Page 27 of Forbidden Vengeance

“What’s wrong, Mario? Worried your little asset is getting too close to the enemy?” She lets the dress fall slightly, revealing more skin. “Or worried that Anthony might not be the only one I’m playing?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I snarl, advancing on her. “You think Anthony won’t notice how often you study his papers? How convenient it is that you always need to fuck him in his office?”

“At least he doesn’t treat me like a chess piece,” she snaps.

“No, he treats you like a broodmare!”

Her hand cracks across my face. The slap echoes in the silence.

“Get. Out,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Gladly.” I move to the door but pause with my hand on the knob. “Just remember, little planner—when Anthony Calabrese shows you exactly who he is, don’t come crying to me. You chose this game.”

Her laugh is bitter music as she shakes her head, pieces of her golden hair moving in sync. “No, Mario.Youchose it for me the moment you approached me outside my office. Now live with the consequences.”

I leave before I can say something else I’ll regret, but her words follow me into the night. She’s right—I set this game in motion. I just never expected to care who got burned

Manhattan spreadsout beneath the safe house windows like a glittering chess board. The penthouse takes up the entire top floor of an unmarked building in Tribeca—all steel and glass and strategic sight lines.

No paper trail connects it to me, just like none of my properties have my name attached. Giuseppe taught us that lesson early: always have somewhere to hide that even family can’t find.

I stare into my coffee, black and bitter like my thoughts. I should be in Boston, dealing with O’Connor’s latest demands, but Elena’s apartment keeps pulling me back. The way her face crumbled before freezing over. The cruel words I can’t take back.

My phone rings. I answer without checking, still lost in memories of silk and skin and regret.

“Getting comfortable in New York?” Seamus O’Connor’s brogue turns the words into a threat. “Because last I checked, you fucking work for me in Boston.”

Goddammit. “I’m handling?—”

“You’re handling fuck all except your brother’s event planner.” Ice crackles in his voice. “Need I remind you who owns your debt, DeLuca? Who gave you sanctuary when your own blood cast you out?”

My grip threatens to shatter the coffee mug. “I remember.”

“Good. Then you’ll remember our arrangement. I need you back in Boston. Tonight. I have a job that requires your…particular insight into the DeLuca operations.”

“My brother’s security?—”

“Your brother’s security is precisely why I own you, boy. Or have you forgotten what happened the last time you tried playing both sides?”

The call ends, and rage explodes through me. The coffee mug shatters against the wall, dark liquid running down imported wallpaper like blood.

Fucking O’Connor, acting like he owns me. Like I’m still that desperate exile who showed up in Boston five years ago, burning with hatred and nowhere else to go.

But Elena’s words from last night echo louder than O’Connor’s threats:“I’m attending a Calabrese family function tomorrow night. As Anthony’sspecialguest.”

I can still see her standing there, dress barely held up by trembling hands, throwing those words at me like weapons. And they hit their mark—the thought of Anthony’s hands on her, of him parading her around his family like some prize, makes me want to burn his whole empire to the ground.

My phone buzzes. A text from Dante:Let me know when you want the jet.

I hit dial. “I need you to get me into the Calabrese function tonight,” I bark the moment Dante answers.

“Boss.” Dante’s voice holds carefully neutral concern. “O’Connor expects you back?—”

“O’Connor can fucking wait.” I move through the safe house, past the weapons cache hidden behind steel panels, toward the bedroom where a fresh suit awaits. “I have unfinished business here.”

“The event planner?”

Fucking Dante being too fucking perceptive for his own goddamn good.

---