Page 63 of Forbidden Vengeance

Two weeks since moving to the new safe house, and the walls feel like they’re closing in. They have since day three.

Mario moves freely, conducting business and coordinating with his network while I’m expected to stay hidden away like some fairy tale princess in her tower. I spend my days in an endless cycle of restless activity—swimming laps in the private pool until my arms burn, practicing yoga to keep the morning sickness at bay, obsessively reviewing hospital fundraiser details I can no longer execute.

By midafternoon, I’m usually reorganizing the walk-in closet or rearranging the library for the third time that week. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that my entire world has shrunk to these four walls. I refresh news sites compulsively, searching for any mention of the manhunt I know is still ongoing. My fingers itch to be doing something real—planning events, moving money, playing the game that’s become as natural as breathing.

The fact that the “tower” is a luxury penthouse with better security than Fort Knox doesn’t make it any less suffocating.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Mario says, adjusting his shoulder holster. He looks devastating in that charcoal Armani suit, the material molding to his broad shoulders like it was made especially for him. The silver at his temples catches the morning light, and three days of stubble does nothing to hide the sharp cut of his jaw. Those dark eyes that miss nothing sweep over me, cataloging every detail like he always does before leaving.

“Don’t leave the apartment,” he warns. “The Calabreses?—”

“Have eyes everywhere, I know.” The words come out sharper than I intended, jagged with frustration. “Just like they had yesterday, and the day before that. Go. Handle your business. I’ll just sit here getting fat and useless.”

Am I bitter? Is it that obvious?

His jaw tightens—that tell he probably doesn’t realize he has. “Elena?—”

“Don’t.” I wave him off, turning back to my laptop where more intel from Siobhan’s operation fills the screen. She’d somehow gotten my burner number two days after we had to move from the Clinton House, her first text typically cryptic:Not all cages are meant to hold us.

Since then, we’ve developed an odd rapport. Our conversations range from cryptocurrency integration strategies to the psychology of men who underestimate women in power. She sends me intelligence about Anthony’s movements, coded in references to social events we both know will never happen. I feed her information about old guard banking practices that need modernizing, disguised as charity gala planning.

We’re building something, though neither of us quite admits what.

This morning’s text was particularly interesting:The old men play chess while the world turns digital. Ready to show them how queens really move?

Mario moves closer, and I hate how my body responds to his proximity even when I’m furious with him. Heat pools low in my belly as his cologne—expensive and subtle and uniquely him—wraps around me. My skin prickles with awareness, remembering his hands on me this morning, how he’d kissed me awake with that perfect mix of tenderness and possession. His hand finds my chin, calloused fingers gentle despite their strength, tilting my face up until I meet his eyes.

“You’re carrying precious cargo,” he says softly. “Everything else is secondary.”

I jerk away from his touch, ignoring the flash of hurt that crosses his face before that perfect DeLuca control slides back into place. “Go. Your empire won’t run itself.”

The moment the door closes behind him, I’m already moving. Two weeks of watching these walls, of being treated like spun glass instead of the strategist I am.

Through the penthouse windows, I spot Mario’s men trying to maintain cover—one pretending to read a newspaper at the cafe across the street, another “walking his dog” for the third time this hour, two more poorly disguised as maintenance workers.

But they’re watching for threats coming in, not a pregnant woman slipping out. I’ve spent days studying their patterns, noting the seven-minute gap in coverage when they change shifts. The blind spot in their surveillance where the building’s art deco architecture creates the perfect shadow.

I change quickly, trading Mario’s borrowed clothes for the emergency outfit I’d insisted he buy me. The Chanel suit feels like home—a navy wool crepe that skims over my barely showing baby bump, the jacket’s clean lines making me feel powerful again. More like the woman who runs Manhattan’s social scene rather than someone’s precious secret to protect.

My office isn’t far. Just a quick trip to grab critical files, check on time-sensitive contracts. What’s the point of all our precautions if I can’t maintain the legitimate business that makes them possible?

I’ve planned this escape for over a week—watching the security rotations, timing the service elevator’s maintenance schedule, noting which guard takes an extra long coffee break at exactly 10:15. The service entrance sees constant deliveries, and I’ve memorized today’s schedule.

Right now, a catering van should be unloading for the law firm’s lunch meeting at twelve.

Sure enough, when I slip into the service corridor, workers are too busy with stacks of sandwiches to notice another well-dressed woman hurrying past. I keep my head down, letting my hair fall forward as I join the flow of office workers heading out for early lunch.

The street swallows me into its rhythm, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe. Let Mario play protector—I have an empire of my own to maintain.

The journey to my office feels blessedly ordinary. Just another day in Manhattan, joining the river of people heading to work. The familiarity of it makes my throat tight—how many times have I walked this exact route with Bella? Her arm linked through mine as she chatted about her latest painting, both of us stopping for coffee at that little place on Fifty-Third that makes the best almond croissants.

My chest aches remembering how she used to surprise me with lunch, showing up with takeout from our favorite Thai place, her hands usually stained with paint. We’d eat cross-legged on my office floor, planning galas and dreaming up ways to squeeze more money from Manhattan’s elite.

The security guard greets me with a warm smile as I scan my keycard. “Welcome back, Ms. Santiago. Mrs. DeLuca was asking after you last week.”

The smile on my face nearly falls at those words. Of course Bella would be asking if I showed up. After she warned me last time that Matteo was on his way, she wouldn’t be making that mistake again. She would want to catch me in the act.

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