Page 97 of Forbidden Vengeance

But some futures can only be built with love.

32

ELENA

It’s been three days since Siobhan eliminated her father, since the Irish families officially aligned with us. Three days of watching power shift through my network of carefully placed sources. But Anthony’s silence makes my skin crawl.

Even at eight and a half months pregnant, I maintain my cover as New York’s premier event planner. The DeLuca security teams stationed outside think they’re just protecting Mario’s pregnant mistress—they don’t see how many strings I still pull from behind bulletproof glass.

“The governor’s wife loved the centerpiece options,” Kate reports through our secure line. My assistant has proven invaluable, handling the physical presence our clients expect while I coordinate remotely. “Though the mayor’s daughter is being difficult about her sweet sixteen.”

“Send her the pink peonies,” I say, rubbing my aching hips as I review seating charts. “She’ll cave once she sees them arranged with the crystal butterflies.”

But while I play society planner, my other screens tell a darker story. Anthony’s gone completely dark—no movementthrough known channels, no contact with traditional allies. Even my best sources have lost track of him.

A smart person would focus on the baby, on preparing for Stella’s arrival. The nursery is ready, the hospital route secured, every detail planned with military precision. But I can’t shake the feeling that Anthony’s planning something. Men like him don’t just disappear.

My phone buzzes with another event crisis—some socialite demanding last-minute changes to her charity gala. I handle it automatically, mind already mapping possible scenarios. Where would Anthony go? What resources does he still command?

The baby kicks hard, as if sharing my unease. “I know, little star,” I murmur, running my hand over my swollen belly. “Mama’s worried too.”

Because Anthony’s silence can only mean one thing—he’s finally ready to make his move.

It happens a few days later.I’m on FaceTime with Kate, reviewing floral arrangements for the children’s hospital benefit, when Mario bursts into our command center. One look at his face and my heart drops.

“They’re moving,” he says without preamble, already pulling up surveillance feeds. “Anthony’s forces, all over Manhattan. Not attacking, not yet, but?—”

“Positioning themselves,” I finish, recognizing the pattern instantly as I mute Kate. On our screens, red dots appear like a spreading infection—Anthony’s men taking up strategic positions around our known safe houses, our allies’ businesses, our entire support network.

I’m not surprised—we knew this was coming. But seeing it unfold makes my hands shake slightly as I rest them on my bump.

“He’s finally doing it,” I tell Mario as we review the intelligence. After Siobhan’s takeover in Boston, after watching the old guard crumble, Anthony’s rage has finally crystallized into action. “Every old-school faction he could gather, every traditionalist crew that resents modernization—they’re all falling in line behind him.”

“Kate, I’ll call you back,” I say, realizing that Kate was still waiting for me. I end the FaceTime call. I pull up intel on my computer. “Look—they’re not just surrounding us. They’re setting up around Matteo’s territory too. Anyone who’s chosen progress over tradition.”

Mario’s hand finds my shoulder as we watch Anthony’s forces gather like storm clouds. “This isn’t just about us anymore,” he says quietly. “This is his last stand against everything that threatens his way of life.”

Stella kicks again, harder this time, making me wince. Both of Mario’s hands come to my belly, his touch featherlight.

Mario’s phone chimes with a text from Matteo. It’s a video.

“Play it,” I urge him, my heart hammering.

The video quality is grainy—security footage from one of Anthony’s warehouses—but what we see makes my blood run cold.

Anthony paces like a caged animal, his usual polished appearance completely shattered. His suit is wrinkled, his perfectly styled hair wild, dark circles under eyes that hold something terrifying in their intensity. This isn’t the sophisticated heir who seduced me. This is something else entirely—something broken and deadly.

“My daughter will not be raised by a DeLuca bastard,” he snarls at his assembled men, spittle flying from his lips. “Shewill know proper values, proper tradition. We will purify both families of this modern corruption.”

He runs his hands through his disheveled hair, that familiar gesture now manic and uncontrolled. “The child in Elena’s womb is Calabrese blood. Pure blood. Not some mongrel bastard’s spawn.”

Mario’s hands clench into fists as we watch, his jaw tight with carefully controlled rage. But I catch something else in his expression—that shadow that crosses his face whenever Anthony claims our daughter. Those words about blood and tradition 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 old pain in his eyes. “I just…I remember how Giuseppe treated me. His bastard son. I won’t let her ever feel that.”

The video continues, showing Anthony’s descent into complete madness. He rants about bloodlines and family honor while his men exchange worried glances. Even they can see their leader has crossed some line into dangerous instability.

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