Page 85 of Forbidden Vengeance

The mansion hasn’t changed since my exile—still all old money and careful power. Diamond-filtered light danced acrossItalian stone, priceless art hiding security cameras. Every corner holds memories: there’s the study where Giuseppe first taught us to clean guns, the staircase I fell down during one of his “lessons,” the basement door that still makes my hands shake.

Elena’s fingers tremble slightly in mine as we follow Maria through familiar corridors. The housekeeper who once bandaged my wounds after Giuseppe’s rage now looks at me like I’m a stranger—worse, like I’m the piece of shit Giuseppe always said I would become. Her eyes linger on Elena’s obvious pregnancy, something like pity crossing her usually stoic features.

Matteo and Bella wait in the formal dining room, the space deliberately chosen for its lack of personal connection. Pure business, no sentiment allowed to cloud the negotiations. My brother looks exactly like Giuseppe in this light—that same cruel perfection in his features, that same calculated control. Only the protective way he angles himself toward Bella betrays any humanity.

Bella herself is a study in contradictions—still radiant with new motherhood, but with shadows under her eyes that speak of sleepless nights. Her gaze remains fixed on Elena’s stomach, something complicated flickering across her expression.

Recognition? Sympathy? Or just remembering her own recent pregnancy?

Bianca stands slightly behind them, more ice princess than teenage girl now. Her hand drifts toward her concealed weapon when she sees me—muscle memory from that night in the warehouse. My niece’s composure cracks momentarily at the sight of Elena’s bump before ice replaces shock.

The tension in the room could stop hearts. Matteo’s face gives nothing away, but I recognize the slight tension in his jaw—the same tell we both inherited from Giuseppe. That barelycontained violence that made the DeLuca name feared across continents.

For a moment, I’m ten years old again, standing in this same room while Giuseppe decided which son deserved punishment. The chandelier still catches light the same way, creating patterns like broken glass on the ceiling. I can almost smell his cigars, feel the weight of his rings against my skin.

But Elena’s grip on my hand anchors me to the present, her bump pressing against my arm as she shifts closer. Reminding me why we’re here, what we’re fighting for.

This isn’t about old wounds or family vendettas anymore.

This is about making sure our daughter never knows the kind of pain this room has witnessed.

“You searched them?” Bianca demands, her hand still hovering near her weapon.

“Thoroughly,” Antonio confirms from his position by the door. His men take up strategic positions around the room—protecting the DeLuca family while enforcing the sanctuary’s terms. I recognize their formation from years of training beside them.

Elena starts to speak, her voice carrying that perfect society polish: “Thank you for?—”

“Save the social niceties,” Bella cuts in, her tone arctic. “We both know you’re excellent at playing roles.”

I raise an eyebrow at the hostility—so different from the understanding tone of her letter to Elena. Something’s changed. Something we missed.

Dinner is excruciating—all careful manners masking deadly intent. Each course arrives with perfect timing, served on the same Wedgwood china Giuseppe used to smash when his temper broke. The conversation is sharp enough to draw blood, served with the same precision as the wine.

“Interesting choice,” Bianca says as Elena declines the offered Bordeaux. “Though I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice playing the perfect mother-to-be with Anthony.”

Elena’s hand tightens on her water glass but her voice stays steady. “I’ve made my choices, B.”

I watch my brother’s face for reactions, seeing the mind working behind his carefully blank expression. He’s evaluating every word, every gesture, just like Giuseppe taught us. Looking for weakness, for advantage, for any sign this sanctuary was a mistake.

The weight of old memories presses down like the chandelier above us—ready to shatter at the slightest provocation.

Elena asks about the twins, and I catch the slight tremor in her voice that others might miss. Something in Bella’s expression softens fractionally—that same warmth I remember from before I destroyed everything.

“They’re fine,” Bella says stiffly. “Growing stronger every day.”

“That’s…that’s good.” Elena’s fingers twist in her napkin. “I’m glad they’re?—”

“They’re perfect,” Bella cuts in, but there’s less ice in her tone now. “Giovanni has Matteo’s eyes.”

I watch Elena struggle not to react to the small bits of information Bella feeds her. The pain on her face is raw, unguarded. She wants desperately to see these babies she helped save, these children who would have been her godchildren in another life.

Matteo must see it too. A muscle jumps along his jawline.

“The twins won’t be joining us,” my brother says unnecessarily, his eyes cold as they track my every movement. “Some bridges can’t be rebuilt.”

“Like the bridge of trust you burned?” Bianca adds, her fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that reminds metoo much of Giuseppe’s rings. “Or just the ones that don’t serve your purposes anymore?”

I feel Elena flinch beside me, the words hitting their mark. But beneath the table, her other hand rests protectively over our daughter—never Anthony’s daughter—as if shielding her from these poisoned words.

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