Page 93 of Forbidden Vengeance

“He won’t stop,” I say quietly, watching the pieces come together. My hand drifts protectively to my stomach. “Not until he has what he thinks is his.”

“Anthony’s rallying every old guard faction he can find,” Siobhan continues grimly. “Conservative Irish crews still loyal to Seamus, Italian families who remember Johnny’s glory days, even Russian outfits that cling to Soviet methods.”

The rainbow patterns from the mobile suddenly feel less magical, more like targets. I study the peaceful nursery—this sanctuary we’ve built—and wonder how much longer we can protect it.

When Mario gets home, I can see tension radiating from him even before I share Siobhan’s news. His face darkens with each detail I relay.

“Anthony’s gathering forces,” I explain. “Old guard Irish crews, traditional Italian families?—”

“Anyone who still worships at the altar of outdated methods,” he finishes grimly, shedding his suit jacket.

“He’s building an army,” I say as we review the intelligence sprawling across our screens. “But not for territory or profit. This is about ideology now. About punishing everyone who chose progress over tradition.”

We monitor Anthony’s movements, watching his desperation grow with each passing day. Every screen shows another piece of his unraveling—bank accounts drained in rage-fueled gambling, loyal captains fleeing his increasingly violent outbursts.

“The baby makes us vulnerable,” Mario says that night, after another report of Anthony ranting about his heir. The words seem to cost him something to admit. “He knows that. He’ll use it.”

“The baby makes us stronger,” I counter, meeting his gaze steadily. “She’s why we’ve built these alliances. Why Matteo helps protect us, why Siobhan’s people guard our perimeter. She’s not our weakness—she’s proof that love is stronger than blood.”

But that night, watching Anthony’s latest surveillance footage, I see something that chills me to my core. He’s in his private office, surrounded by photos of me, of Mario, of every movement we’ve made. His usual composure is shattered as he screams at his men about tradition and loyalty.

“Soon,” he promises the photos, running his fingers over my image in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Soon we’ll purify everything. Return proper order. My daughter will never know these modern corruptions.”

My blood runs cold. How did he find out we’re having a girl? The information was protected—encrypted medical files, trusted doctors, every precaution taken.

If he’s breached that security…what else does he know?

A few days later,my network explodes with urgent warnings, screens lighting up like a Christmas tree gone wrong. Anthony’s forces are mobilizing—not just in New York, but in strategic positions across the East Coast. Every old guard faction answering his call to “restore traditional values.”

I study the patterns emerging across our surveillance feeds, my heart racing as I recognize the formation. “He’s going to try to take everything at once,” I tell Siobhan through our secure channel, my voice tight with tension. “Your operations, the DeLuca alliance, everyone who’s chosen modernization over tradition.”

“Ohpleaselet him try.” Her voice holds that deadly calm that reminds me she’s as dangerous as any of them. “The old guard forgets—we control their infrastructure now. Their communications, their banking, their security systems. They’re fighting a modern war with outdated weapons.”

But Anthony’s madness makes him more dangerous, not less. Through our feeds, I watch him gather his most violent supporters at the old Calabrese warehouse. The same place where his uncle Johnny used to torture rivals, where tradition meant spilled blood and broken bones.

“He’s giving them names,” my source reports, voice shaking. “Targets. Everyone who needs to be ‘purified’ for the sake of family honor.”

Mario studies the intelligence over my shoulder, his hand resting protectively on my back. The warmth of his touch contrasts sharply with the ice in his voice. “You’re at the top of his list, aren’t you?”

I nod, pulling up the intercepted kill order. My name heads a document that reads like a manifesto about blood purity and proper values. About making examples of those who corrupt tradition.

“He won’t touch you,” Mario promises, his voice holding that lethal edge that first drew me to him. “Either of you.”

I lean back against him, drawing strength from his solid presence while watching Anthony’s forces gather on our screens. All the familiar patterns of impending war spread acrossour monitors—weapons shipments, troop movements, strategic positioning.

We’re past the point of prevention. All our careful plans, all our built alliances—they’ve brought us to this moment.

The only question is: who strikes first?

Mario’s phone lights up with Siobhan’s name. He raises an eyebrow, showing me the screen with exaggerated distaste.

“Oh, just answer it,” I say, rolling my eyes at his dramatics. “She wouldn’t call you directly unless it was important.”

“Maybe I’m busy,” he grumbles, but answers anyway. “What?”

I watch his body go rigid at whatever Siobhan says, my own pulse quickening in response. Even through the speaker, I can hear the dangerous satisfaction in her voice: “How would you like to come back to Boston?”

“Why?” Mario’s tone is dangerous.

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