Page 52 of Forbidden Vengeance

“I’m worried about the fact that the O’Connors and Calabreses will work together now,” she says, rolling her eyes. “They both want the same thing—you dead and me back with Anthony.”

“Don’t forget my brother.” I watch her face in the passing streetlights. “Matteo would make a deal with the devil himself if it meant getting rid of me for good.”

She doesn’t like that—I can see it in the way her jaw ticks.

The car turns onto a quiet street in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn, pulling up to what looks like a restored brownstone. But the historic facade hides cutting-edge security that would make the CIA jealous. I guide Elena through three separate checkpoints before we reach the main floor.

Inside, it’s all clean lines and tactical considerations masked as luxury. Sight lines to every entrance, reinforced walls hidden behind expensive art, weapons caches disguised as moderndecor. The furniture is minimal but high-end, everything positioned for maximum defensive advantage.

I nod toward the stairs. “Shower’s up there if you want it.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to wear after a shower?” She gestures at her soaked Versace. “Planning to have me parade around in my underwear?”

“I wouldn’t object,” I answer honestly.

She scowls, throwing my wet jacket at my head. “You’re impossible.”

“There are clothes upstairs you can use.”

One perfect blonde eyebrow rises. “You have women’s clothes in your secret safe house? Interesting for someone who’s supposed to be in exile.”

“First of all, they’re my clothes. And second,” I can’t help but smirk, “did you really think I spent five years actually staying away from New York just because my brother said so?”

“You’re impossible,” she repeats, but I catch her smile as she heads upstairs.

Once Elena disappears upstairs, I look down at the jacket she threw at me. The ultrasound photo. My heart lodges in my throat as I thrust my hand into the breast pocket, already knowing what I’ll find.

The photo comes out in pieces, the river water having turned it into wet pulp. The image of that tiny profile, those butterfly-wing hands, now just a ruined mess of paper and ink.

Something in my chest constricts painfully.

It shouldn’t matter—it’s just a photo, and not even of my child. But seeing it destroyed hits harder than any of Seamus O’Connor’s threats.

Fucking Matteo. Fucking Anthony Calabrese. Always destroying everything they touch.

The stench of the Hudson suddenly hits me—a lovely mixture of industrial waste and God knows what else. I grimace, realizing I smell like I took a swim in Satan’s bathtub.

The sound of the shower in the master bath cuts off, and unbidden images of Elena fill my mind—water running down her curves, her wet hair slicked back, droplets trailing down her throat…

I curl my hand into a fist, nails biting into my palm. No. I can’t go there right now. Not with the enemy closing in from all sides, not with her carrying another man’s child, not with the memory of that ruined ultrasound photo burning a hole in my pocket.

I force myself toward the guest bathroom, away from temptation. Away from the dangerous way she makes me feel things I can’t afford to feel.

After a shower and change of clothes, I feel human again. Black slacks, charcoal cashmere sweater, Italian leather shoes—a DeLuca never looks anything less than perfect, even in a safe house. Even in exile.

I head to the master bedroom to check on Elena and stop dead in my tracks. She’s wearing one of my old Columbia T-shirts, the soft gray fabric falling to mid-thigh. Her freshly washed hair falls in dark gold waves as she runs a towel through it, making her look younger, more vulnerable somehow.

Something catches in my chest at the sight of her in my clothes, in my space. She must hear my sharp intake of breath because she looks over her shoulder, those blue eyes bright without makeup, questioning.

“Is this okay?” she asks, gesturing at the shirt. “I know you said I could use your clothes, but I probably should have asked which ones and?—”

I cross the room in three strides, drawn like a magnet. “Elena.”

She bites her lip. “Yes?”

“Stop talking.”

I cup her face in my hands and kiss her, pouring everything I can’t say into it. All my fears about O’Connor, about Anthony, about this baby that isn’t mine but that I already want to protect. She melts into me, her hands sliding up my chest, into my hair, and for a moment, nothing else matters. Heat burrows its way through the space between my ribs and pools at the center of my chest.

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