeat filled the room. Saw how his hands shook when she moved on screen.

I roll my eyes and select one of the clearer images—the one where you can see her profile perfectly, her tiny hand raised like she’s waving. Moving deliberately, I cross to where he stands and pull open his suit jacket.

“Elena—” he warns.

I slip the photo into his breast pocket, but leave my hand there, pressed against his heart. It’s racing beneath my palm, betraying everything his carefully blank expression tries to hide. His cologne mingles with the antiseptic smell of the clinic, and this close, I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate as I lean in.

“Tell me again,” I whisper against his jaw, “how you don’t want pictures of her.”

His hand comes up to cover mine, pressing the photo more firmly against his heart.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, his heart still racing beneath my palm. For a moment, I think he might kiss me—his eyes darken in the way that usually precedes him backing me against the nearest surface. But then he clears his throat, and the DeLuca mask slides firmly back into place.

“We should get back to the safe house,” he says shortly, hand finding the doorknob.

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