Page 15 of Forbidden Vengeance

Elena’s is something uniquely her own—lavender and danger and promises she’ll probably break.

I shouldn’t still be here. It’s too risky, too close to the family that cast me out. But something about the way she almost kissed me keeps me rooted in place. Even through the hospital’s tinted windows, I can imagine her now—smoothing my brother’s ruffled feathers about security protocols while hiding how her hands still tremble from our almost moment.

Ever the efficient event planner, even with her pulse racing beneath her perfect facade.

A security guard passes nearby, his eyes sliding over me without recognition. Good. I paid enough to ensure the hospital’s head of security would conveniently forget to patrol certain areas of the hospital. The same way Elena ensures certain guest lists mysteriously change at the last minute, certain conversations happen in exactly the right places.

A flash of memory hits me hard: another hospital, another night. Twelve-year-old Bianca unconscious in a warehouse, my gun pressed to her temple.

The weight of the Glock 19, the smell of sea salt from the shipping containers, the way her small body felt so fragile against my chest.

Giuseppe would have been proud of how steady my hand was.

The look in Matteo’s eyes when he found her in that shipping container—that mix of rage and terror that proved blood meant nothing compared to chosen family.

My own brother was ready to put a bullet between my eyes to protect a child that wasn’t even his.

The same look I saw in Elena’s eyes tonight, watching Bella trust her completely while knowing she’d betrayed that trust a thousand times over.

Fascinating, really. As much as Elena plays the game, she’s still soft inside. That guilt will eat her alive if she’s not careful. I felt no such remorse holding Bianca at gunpoint. Giuseppe taught us early that sentiment was weakness, and for once, the old bastard was right.

Our father made sure both his sons understood that power was the only currency that mattered.

Matteo rejected those lessons. Found himself a new family, built something almost legitimate. But I learned them too well,carved them into my bones along with the scars from Giuseppe’s cigars and belts.

Time to leave while I have the chance. The O’Connors will be expecting updates, and Matteo’s security has probably already reported my presence. Let my brother rage about territorial violations—I have more pressing concerns. Like how Elena’s skin felt beneath my touch, how her breath caught when I moved closer…

Fuck. I need to focus. The Irish situation is getting complicated, especially with Siobhan’s quiet rebellion against her father’s methods.

Seamus O’Connor clings to tradition while his daughter builds something new in the shadows.

Smart girl. Smarter than her father realizes.

And Elena’s intelligence about Anthony’s shipping operations suggests something bigger brewing beneath the surface.

The Vietnamese connections, the cryptocurrency movements, the way certain accounts keep linking back to Singapore…It’s all connected, if I can just see the fucking pattern clearly.

Numbers and codes dance behind my eyes—blockchain transactions, shipping manifests, bank accounts that appear and dissolve like smoke. Somewhere in that digital maze is the key to everything Siobhan’s building.

I cut through the hospital’s service corridor, muscle memory keeping me away from security cameras. The smell changes from antiseptic to motor oil and concrete dust as I approach the parking structure. My Italian leather shoes make no sound on the utilitarian flooring—a habit ingrained since childhood.

Giuseppe might have been a bastard, but he taught us well: silence is survival.

The garage entrance yawns before me, a cathedral of concrete and fluorescent light. The evening shift is ending, creating a steady stream of medical staff heading to their cars. Perfect cover.

I blend in with practiced ease, just another shadow among many. The garage holds that particular cocktail of urban scents—exhaust fumes, dried oil stains, the metallic tang of emergency stairwells, and underneath it all, that peculiar damp concrete smell that all parking structures share.

A doctor’s Range Rover chirps as it’s locked. An ambulance siren wails in the distance. The sounds echo off concrete pillars, creating a symphony of urban white noise. Level P2 is quieter, the lights spaced further apart, creating pockets of darkness perfect for someone who doesn’t want to be seen.

That’s when I catch the movement—a flash of black fabric, the whisper of expensive heels.

Elena.

She glides like silk through the shadows, seeking refuge between two concrete pillars. Even here, in this utilitarian space, she carries herself like royalty. The emergency lights cast blue-white shadows across her face, turning her into something almost otherworldly.

I adjust my stride, making each step silent despite the concrete floor. An art perfected in warehouse raids and midnight executions, now used to stalk a different kind of prey. But it doesn’t matter how quiet I am—she’s already sensed me. I watch her spine straighten, her shoulders squaring in that familiar way. Like a queen preparing to pass judgment, even with her back turned.

The distance between us crackles with electricity. She doesn’t move, doesn’t turn, but I can see the slight tension in her neck, the way her fingers curl at her sides.

---