Page 34 of Forbidden Vengeance

Seamus sits behind a desk that probably belonged to some British lord before finding its way here through bloody means. He looks exactly like what he is—a predator playing at civility. His steel-gray hair is perfectly styled, but his cold eyes hold all the warmth of a shark’s.

But it’s Siobhan who commands my attention. She perches on the edge of her father’s desk like a cat who’s found the cream, and something in her expression sets my teeth on edge.

I told Elena that Siobhan wouldn’t reveal her pregnancy, but watching that calculating smile, I’m less certain. Siobhan O’Connor is a loose cannon—the kind you can’t read until it’s too late. At least with Seamus, the violence is predictable.

I take a seat in one of the leather chairs facing the desk.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to sit, DeLuca,” Seamus growls.

I shrug, deliberately casual. “My feet are tired from all the running I do at your command.”

“Your little planner is proving quite interesting,” Siobhan drawls, tossing surveillance photos across her father’s desk. Elena entering doctor’s offices. Us in a compromising position against my car. Anthony’s men watching her from unmarked vehicles. Another of Anthony’s tongue down Elena’s throat, his hand cupping her ass.

That one makes my vision blur red.

“Pregnant with Calabrese’s heir while feeding you information. Quite the ambitious little thing, isn’t she?”

I keep my expression neutral even as my self-control splinters in my chest. “Elena’s involvement is tactical,” I say smoothly. “A means to an end.”

“Is it?” Siobhan’s smile turns cruel as she circles the desk. “Becauseoursources say Anthony’s not the only one sharing her bed these days.”

She moves closer, all elegance and deadly intent. “The question is…are you compromised, Mario? Letting a pretty face and clever mind distract you from our arrangement?”

“Enough games,” Seamus cuts in, his voice like gravel. “You’re here because you’ve forgotten your place, boy. Forgotten who owns your debt.”

“I’ve more than repaid any debt?—”

“You’ve repaid when I say you’ve repaid!” Seamus’s fist crashes against the desk. “The DeLuca empire falls. That was our deal. Instead, you’re fucking your brother’s event planner while my interests in Manhattan suffer.”

“Yourinterests?” I can’t help but laugh. “Or your daughter’s? I hear the younger captains are quite taken with her…modernization efforts.”

Siobhan’s eyes flash. “Careful, Mario. Elena isn’t the only one who can disappear in this city.”

“Touch her and?—”

“And what?” Seamus’s smile is terrible. “You’ll break our arrangement? Go running back to the brother who exiled you? Whose wife has permission to put a bullet through you if you return? Or to the Calabreses who’d love to mount your head on their wall?”

He leans forward. “You’re mine, boy. Have been since you crawled to Boston with your tail between your legs. The only question is whether your little bitch pays for your disobedience.”

My hands curl into fists, but it’s Siobhan’s interest that truly terrifies me. I recognize that look in her eyes—the same one Johnny Calabrese wore before destroying his toys. That particular gleam of anticipation, like a child who’s found a new doll to dismember.

Her smile holds too many teeth, and those cold green eyes study Elena’s photos with the focused intensity of someone imagining all the ways to take something apart. It’s not just cruelty—Johnny had that in spades—it’s the clinical fascination of someone who wants to understand exactly how much pressure it takes to break something beautiful.

The look says: I could destroy this, and I’d enjoy learning how.

“The DeLucas will fall,” I say carefully. “You have my word.”

“Good.” Seamus sits back, seemingly satisfied. “Because if they don’t, Elena’s pregnancy might meet an unfortunate end. Tragic, really, how delicate women can be in their condition.”

It takes everything in me not to reach across the desk and tear his throat out.

I grit my teeth and nod sharply. Seamus dismisses me with a wave, like I’m some fucking errand boy instead of the man who’s kept his Boston operations running smoothly for five years.

But I’m self-aware enough to know when I’m outmatched. As an exile, I have no family backing, no one to avenge me if I disappear into Boston Harbor.

Patrick Lynch waits in the hallway, that fucking smirk still on his face. “How’s the leash feel, DeLuca?”

My control snaps. My fist connects with his jaw before he can blink, the satisfying crunch of bone worth whatever consequences come. “Fuck you, you Irish piece of shit.”

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