Page 78 of Forbidden Vengeance

“The maintenance tunnel,” I whisper against his neck. “If we can reach the access panel on the next floor…”

The sound of boots on metal stairs grows closer. Time’s running out.

Mario’s answering smile is proud as he helps me swing toward the maintenance tunnel. I’m not just some society girl anymore. I’ve learned too much, survived too much, to let them win now.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as we navigate the dark service corridors, suddenly feeling guilty. “I’m so sorry I got us into this. That I played games with people’s lives. That I?—”

He cuts me off with a heated kiss, his hands cradling my face with a gentleness that belies his dangerous nature. “Stop apologizing,” he growls against my mouth. “You’re the best game I ever played. The only one that matters.”

The words hit me harder than any bullet could. Because that’s when I realize—trulyrealize—that I love him. Not just the dangerous exile or the tactical genius, but all of him. The damaged son trying to prove himself better than his father’s legacy. The man who keeps choosing me, again and again, even knowing the child I carry isn’t his. Who cried when he saw my baby on the ultrasound screen.

“I love you,” I say for the first time, the words feeling like freedom in my mouth. Like finally admitting a truth I’ve known for months. “Whatever happens next—I love you.”

His smile is fierce as he reloads his weapon, that perfect blend of danger and tenderness that first drew me to him. “Then let’s make sure something happens next. Ready to fight for our future, little planner?”

My answering smile matches his own as I pull up building schematics again. Because that’s what we do best—find angles others miss, turn weakness into strength, choose each other despite every reason not to. I feel a tiny flutter in my belly, as if my daughter is adding her own determination to survive.

Siobhan’s warning had given us precious preparation time—another example of how the world was changing, women working together to survive in this male-dominated realm.

The old guard’s power was already slipping, even if they didn’t know it yet.

“Fuck yes,” I promise. Whatever comes next, we face it as one.

We make our way through the maintenance tunnel, Mario pausing every few feet to assess threats. His fingers fly across his phone. “Dante’s coming,” he whispers. “Just need to hold position until?—”

The tunnel opens to a deserted alley, and my skin prickles with unease. It’s too quiet—the kind of silence that precedes violence. Mario scans our surroundings, his body coiled tight as he checks angles and sight lines.

The first shots come from nowhere and everywhere. Anthony’s men materialize from the shadows, but Mario moves faster. His gun barks in precise three-shot bursts, each one finding its mark with devastating efficiency. Blood sprays across brick walls in abstract patterns that make my stomach turn. Bodies drop with sickening thuds that will haunt my dreams.

“Hide!” he roars, already engaging three more attackers.

I dive behind a dumpster, one hand protective over my bump as I watch the man I love become death incarnate. He moveswith terrifying grace—each motion calculated for maximum damage. Two men rush him with knives; he disarms one with a brutal twist that ends in a wet crack of bone through flesh. The sound makes bile rise in my throat as he uses the man’s body as a shield while dispatching his partner with a shot that turns the brick wall behind him red.

More men pour into the alley. Mario’s elbow crushes one’s throat—the gurgling sound making me gag—while his other hand sends another flying into a wall with force that leaves brain matter splattered like modern art. His expression is pure predator, all calculated savagery, and I’m torn between awe and horror at what he’s capable of.

A young soldier—he can’t be more than twenty—raises his gun with shaking hands. Mario doesn’t hesitate. The boy’s face disappears in a spray of red that paints the alley like some twisted Jackson Pollock.

I bite back a scream, knowing we can’t afford the distraction, but tears blur my vision. How many mothers will get phone calls tonight about sons who aren’t coming home?

Suddenly headlights blind us as a car comes screaming down the alley. Bodies crunch under its wheels—the sound like overripe fruit being crushed, wet and terrible. The vehicle skids to a stop beside us, and a man that I assume to be Dante is behind the wheel—his handsome face ghost pale, dark eyes wide with the kind of adrenaline that comes from taking lives.

“Get in!” Mario roars.

I fling myself into the backseat. Mario dives in after me as Dante floors it, the car bouncing sickeningly over bodies as we tear out of the alley. My hands shake as I try to process what just happened—the violence, the death, how many lives were just snuffed out in that narrow space.

“Where to?” Dante asks, taking a corner so sharp I slam into Mario. The smell of gunpowder and blood clings to him, making my stomach roll.

“Take us to the Thompson Street location,” Mario responds, checking me for injuries with gentle hands that moments ago dealt death with surgical precision.

“Seriously, how many safe houses do you have?” I ask incredulously, still trembling from adrenaline and the weight of all those deaths. My voice cracks slightly, betraying how close I am to breaking down.

Mario smiles as he pulls me closer, his heartbeat steady against my back despite the chaos we just escaped. “Like I told you before. More than you have shoes, little planner.”

25

MARIO

The Thompson Street safe house occupies the top three floors of a prewar building in Greenwich Village, hidden behind the facade of a tech start-up. I disarm multiple security systems, ushering Elena inside as Dante peels away into the night.

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