Page 22 of Forbidden Vengeance

“Planning something special?”

I check my gun one last time, Giuseppe’s lessons about preparation running through my mind. “Just a conversation between future family members.”

The rush of possessive violence that accompanies those words would make my father proud.

Some lessons, it seems, stick deeper than others.

My private jettouches down at Teterboro as twilight bleeds into darkness. The New York skyline glitters against the night sky like broken glass—beautiful but deadly. Just like her.

The drive to Elena’s apartment passes in a blur of city lights and mounting tension. Each minute brings me closer to a confrontation I’ve been rehearsing since those surveillance photos hit my desk this morning.

I find her in her apartment, padding around her kitchen in cream silk Hermès pajamas. The fabric flows like water with each movement, making her look softer, more vulnerable than the power suits and designer dresses she usually wears.

Something primitive rises in my chest—possession, protection, rage I can’t quite name. The sight of her makes my blood burn with emotions I refuse to examine too closely.

“Were you going to tell me?” The words come out in that deadly quiet tone Giuseppe taught both his sons to use—the calm before violence. “Or just let me find out through surveillance photos?”

Elena doesn’t flinch—she never has, not even that first night outside her office when I emerged from the shadows like the predator I am.

Instead, she meets my gaze steadily. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, free from its usual perfect styling, and the city lights streaming through her floor-to-ceiling windows cast shadows across her face, making her look even more beautiful.

“It’s an opportunity,” she says smoothly, moving to pour herself water instead of her usual wine. The simple gestureconfirms everything. “Access we couldn’t get any other way. Anthony thinks?—”

“Anthony thinks he’s claiming something that’s mine.”

The words escape before I can stop them, raw with an emotion I refuse to name. Something dark and possessive that’s been growing since that first meeting.

Her eyes widen slightly—the first crack I’ve seen in her perfect composure. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re playing with fire, Elena. He’s more dangerous than you realize.”

The Manhattan lights paint patterns across her silk pajamas as she moves, the fabric clinging and flowing in a way that makes my hands itch to touch.

To claim. To possess.

“I learned to play with fire from the best.” She moves closer, that magnetic pull between us impossible to resist. Her perfume wraps around me—something expensive and subtle that makes my blood heat. “Isn’t this exactly what we wanted? A way inside their operation?”

I catch her wrist before she can retreat, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers like a trapped bird. Her skin is soft, but her bones are delicate—too delicate for what she’s doing.

“Not like this,” I growl, pulling her closer until we share breath, until I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “Never like this.”

She’s close enough to kiss now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body through the thin silk of her pajamas. The fabric rustles softly with each breath, reminding me how easily it would tear under my hands.

The thought makes my grip tighten involuntarily.

The city continues its chaotic symphony below us—car horns and sirens and the endless pulse of eight million lives. But uphere, in her perfect apartment with its perfect view, time seems suspended between one heartbeat and the next.

Between one lie and another. Between what we are and what we pretend to be.

And through it all, Elena watches me with those clever eyes that see too much. That have always seen too much. Meanwhile, Anthony’s child grows like a time bomb set to destroy everything we’ve built.

9

ELENA

The Vitucci mansion glitters like a fever dream, tiered chandeliers casting diamond light across marble floors. I’ve outdone myself with the decorations for tonight’s charity gala—benefiting children’s cancer research, because even Mafia families need good PR. White roses cascade from golden vessels, their perfume making my already queasy stomach roll.

The ballroom could rival Versailles, though I doubt Marie Antoinette had to deal with five different crime families’ security protocols.

My Dior gown—midnight blue silk that falls like water—hides how I’ve lost weight this past week, morning sickness turning every meal into a battle. I look perfect on the outside, even as I’m dying inside.

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