Page 1 of Forbidden Vengeance

1

ELENA

The champagne flutes chime like warning bells as I survey Bella’s baby shower from my carefully chosen vantage point near the French doors. Every detail is perfect—from the hand-painted Italian cookies arranged in delicate spirals to the cascade of white roses tumbling from crystal vases.

Exactly what’s expected from New York’s premier event planner to the crime families.

Six months after Mario’s exile, the DeLuca mansion’s grand ballroom sparkles with old money and hidden tensions. Chandeliers splinter light across faces that hold more secrets than congratulations.

My phone burns in my clutch, Mario’s latest text still unanswered:Tell me everything, little planner.

I adjust a slightly crooked place card, more from habit than necessity. Everything must appear flawless, controlled. Like me in my perfectly tailored Chanel suit, my manicured hands steady only through years of practice. The women around me chatter about nursery colors and designer baby clothes, their voices a symphony of practiced refinement masking calculation.

Bella stands at the center of it all, radiant in a cream silk maternity dress. One hand rests on her prominent baby bump while the other gestures animatedly as she shows off ultrasound photos to cooing society wives.

The DeLuca twins. Future heirs to an empire built on blood and lies.

“They’re already so active,” Bella laughs, her happiness genuine in a room full of manufactured emotions. “The boy especially—just like his father.”

The comparison sends a ripple of polite laughter through her audience. These women, with their designer dresses and carefully maintained smiles, all know exactly what Matteo DeLuca is capable of. They’ve seen the news reports, heard the whispers.

Yet here they are, exclaiming over baby shower games and pretending this is just another society event.

Matteo himself hovers at the edges of the crowd, ever the protective shadow. He’s traded his usual black suit for a dark navy Tom Ford, trying to look softer, more approachable.

More like a father-to-be than one of New York’s most dangerous men.

But I see how his eyes constantly scan for threats while attempting to appear relaxed. How his hand occasionally brushes the spot where his shoulder holster would usually rest.

His gaze catches mine and lingers a beat too long, those gray-blue eyes x-raying me. He’s cataloging my every movement, looking for signs of betrayal. Signs that his wife’s best friend isn’t quite as loyal as she appears.

He’s right to be suspicious, of course. I’ve spent the last six months feeding information to his exiled brother, playing a game so dangerous it makes my previous schemes seem laughably simple.

My phone vibrates again. Another text from Mario:Security rotation changed. Why?

I don’t respond immediately. Mario knows better than to expect instant replies during events like this. Instead, I move through the crowd with practiced ease, noting which families have aligned themselves closer to the DeLucas since Mario’s exile. Who’s watching whom.

Which alliances might be fracturing under the surface.

“Elena!” Bella’s voice cuts through my observations. “Come see the latest ultrasound photos. Look how clear their profiles are!”

I navigate toward her, accepting air kisses and deflecting questions about when I’ll finally settle down with “the right man.”

If they only knew.

The irony of their matchmaking attempts almost makes me smile.

“They’re beautiful,” I say, studying the grainy images. And they are, in their own way. Two tiny lives that have no idea they’re being born into this world of beautiful facades and lethal undercurrents. “Have you decided on names yet?”

Bella’s hazel eyes sparkle. “We’re thinking Giovanni for the boy, after Papa.” Her voice catches slightly on her father’s name, the wound still fresh even after almost a year since her father died. “And Arianna for the girl.”

“Perfect choices,” I murmur, ignoring the weight of Matteo’s stare from across the room. He’s watching our interaction like a hawk, probably wondering if I’ll suddenly reveal myself as the traitor I am.

But I’ve learned from the best. Mario taught me how to wear masks so convincing that I sometimes forget they’re there. How to turn my position as the overlooked event planner into an advantage.

After all, who pays attention to the woman arranging flowers and coordinating caterers? Who thinks twice about sharing sensitive information in front of someone they consider merely decorative?

“You’ve outdone yourself with everything,” Bella says, squeezing my hand. Her trust makes my chest ache. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

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