Page 51 of Forbidden Vengeance

Finally, we reach the pickup point—a discreet dock tucked away from prying eyes. A black Mercedes waits in the shadows, engine idling.

“You good from here?” I ask Marco as we climb out.

He waves me off. “Heading to Jersey, then ditching the boat. Already got my exit planned. This is the most fun I’ve had since that thing in Prague.”

Elena stumbles slightly as we make our way to the car, her wet skirt hampering movement. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Clinton house,” I say shortly as I open the car door.

“And Matteo doesn’t know about this one because…?”

I help her into the backseat before sliding in beside her. “Because I bought it with money Giuseppe left me. The old man had accounts even Matteo didn’t know about.”

She raises a brow. “And O’Connor?”

“Let’s just say there are some things I kept to myself.” I give the driver an address as we pull away from the dock. “Even demons need backup plans.”

My phone rings—Dante on the secured line.

“Tell me you’re not dead, you stupid fuck,” he demands the moment I pick up.

“Would I be answering the phone if I was dead?” I ask dryly.

Elena snorts and covers her mouth, turning to look out the window. Even through the phone, I can hear Dante’s teeth grinding.

“You’re a jackass.” A pause. “How the hell did you get away from both families?”

I detail our escape, earning an appreciative whistle from Dante. “Fucking Marco saving the day,” he responds laughingly.

The three of us go way back. We’ve shed blood together, buried bodies together.

“How bad is it in Boston?” I ask, changing the subject.

Dante’s voice goes grim, all traces of amusement gone. “Bad. I told you that O’Connor’s gone nuclear. Already called in markers from Philadelphia to Montreal. He’s got a million-dollar bounty on your head. Two million if they bring you back breathing so he can kill you himself.”

“Charming.” A bead of water trails into my eye and I impatiently wipe it away.

“He’s burning every connection looking for you. Says no one walks away from him, especially not his pet Italian.” Dante lowers his voice. “But that’s not the interesting part. Got some intel about Siobhan you need to see. Already sent it over.”

I pull up the files on my phone. Surveillance photos show Siobhan holding court at Murphy’s Pub—the real seat of Irish power in Boston. She’s surrounded by younger captains, all of them leaning in like moths to flame. Her red hair glows under vintage lights, her father’s cold eyes scanning the room as she speaks.

The timestamps catch my attention. Three weeks of late-night meetings, increasing in frequency. Always the same core group, but with new faces being added strategically.

“They’re calling it modernization talks,” Dante reports. “But it looks more like succession planning. She’s gathered most of the younger leadership—Sean Murphy, the O’Brien cousins, even old man Flaherty’s grandson.”

I study the hungry look in those young faces—the same expression I used to see in the mirror during Giuseppe’s reign.That particular mix of ambition and resentment that breeds revolution.

“And Seamus?” I ask carefully.

“Blind to it. Still running things like it’s 1980.” Dante’s voice holds dark amusement. “She’s transformed her father’s social club into a war room. While he’s focused on traditional smuggling routes, she’s building a network of tech-savvy operators. Cryptocurrency, digital money laundering, cybersecurity.”

Elena shifts closer, clearly listening. Her wet hair drips onto my shoulder as she studies the photos with sharp interest.

After more details about Siobhan’s power plays, I end the call. Elena’s been quiet, but I can practically hear her mind working.

“A million-dollar bounty,” she says finally. “That’s quite the price tag.”

“Worried about me, little planner?”

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