Page 11 of Forbidden Vengeance

Both of them equally dead.

I pour myself a drink from Elena’s bar and settle in to wait. Twenty minutes later, I hear her key in the lock.

She freezes when she spots me, but recovers quickly. Always so composed, my little planner.

“You’re supposed to be in Boston,” she says, kicking off her Louboutins, her toes grounding her into the floor.

“Andyou’resupposed to be gathering intelligence, not fucking the enemy.” The words come out harsher than intended, betraying an emotion I refuse to name. Anthony’s cologne still clings to her skin, making my fingers itch for a trigger.

Her blue eyes narrow at my tone, that brilliant mind already calculating my response. Understanding dawns in her expression, followed by something that looks dangerously like satisfaction.

“Jealous, Mario?” She moves closer, all feline grace and deadly perception. “I thought that wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

I catch her wrist before she can retreat, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Elena. Anthony Calabrese isn’t just another society playboy. If he discovers what you’re really after?—”

“Then what?” She doesn’t pull away, and the heat between us crackles like a live wire. “Isn’t that exactly what we want? For them to underestimate me? To see just another ambitious society girl?”

Her free hand comes up to trace the scar on my shoulder—the one my sister-in-law’s bullet left. “After all, isn’t that how you taught me to play with the big shots?”

Silence.

“You want to know whatIlearned last night?” Her voice drops to a whisper, taunting. “About the Vietnamese connections? About what your Irish friends are really planning?”

I snarl, pushing her against the wall before I can stop myself. “You have no idea what game you’re really playing, Elena.”

“Don’t I?” Her smile is razor-sharp. “Anthony was very…informative after a few drinks. He had quite a lot to say about the O’Connors. About Seamus’s daughter. About you.”

My hand tightens on her wrist. “Careful.”

“Or what?” She leans closer, her breath ghosting across my lips. “You’ll punish me? Like Giuseppe punished your mother? Like you punished Matteo’s?—”

I catch her throat with one hand before she can finish that sentence. “You’re playing with fire, little planner.”

“Good.” Her pulse races under my palm, but her eyes are triumphant. “I was starting to think Boston had made you soft.”

Her words hit their mark. She knows exactly how to push my buttons, how to use my hatred of exile against me. Just like she knows mentioning my mother, mentioning Matteo’s mother, will make me lose control.

The jealousy churning in my gut is a weakness Giuseppe would have beaten out of me.

But then again, Elena has always had a way of making me forget my careful controls.

5

ELENA

The tension between us coils like a serpent ready to strike. Mario’s hand is still clamped around my throat, his grip possessive rather than painful. In the dim light of my apartment, he looks exactly like what he is—dangerous, devastating, and barely controlled.

His pupils are blown wide, turning his eyes almost black. A muscle ticks in his sharp jaw, and his suit can’t hide the predator beneath. He’s beautiful in that distinctly DeLuca way, but where Matteo’s looks are classical, Mario’s features have a rougher edge that makes my pulse race.

I open my mouth to push him further, to see just how far his jealousy will drive him. I want to tell him exactly what Anthony whispered in my ear last night, how his hands felt on my skin, how?—

Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood” shatters the moment. Bianca’s ringtone.

Mario’s grip loosens just enough for me to reach my phone. “B? What’s wrong?” I ask, if not a bit breathlessly.

“Bella’s in labor,” his niece’s voice carries barely contained panic. “Dad’s losing it. We need you at Mount Sinai. Now. Bella needs you.”

My heart stutters. It’s too soon. “How far apart are the contractions?”

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