Page 3 of Forbidden Vengeance

It’s the kind of subtle family drama I’ve become expert at noticing.

Bella, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore the tension, pulls Bianca into a gentle hug. “Come see—they’re so clear in these new photos. The boy already has your father’s profile.”

I watch as Bianca’s expression softens, the way it always does when someone compares her to Matteo. Blood might not bind them, but love clearly does.

The sight makes my stomach seize with guilt. These are the moments I’ll be betraying—these small, precious instances of family connecting despite their complicated past.

I direct servers, adjust flower arrangements, and keep everything running smoothly while gathering intelligence that could destroy it all.

Each smile, each conversation, each perfectly executed detail is both real and fake—just like me.

When Bella catches my eye again across the room, her smile bright with friendship and trust, I force myself to smile back while ignoring the guilt that threatens to choke me. Let them think I’m just an efficient event planner, making sure everything runs smoothly.

Let them underestimate me, like they always have.

Like Mario never did.

Because that’s the real danger, isn’t it? Not the game itself, but the way Mario sees through every mask I wear. The way he recognized something in me that first night—something hungry and ambitious and tired of playing small.

Something that made him whisper,“You’re wasted on them, little planner. Let me show you what you could really be.”

I check my phone one last time before rejoining the party. His final message makes my pulse quicken:Miss me yet?

More than I should. More than is safe for either of us.

But that’s a dangerous thought for another time. Right now, I have a baby shower to run, intelligence to gather, and a best friend to betray.

All in a day’s work for New York’s premier event planner to the criminal elite.

I smooth my suit, check my lipstick, and step back into the spotlight. The champagne flutes continue their warning chime, but I’ve learned to dance to more dangerous music than this.

2

MARIO

The surveillance photos spread across my mahogany desk like cards in a game I’m finally winning. Elena Santiago stares back from each glossy image—coordinating my brother’s perfect baby shower with that mask of efficiency she wears so well.

Her Chanel suit is like armor, every pleat and seam a calculated defense against the world she navigates.

Only I notice the subtle tells others miss. How her fingers tremble slightly when Matteo gets too close, the way her smile never quite reaches her eyes when his precious wife shows off another ultrasound photo.

These little cracks in her performance fascinate me more than they should.

My phone buzzes with her latest intelligence: guest lists, security rotations, the quiet reshuffling of DeLuca investments that screams preparation for war.

She’s thorough, my little planner. Always has been.

“O’Connor’s getting impatient,” my lieutenant mutters, shifting nervously by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Boston Harbor. The late afternoon light catches on thewater, reminding me of Elena’s eyes—sharp, calculating, seeing everything while pretending to see nothing.

I’m about to respond when my office door opens. Seamus O’Connor’s massive frame fills the doorway, his steel-gray hair perfectly styled despite the wind outside.

Despite his designer wares, there’s something feral about him—like a wolf playing at being domesticated.

“DeLuca.” His Irish brogue fills my office as he settles into the leather chair across from my desk while my lieutenant makes his escape. “Your little sparrow’s been busy.”

I set down the photos carefully, keeping my expression neutral. “Elena provides useful intelligence.”

“Aye, that she does.” His cold green eyes study me with predatory interest. “Though I’m hearing whispers she’s caught other attention. Young Anthony Calabrese seems quite taken with your source.”

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