Page 4 of Forbidden Vengeance

Something dark unfurls in my chest at Anthony’s name. I’d gotten similar reports, watching him circle Elena like a shark scenting blood. “Anthony’s interests are irrelevant,” I say with forced casualness.

“Are they?” Seamus pulls out a cigar, not bothering to ask permission before lighting it. Smoke curls between us like poison. “Word is he’s been asking questions about her. About her connection to the DeLucas. About why such a pretty party planner spends so much time studying security patterns.”

The door opens again, and Siobhan O’Connor glides in, her Valentino dress a stark contrast to her father’s old-world menace.

I’ve watched her struggle these past years, trying to drag the O’Connor empire into the modern era while her father clings to tradition. Where he’s all barely contained violence, she’s sleek sophistication masking a razor’s edge.

Siobhan’s been fighting an uphill battle, her brilliant suggestions about cryptocurrency and digital banking constantly rebuffed by Seamus’s stubborn adherence to “tried and true methods.” She sees the future of their organization—legitimate fronts, technological innovation, untraceable transactions—but Seamus prefers handling things the old way.

With blood and broken bones.

The whispers about her are different from those about her father—where Seamus is predictably brutal, Siobhan is a storm barely contained. Everyone knows she’s modernizing operations behind the scenes through her trusted captain, Sean Murphy, while maintaining the perfect image of a society darling.

She’s everything the next generation of crime families should be, if only the old guard would loosen their grip on power.

But they share those cold green eyes that miss nothing—eyes I’ve seen turn glacial right before ordering hits as casually as ordering lunch.

“The Calabrese boy’s not asking the right questions,” Siobhan says, perching on the arm of her father’s chair. “He sees a society planner he can seduce. He should be asking why she’s so interested in the DeLucas’ shipping manifests.”

I keep my face carefully blank, but internally, I’m recalculating. Siobhan’s always been sharper than her father, more attuned to the subtle shifts in power that most men overlook.

The fact that she’s noticed Elena’s particular interests is…concerning.

The memory of my first meeting with Seamus O’Connor flashes through my mind—five years ago, fresh from my exile, burning with rage after the incident with Bianca. I’d walked into this same office—then his instead of mine—carrying nothing but hatred and a plan for revenge. Seamus had listened to myproposition while methodically breaking a man’s fingers in front of me.

The poor bastard had skimmed money from one of the O’Connors’ shell companies.

“You see, DeLuca,” Seamus had said, his voice casual as bone snapped, “in this family, we believe in direct messages. Your brother’s more…diplomatic approach always struck me as weak.”

I’d watched, understanding the display for what it was—both warning and invitation. By the time the man started begging, Seamus had agreed to back my play against Matteo.

Within a year, I’d earned this office and Seamus’s trust, though I never forgot the sound of those breaking fingers.

Now, five years later, Seamus still carries that same air of casual violence. I’ve seen what happens to those who cross him—the O’Connors might have modernized their operations, but they still prefer the old ways when it comes to handling problems.

“If Anthony’s suspicious—” I begin, but Seamus cuts me off with a laugh that cuts like steel.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s suspicion driving the boy.” His eyes gleam with cruel amusement. “I think he sees what we all see—a beautiful woman with access to New York’s most powerful families. A way to gain influence through marriage, perhaps?”

The thought of Anthony touching Elena, claiming her, makes my hand clench around my glass. I force myself to relax, noting how Siobhan tracks the movement with interest.

“She’s more valuable as an intelligence source,” I say smoothly, even as my phone buzzes with another message from Elena.

“Is that all she is?” Seamus leans forward, ash dropping onto my imported carpet. A power play. One that I ignore. “Because my Siobhan’s been watching her too. Says there’s something different about this one. Something…hungry.”

The description is uncomfortably accurate. I remember Elena’s eyes that first night outside her office—sharp, calculating, seeing right through my carefully orchestrated “chance” encounter.

She’d recognized a kindred spirit, someone else who understood what it meant to be overlooked, underestimated.

Siobhan moves to the bar, pouring herself three fingers of the rare Irish whiskey her father imports specially—another power play, treating my office like her own. I’ve seen her maintain that same elegant poise while ordering the execution of traitors.

Just last month, she hosted a charity gala the same evening she had three of their former associates disappear. The bodies were never found.

“The question,” Siobhan interjects, her voice carrying the cultured accent of European boarding schools, “is whether your sparrow’s hunger matches yours. Whether her desire for more aligns with our plans for the DeLuca empire.”

“She’ll play her part.” The lie comes easily, though I notice Siobhan’s slight smile. Truth is, I’m no longer certain what game Elena’s really playing.

Her intelligence is too precise, her understanding of power dynamics too keen for a simple party planner.

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