Page 23 of Forbidden Vengeance

The specially ordered caviar station nearly made me vomit earlier, and now the scent of five thousand roses isn’t helping.

Anthony, mercifully, is in Singapore closing a deal with potential “investors”—his code for expanding trafficking operations into new territories. His absence feels like being able to breathe properly for the first time in days.

Still, I notice his cousin’s watchful gaze following me from across the room. The Calabrese family never leaves anything unobserved.

The Vituccis have spared no expense—the string quartet plays Vivaldi on instruments worth small fortunes, while waiters circulate with champagne vintages that would make sommeliers weep. Old Andrea Vitucci himself holds court near the grand staircase, his white hair gleaming like his diamond cufflinks as he discusses “import businesses” with the Rossetti underboss.

Both men’s security details maintain a careful distance, close enough to intervene but far enough to pretend this is just another society gathering.

Through the crowd of designer gowns and family crests masquerading as legitimate business empires, I spot Siobhan O’Connor holding court near the champagne fountain. She moves through the space like she owns it, her Alexander McQueen dress a masterpiece of understated power. Old guard captains who would never take orders from a woman bend closer to hear her whispered comments.

She’s modernizing the Irish mob whether her father likes it or not, one perfectly orchestrated social interaction at a time.

The Moretti brothers cluster near the French doors—young Enzo’s hand trembling slightly as he reaches for another drink. Their father’s recent “heart attack” has left them scrambling for control of the family’s gambling operations. The older brother, Carlo, watches the room with sharp eyes while pretending to admire the flower arrangements. His wife Anastasia drips in Van Cleef & Arpels, but her nervous glances toward the Rossetti underboss tell their own story.

Security is a delicate dance tonight. Each family’s personal detail maintains their designated zones—the Vituccis near the main entrance, the Rossettis by the east wing, the Morettis covering the garden access.

I’ve positioned the DeLuca men strategically around Bella, though they’re good enough to make it look casual. The Irish contingent stays close to Siobhan, despite her obvious irritation at her father’s outdated protocols.

My own security team—handpicked professionals who think they’re just protecting an elite event planner—monitor the general space. They have no idea they’re actually running interference between five different Mafia families’ private armies. The art is making it all look effortless, like this is just another charity gala rather than a powder keg of ancient grudges and modern ambitions.

Through it all, I catalog every detail, every interaction. The way the younger Rossetti son’s hand lingers too long on a Moretti cousin’s back. How the Vitucci heir keeps checking his phone while his father negotiates territory lines disguised as property investments. The subtle shifts in alliance and loyalty that play out beneath dimmed lights and classical music.

But even my professional pride in orchestrating this spectacular event can’t quite suppress the constant nausea. Five thousand roses might look stunning, but right now they’re testing every ounce of my self-control.

“Elena!” Bella’s voice cuts through the crowd. She looks radiant in emerald-green Valentino, her baby bump prominent. Matteo hovers nearby in a black Tom Ford suit that makes him look like a model, watching his wife like she might shatter.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Bella says, gesturing to the spectacular decor. “Though I’m not sure the Vituccis deserve your talent.”

“You’re biased.” I smile, noting how pregnancy has given her skin a luminous glow. The emerald dress makes her look like a Renaissance painting come to life. “How are you feeling?”

“If one more person asks me that, I might scream.” Bella rolls her eyes, but her hand instinctively rests on her bump. “BetweenMatteo and Bianca, I can barely breathe without someone documenting it.”

“We’re concerned,” Matteo’s deep voice joins our conversation. His hand settles protectively on Bella’s lower back. “After the scare last week?—”

“I’m fine,” Bella cuts him off, but leans into his touch. “The doctors said moderate activity is good for me. Besides, Elena’s here if anything happens.”

I feel Matteo’s eyes on me—that calculated DeLuca stare that seems to see through every lie. Instead of looking away, I meet his gaze. Let him look. Let him wonder.

“How’s the security tonight?” he asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “I noticed the Rossettis brought extra men.”

“Everything’s under control,” I assure him, fighting back a wave of nausea as a waiter passes with something that smells like seafood. “The Vituccis agreed to my recommended protocols.”

“Just like Anthony Calabrese agreed to your recommended guest list for his last event?” Matteo’s voice remains pleasant, but there’s an edge beneath it that makes my skin prickle. “Antonio tells me you’ve been…consulting…quite extensively with the Calabrese family lately.”

Bella shoots her husband a warning look, but Matteo continues, his eyes never leaving my face. “Interesting timing, considering their recent shipping expansion. And their newfound interest in Irish partnerships.”

I feel trapped under Matteo’s gaze, the one that can reduce hardened criminals to confessions. But before I can craft a suitable response, a waiter glides past with a tray of stuffed mushrooms in a heavy truffle sauce. The smell—rich and earthy and absolutely revolting to my currently sensitive stomach—hits me hard.

“I need to check on something,” I manage, already stepping back. My mouth floods with saliva in that telltale way. “The florist mentioned an issue with?—”

“Elena?” Bella’s voice holds genuine concern.

“Just a small crisis,” I lie, trying not to gag. “You know how these events are.”

I catch Matteo’s expression as I turn away—thoughtful and dangerous, like he’s assembling a puzzle he doesn’t quite like the shape of.

But I can’t focus on his suspicions right now. Not when my stomach is threatening immediate rebellion.

---