Page 6 of Forbidden Vengeance

My mind drifts to the files I discovered last week—young women arriving on tourist visas that were never used for departure, modeling agencies with more outgoing transfers than incoming profits. The pieces are there, if you know where to look. And I’ve spent years learning exactly where to look.

The driver’s appreciation is obvious as I slide into the back seat, and I allow myself a small smile. I know exactly how good I look. The Louboutins on my feet—a Christmas gift from Matteo that I try not to think about too much—cost a small fortune. The red soles flash with each step like a warning sign.

Another buzz from my clutch. Mario this time:Playing with fire tonight, little planner?

My heart thrums treacherously, blood heating just from those few words. Three days of silence and now this? I resistthe urge to respond immediately, instead watching the city lights blur past my window.

Eleven Madison Park rises before me, its Art Deco grandeur softened by evening shadows. Inside, the restaurant is a study in understated luxury—soaring ceilings, elegant lines, and the subtle perfume of wealth that comes from knowing you never have to discuss prices.

The restaurant’s Michelin stars and impossible-to-get reservations make it the perfect setting for Manhattan’s elite to see and be seen.

Anthony chose well—the Calabrese heir making a statement by dining here with the best friend of Giovanni Russo’s daughter.

The maître d’ greets me by name, but Anthony hasn’t arrived yet. I head toward the restroom, my Louboutins silent on the thick carpet. The hallway curves past private dining rooms, each one a potential setting for deals and betrayals disguised as business dinners.

I’m about to round the corner when voices drift from the alcove ahead. I stop short, recognizing that cultured accent despite never having heard it in person before.

“The traditional methods are leaving us exposed, Sean.” Siobhan O’Connor’s voice carries clear frustration. “The Vietnamese connection alone could be traced through the wire transfers. We need to move to cryptocurrency, create a digital infrastructure that?—”

I press myself against the wall, barely breathing. Even with her back to me, Siobhan O’Connor is instantly recognizable—that signature red hair, the Chanel suit. She’s arguing with someone—Sean Murphy, I realize, remembering Mario’s intelligence about her trusted captain.

“Father won’t listen to reason,” she continues, pacing the small space. “He’s so focused on maintaining the oldfucking ways that he can’t see how vulnerable they make us. The DeLucas have already started digitizing their legitimate operations. If we don’t adapt?—”

She stops abruptly, and I slip into a shadowed alcove just as she turns. Through the ornate screen that separates the space, I watch her run a hand through her perfectly styled hair—a gesture of frustration that seems startlingly human for someone I know has ordered deaths as casually as ordering dinner.

“Just…keep working on those accounts,” she says finally. “And Sean? Be careful who you trust with this. Father has eyes everywhere.”

The call ends and Siobhan stares at her phone for a long moment. I recognize that look—the same one I see in my mirror some mornings. The face of a woman trying to prove herself in a world that sees her as decorative at best, dangerous at worst.

I wait until Siobhan’s heels fade down the hallway before slipping into the bathroom, mind racing. Her conversation with Sean Murphy was…fascinating. Not just the obvious conflict with her father, but the implications beneath.

The O’Connors are modernizing their operations—or at least, Siobhan’s trying to—which means the patterns I’ve been tracking in the Calabrese records might have an Irish connection after all.

But something doesn’t add up. Mario said Seamus O’Connor was old-school, preferred handling things with violence rather than innovation. Yet the financial trails I’ve been following are sophisticated, modern.

Could Siobhan be operating without her father’s knowledge? And if she is, what does that mean for the brewing war between the families?

I’m so lost in thought that I don’t immediately register the bathroom door opening and closing. But the distinctive click of the lock sliding home has me whirling around.

Siobhan O’Connor leans against the door, looking every inch the predator who’s just cornered her prey. The smile on her face looks friendly, but there’s nothing soft about her. Those green eyes are pure ice.

“Elena Santiago,” she says, my name rolling off her tongue like she’s savoring it. “New York’s most valuable event planner to the criminal elite. Though that’s not all you are, is it?”

My heart pounds but I keep my voice steady. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Please.” Her laugh is musical but holds no warmth. “Don’t insult us both by playing dumb. You’re much more interesting than that.”

She moves closer, the click of her heels echoing off marble. “Mario’s little sparrow, gathering secrets for the exiled DeLuca. Anthony’s latest obsession. And of course”—her smile sharpens—“Bella DeLuca’s trusted best friend. My, my…you do like to play dangerous games.”

Ice slides down my spine. How the fuck does she know about me and Mario? We’ve been so careful.

“The thing about eavesdropping,” she continues casually, “is that you never know what other predators might be watching you while you’re focused on your prey.”

No point denying it. “You knew I was there.”

“Of course I did. Just like I know about the discrepancies you’ve been investigating in the Calabrese shipping records.” She examines her manicure—Louboutin rouge, I notice absently. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. But you’re looking at the wrong pieces of the puzzle.”

“And you’re going to tell me the right ones?” That would be too easy, but I can’t help but ask.

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