Page 46 of Forbidden Vengeance

I roll my eyes at his attempt at coldness. This is what Mario does—retreats behind walls the moment vulnerability threatens to crack his perfect control. But I saw his face when he heard my daughter’s heartbeat.

He can play the untouchable don all he wants, but I know better now.

We’re halfway to the lobby when movement outside the window catches my attention. A flash of tactical gear that’s too high-end for regular security, too precise in their movements to be random. I recognize the formation—it’s how Anthony’s elite team operates, the way they fan out to cover exits.

The same pattern they used when eliminating the Russian faction last spring.

“Mario,” I warn, but he’s already seen them. His body shifts subtly, transforming him from the man who just got emotional over ultrasound photos into something deadly. My hand moves instinctively to my stomach as he positions himself between me and the window.

“Time to go, little planner,” he says softly, fingers flying over his phone as he alerts his security team. “Seems we’re not the only ones interested in your appointment today.”

16

MARIO

Well, fuck.

I should have known Calabrese would pull this shit, especially after those texts he sent Elena. The memory of his threats still makes my blood boil. But I’ve got my own problems burning a hole in my pocket—Dante’s been blowing up my phone all morning:

O’Connor’s losing his shit.Says he’ll put you down like the traitor you are.

Boss, this isn’t like you.

What the fuck is going on?

He’s calling in markers. The Irish are mobilizing.

Even Siobhan had to get her dig in:Running after a pregnant girl? How the mighty have fallen.

But I’d managed to forget all about O’Connor’s threats the moment that baby appeared on screen. Her heartbeat filled the room like music, and something in my chest had seized up, grown two sizes too big. That tiny profile, those butterfly-wing hands—fuck, is this what Matteo felt when he first saw Bianca? When he decided to claim another man’s child as his own?

The doctor had printed those pictures and Elena tucked them away in her clutch. Every fiber of my being wanted to snatch one, to keep that image of perfection close.

But I have Giuseppe’s lessons branded into my bones—never show weakness, never reveal what matters to you. I couldn’t let Elena see how much that tiny life affected me.

But somehow she knew. Fucking knew exactly what I was thinking when she slipped that photo into my breast pocket, her hand pressed against my heart like she could feel every crack in my carefully constructed walls. Fucking Elena.

But I have bigger problems right now. Like how the fuck Anthony Calabrese knew Elena would be at this supposedly discreet clinic. The rent-a-cop who’d been pretending to readThe Wall Street Journalsprings to his feet, hand moving to his concealed weapon. I roll my eyes.

This amateur would piss himself if he actually had to face Calabrese’s men.

I text my security team while retrieving my arsenal—Glock 19 from my shoulder holster, Sig Sauer from my ankle, ceramic blade from beneath my tie. Each weapon a comfort, each placement learned at Giuseppe’s knee. My phone lights up with intel:

Four men at south entrance.

Two in stairwell B.

Three covering parking garage.

Sniper on roof of building across street —northeast corner.

Two more incoming from west side.

My mind’s already mapping our next steps. The clinic’s glass walls are both advantage and liability—clear sight lines, but no cover. We’ll need a distraction, something to draw the sniper’s attention.

“Ladies,” I call to the reception staff, keeping my voice gentle. No need to terrify them more than necessary. “You might want to find somewhere safe to wait this out.”

They scatter, heels clicking against marble as they flee. Smart girls.

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