Page 92 of Forbidden Vengeance

Our moment of levity shatters as my phone buzzes with new intelligence about Anthony. The reports make my skin crawl—he’s gone completely erratic since the Irish families turned against him, executing suspected traitors without proof, making increasingly unstable decisions.

He shot another captain at dinner last night, my source reports.Carlo suggested using blockchain for some transactions. Anthony put three bullets in his shoulder right there at the table. Said modernization was a disease that had to be burned out.

I watch Mario absorb this news, seeing that dangerous focus sharpen in his eyes. The same look he gets before violence becomes necessary. We both know what this means—Anthony is becoming like his uncle Johnny, all violent impulse without strategic control.

“Men like him, when they’re cornered…” Mario’s voice holds dark knowledge. “They strike at what they think they can still control.”

His hand drifts to my stomach, where Stella kicks as if sensing the tension. I cover his fingers with mine, feeling the slight tremor he tries to hide. These moments of vulnerability are rare—glimpses of the man beneath the carefully constructed weapon Giuseppe created.

My phone lights up with another report from inside the Calabrese organization. Anthony’s gathered his most violent supporters, the ones who still cling to his uncle Johnny’s methods. They’re meeting at the old warehouse where Johnny used to “handle problems.”

“He’s talking about bloodlines,” my source writes. “About tradition and purity. About making examples of traitors.”

I pull up security footage showing Anthony at his latest family dinner. The change in him is shocking—gone is the sophisticated swagger that I once knew. He reminds me too much of the Johnny who held me at gunpoint in my apartment.

I shiver at the memory. I hated feeling so helpless.

“He’s obsessed with the baby,” another source reports. “Keeps talking about his heir, about blood rights. About making sure his child is raised with proper values.”

Mario’s hands ball tight, but I catch something else in his expression—a flash of that old insecurity about the baby’s paternity. Even now, after everything we’ve built, Anthony’s words about blood and birthright hit those carefully hidden wounds Giuseppe left.

“Hey,” I say softly, taking his hand. “She’s ours. Biology doesn’t matter.”

“I know.” But there’s still tension in his jaw, still that shadow in his eyes that makes my heart ache. “I just…I remember how Giuseppe treated me. His bastard son. The constant reminders that I wasn’t really a DeLuca. I won’t let her ever feel that.”

I turn his face toward mine, making him meet my eyes. “She won’t. Because she’ll have something you never did—parents who love her for exactly who she is, not what blood runs in her veins.”

Stella kicks again, as if agreeing. This time, Mario’s smile holds no shadows as he feels her movement beneath his palm.

The nursery has becomemy sanctuary—all soft grays and blush pinks, elegant but warm. The Hermès blanket Mario insisted on buying drapes over the custom crib, while hand-painted butterflies dance across one wall. It’s feminine without being precious, chic without feeling cold. Everything chosen with careful thought, just like all my plans.

I sink into the oversized rocking chair—another of Mario’s indulgences—and survey my favorite room. The mobile catches afternoon light, casting rainbow patterns across the cream carpet.

Designer stuffed animals arranged just so, books about strong women lined up on floating shelves, that ridiculously expensive French chandelier Mario said our daughter deserved.

Every detail perfect, yet somehow also purely us. The bulletproof windows hidden behind delicate curtains. The panic button disguised as a decorative switch. Beauty and danger intertwined, just like everything in our world.

“What do you think, little star?” I whisper, rubbing my belly where Stella kicks. “Did Mama do okay with your room?”

She responds with a series of movements that make me smile. “I’ll take that as approval. Though your papa might add more security features when he sees the final result.”

I rock slowly, imagining what it will be like to hold her here. To read her stories about queens and warriors while Mario pretends not to listen from the doorway. To watch her grow into something stronger than the violence that created her.

“You’re already so loved,” I tell her softly, tracing patterns on my stretched skin. “More than biology or bloodlines or any of the things the old men think matter. You’re going to be extraordinary, my little star. And so, so free.”

She kicks again, right against my palm, as if sealing this promise between us. I catch my reflection in the antique mirror—my hand protective over my bump, surrounded by this perfect blend of beauty and security we’ve created for our daughter.

The peace of the moment feels almost magical, until my phone rings.

Siobhan.

“Is your perpetual shadow hovering nearby?” she asks without preamble.

“No, Mario’s handling ‘business.’” Which means coordinating with Dante about security protocols while pretending not to be overprotective. “What’s wrong?”

“We have a problem,” Siobhan says. “Anthony’s reached out to some of my father’s old allies. They’re talking about ‘purifying’ both families. About making examples of anyone who betrays tradition.”

I pull up more intelligence on my tablet—bank transfers, weapons shipments, movements of known hitmen. All pointing to something big.

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