Page 7 of Forbidden Vengeance

Her smile is all teeth. “Now why would I do that? Although…” She steps closer, and it takes everything in me not to back away. “I will give you some free advice: be very carefulwhich games you choose to play, Elena. Some of them have rules you don’t understand yet.”

“Is that a threat?”

“More like…professional courtesy. After all, we’re not so different, you and I. Both of us trying to prove ourselves in a world dominated by men. Both of us willing to do whatever it takes to claim what we deserve.”

She moves to the door and unlocks it, but pauses before leaving. “Oh, and Elena? When you figure out what’s really happening with those shipping manifests…well, let’s just say I’ll beveryinterested in what you decide to do with that information.”

The door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow sounds like a warning.

I stare at my reflection, noting how pale I’ve gone beneath my perfect makeup. Siobhan O’Connor just confirmed that something bigger is happening—something that connects the Calabreses, the Irish, and God knows what else.

But her warning felt less like a threat and more like…an invitation? A test?

My phone buzzes with another text from Anthony, asking where I am. I take a deep breath, check my lipstick, and straighten my shoulders.

Time to get back to work.

Anthony rises from his table near the window when he spots me, and my breath catches despite myself. He’s beautiful in that polished, privileged way that defines the next generation of Mafia heirs. Nothing like Mario’s dangerous edge or Matteo’s controlled power.

He’s inherited his uncle Johnny’s devastating good looks but none of his obvious cruelty—which somehow makes him infinitely more dangerous. His Brioni suit speaks of refinementrather than flash, and his smile holds just enough warmth to be disarming.

“You look stunning as always,” he murmurs, dark eyes appreciating how the Versace hugs my curves. I allow myself a calculated blush, even as Mario’s warning echoes in my mind:“Be careful with the Calabrese heir. He’s more shark than his uncle ever was.”

But I need this—need the intelligence only Anthony can provide about the Irish mob’s movements, about the whispers of trafficking operations that don’t quite add up.

The maître d’ guides us to an intimate corner table overlooking Madison Square Park. Anthony’s hand rests possessively on my lower back as he pulls out my chair. His dark eyes—almost black in the restaurant’s dim lighting—appreciate my body as I sit.

“I took the liberty of arranging the tasting menu,” he says, adjusting his Calabrese pinky ring—a gesture I’ve noticed he makes when asserting authority. The ring catches the light, eighteen-karat gold with the family crest, a not-so-subtle reminder of his position. “Chef’s adding some special touches just for us.”

“How thoughtful.” I deliberately widen my eyes, playing into his need to impress. “You always think of everything.”

A sommelier materializes at Anthony’s elbow. I watch Anthony’s performance, the way he examines the label of the 1982 Château Lafite Rothschild with practiced expertise. Everything about him is a study in careful cultivation—from his precisely styled dark hair to the perfect cut of his suit.

Even his cruelty is refined, wrapped in layers of sophistication his uncle Johnny never mastered.

“The ’82 is showing beautifully,” he explains, swirling the deep red liquid with practiced ease. “Notes of cedar, graphite,and black currant. Though I doubt you know much about fine wine.”

I hide my irritation behind a practiced laugh. “That’s why I have you to teach me.”

The first course arrives—osetra caviar on a cloud of crème fraîche, dotted with gold leaf.

“The caviar’s from a small producer in Iran,” Anthony explains condescendingly. “We handle their export business, among other things. The Irish have been particularly helpful with certain shipping routes.”

I lean forward, letting my dress dip just enough to be distracting. “That sounds complicated. Dealing with so many international interests.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” He waves away my concern with the casual arrogance of a man who’s never heard the word no. “Though the Irish can be…challenging. Especially now, with their internal politics. Seamus O’Connor’s daughter is making waves, trying tomodernizetheir operations.” He sounds disgusted at the idea.

I file away this confirmation of Siobhan’s activities while pretending to be fascinated by the next course—butter-poached lobster with shaved black truffle.

“You make everything sound so exciting,” I say, letting my hand brush his as I reach for my wine. “Though it must be dangerous, dealing with families like the O’Connors.”

“You don’t need to worry your pretty head about that.” He squeezes my hand patronizingly. “I keep my business interests…carefully segregated.”

The courses flow like the wine—wagyu beef aged for 120 days, duck breast with cherry gastrique, each dish more extravagant than the last. I play my part perfectly, laughing at his jokes, hanging on his every word, while mentally recording every hint about shipping routes and Irish connections.

“The Vietnamese connections are proving particularly lucrative,” he mentions over the cheese course. “Though dealing with multiple ports requires…creative documentation.”

“I can’t imagine managing all those details,” I say, noting the reference to Vietnam—another piece of the trafficking puzzle clicking into place.

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