Page 89 of Forbidden Vengeance

“No? Could have fooled me with all your posturing.”

I’m heading back from another thrilling session of brotherly bonding when Elena calls. My heart stops until I hear her voice—calm but urgent.

“You need to come home. Now.”

I grip the phone tighter, my palms slick against the cool metal. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

“No, but—” She pauses, and something in her tone makes my skin prickle. “Siobhan’s here.”

What? “How the fuck did she find our safe house?” I demand, my mind whirling.

“That’s really not important right now,” Elena snaps with uncharacteristic impatience. “Mario, please. Just get here.”

“Tell me what’s happening.” I fucking hate being kept in the dark.

“I can’t,” she insists. “Not over the phone. Just hurry.”

I have my driver break several traffic laws getting us back. The elevator feels impossibly slow as scenarios race through my mind—each worse than the last. Did Seamus find us? Has Anthony made some move we didn’t anticipate?

The doors finally open and I move through our safe house with urgency, every sense on high alert.

But nothing prepares me for what I find.

Elena stands in our living room, one hand protectively over her prominent bump, tears threatening to spill. Her usual calculated composure is cracking around the edges, and that scares me more than anything.

And beside her …

Siobhan, her clothes covered in what can only be dried blood, looking more shaken than I’ve ever seen her. The always composed Irish princess seems smaller somehow, her usual sharp edges dulled by whatever has happened.

My blood runs cold at the devastation in both their expressions.

“What the fuck happened?” I ask, my mouth dry.

Siobhan’s laugh carries venom. “My father lost his fucking mind.”

Something has gone very, very wrong.

“He killed Sean Murphy,” Siobhan announces. “My most loyal captain. Made an example of him for supporting ‘modern ideas.’” Her hands shake as she accepts the scotch I offer, the glass catching lamplight like tears.

I sink into the nearest chair, feeling like I could collapse. Sean Murphydead?

“How?” The word comes out rough.

“Public execution. Called it a ‘lesson about respect for tradition.’” Siobhan’s perfect composure cracks, something raw bleeding through. “Right there in Murphy’s Pub. The same place Sean’s father tended bar for forty years.”

Elena’s hand finds mine as she lowers herself carefully onto the sofa beside me. Her fingers tremble slightly against my palm.

“That’s not the worst part,” Siobhan continues, downing the scotch in one swallow. “He killed Sean’s boy too. Seventeen years old. The kid just made captain of his high school baseball team.”

“Jesus Christ.” The room spins slightly. I’d seen the boy at gatherings before. He had been Sean’s clone. “Why?”

“To make a point.” Siobhan snaps. “The boy begged for his life. He reminded my father that his grandfather died protecting mine.” Her composure splinters further. “Seamus shot him anyway. Said modernization was a cancer that needed to be cut out.”

I feel Elena’s sharp intake of breath beside me as we process the implications. Sean Murphy was beloved by the younger generation, his family’s loyalty to the O’Connors stretching back generations. His execution won’t inspire obedience—it will ignite something far more dangerous.

“He’s gone mad,” Siobhan whispers, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks her age—just a young woman watching her father lose it.

“The young families won’t stand for this,” I say quietly. “Killing Sean was bad enough, but his boy? That crosses a line even in our world. But why are you really here?” I ask her. “This news could have come through secure channels. Why risk coming to New York?”

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