Page 99 of Forbidden Vengeance

“The kitchen access here,” I point out to Mario, enlarging the blueprints on our main screen. “And this service corridor that runs behind the ballroom. I used to plan escape routes through there for society wives needing breaks from their husbands’ boring speeches.”

“Now they’ll be Anthony’s attack points,” Mario says grimly, already coordinating with our security teams. “He’ll expect you to use those same routes when he makes his move.”

Matteo’s team reports roll in—Anthony gathering specific equipment that makes my skin crawl. Tactical gear designed for stealth, specialized weapons meant for close-quarters combat in crowded spaces. He’s planning something precise, something that minimizes collateral damage to the society figures who’ll be attending.

“He still cares about appearances,” I note, watching the intelligence flow across our screens. “Even now, he wants to maintain that image of legitimacy. Of being better than Johnny.”

My phone buzzes with updates from the hospital board—last-minute guest list changes, donation projections, all the normal chaos of a major fundraiser. The mundane mixed with deadly stakes.

“Dr. Cho needs the final numbers for the pediatric wing presentation,” I tell Mario as I respond to emails. “And the governor’s wife is threatening to pull her donation if she’s not seated next to the Broadway star.”

“Again, you could skip it,” he says quietly. The words hold real fear beneath his usual control. “Let someone else handle it this year. Keep you both safe. Think of Stella.”

I rest my hand on my stomach, feeling our daughter’s restless movements. She’s been more active lately, as if sensing what’s going on. Her kicks feel like punctuation to our war preparations.

“No. I won’t let him make me hide. Won’t let him control what I can and can’t do.” My voice hardens with conviction born of months running from Anthony’s shadow. “Besides, he’ll just find another opportunity. Better to face this on our terms, with our people in position.”

Mario’s arms wrap around me from behind again, his hands covering mine where they rest on my bump. For a moment, we just stand there, feeling our daughter move between us. This perfect, innocent life amid all the violence and schemes.

But that night, reviewing final security protocols while Stella practices what feels like Olympic gymnastics inside me, I can’t help but wonder: are we walking into his trap, or is he walking into ours?

33

MARIO

The Plaza glitters like a fortress made of gold and old money, its Beaux-Arts facade punctuating Manhattan’s twilight sky. Through our surveillance feeds, I watch the grand ballroom transform under Elena’s direction—light fractured through crystal fixtures across hand-selected stone, white roses and orchids arranged to conceal security positions.

I study our displays from the command center in a building across the street, every screen showing a different angle. The service entrance where Anthony’s men have been spotted. The kitchen access they’ll try to breach. The hidden corridors Elena once used for more innocent purposes.

Now those same routes could mean life or death.

Siobhan’s teams move efficiently through the pre-event chaos, perfectly disguised as hotel staff. Irish crews fresh from Boston’s revolution serve champagne and adjust place cards, while Matteo’s men blend seamlessly with arriving donors in their designer suits.

“Anthony’s forces confirmed at three entry points,” Dante reports through our secure channel. “Exactly where Elenapredicted. They’re maintaining distance, trying to look like normal security.”

But I catch the subtle tells that Giuseppe taught us to recognize—how they check sight lines too precisely, the way they position themselves near key exits. They’re waiting for something. For orders. For their moment to strike.

Elena moves through final preparations like this isn’t a potential war zone. She’s magnificent in midnight blue Valentino that makes her look like a queen, her nine-month bump somehow adding to her authority rather than diminishing it. The dress is a masterpiece of design—flowing enough to conceal the gun strapped to her thigh, elegant enough to command respect from Manhattan’s elite.

Watching her work, you’d never know she was being hunted. She coordinates details effortlessly—adjusting flower arrangements that hide security cameras, directing servers who carry weapons beneath their uniforms, ensuring every element serves both beauty and tactical advantage.

My little planner, orchestrating war behind perfect manners and social graces.

But I see how she watches every person who enters, mentally noting their allegiances and possible threats. The careful way she positions herself near defensive positions we established earlier. Even heavily pregnant, she moves with a precision that would make Giuseppe proud.

“Movement at the service entrance,” Dante murmurs through comms. “Two of Anthony’s top lieutenants just arrived. They’re carrying diplomatic pouches—weapons we can’t touch without breaking social protocol.”

Fuck. I adjust my feed, watching Anthony’s men take their positions. They’re being careful, professional—nothing that would alarm the wealthy donors arriving in their designer gowns and tuxedos. But I recognize their formation from years ofplanning similar operations. The way they establish overlapping fields of fire while appearing to mingle casually.

“Matteo just intercepted new orders,” Antonio reports from his position near the ballroom. Through the feed, I see Matteo’s second standing guard like a statue, gray hair catching the light. His face betrays nothing, but his voice holds real concern. “Anthony’s coming himself. He wants to be here when…when it happens.”

My hands clench into fists, cracking knuckles that have broken too many bones to count. Of course the fucker is coming. He wants to witness his triumph personally, wants to watch as he tears our world apart.

“All teams on high alert,” I order. “No one moves without my command. Let him think he has the advantage.”

Anthony arrives like he owns the Plaza—perfect in Tom Ford, that Calabrese arrogance radiating from every movement. But the slight tremor in his hands as he accepts champagne gives him away. The manic edge to his smile as he greets society figures. The way his eyes constantly track Elena’s position like a predator stalking prey.

He’s unraveling. And that makes him infinitely more dangerous.

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