Page 8 of Forbidden Vengeance

“That’s why I have people for that.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Speaking of which, I’m hosting a gathering next week. Several international partners will be there. You should come.”

I recognize the opportunity—and the danger—in the invitation. “I’d love to, but you know how busy I am with events this time of year…”

“Make time.” His tone holds just enough edge to remind me who he is. “I want to show you off.”

The dessert arrives—a gold-leafed chocolate creation that looks ridiculously expensive. Anthony places his hand over mine, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist.

“Would you like to continue this evening at my place?” His dark eyes hold that perfect mix of desire and warmth. “I have an excellent bottle of Macallan 25 I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

I pretend to consider it, biting my lower lip in calculated hesitation. “Well…I really should be getting home…”

“Please?” He brings my hand to his lips. “I’ve missed you these past few days.”

I give him my best coy smile, ignoring the way my stomach churns at his touch. “Well, when you ask so nicely…”

He signals for the check, never taking his eyes off me. I can feel his security team shifting into position, preparing to escort us to his penthouse. If he notices how my hand trembles slightly as he helps me with my coat, he probably attributes it to anticipation rather than the adrenaline of being so close to information I need.

Let him think I’m just another society girl dazzled by his power and charm. It’s safer that way.

Hours later, in his penthouse overlooking Central Park, I let him think he’s seducing me while memorizing every detail of the papers visible on his desk.

As Anthony’s hands move over my body, his touch is precise, methodical, but somehow detached, as if following a routine he’s done countless times before. He peels off my clothes with efficiency, as though stripping away layers of fabric rather than barriers between us. The way his fingers glide over my skin lacks any spark, any warmth—just a mechanical motion. There’s no tenderness in his gaze, just a calculated focus, as if he’s performing a task that has nothing to do with me.

I try to push aside the thoughts of Mario, but they sneak in like an electric current, reminding me of the connection I crave, the way his texts make my heart race, the anticipation that builds with every word he types.

A single message from Mario sends a surge of energy through me, making my pulse quicken in a way that Anthony’s touch never has.

When Anthony lifts me effortlessly onto his desk, I can’t help but stiffen slightly at the abruptness, the lack of care. The wood is cold against my back, the sharp edges of the desk pressing into my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth I long for. His lips finally find mine, but the kiss is clinical, without the urgency or the heat I yearn for. It’s as though he’s following a script, just another step in a process rather than a genuine expression of desire.

I need this access to Anthony. Three weeks ago, I discovered discrepancies in the Calabrese shipping manifests—luxury clothing imports that didn’t match any known designer’s production schedule, travel agencies with more outgoing flights than incoming ones, modeling contracts that led to dead ends.

The patterns were subtle, but they reminded me of something I’d seen in the DeLuca records before Mario’s exile. The same careful misdirection, the same gaps that looked random unless you knew exactly what to look for.

The Irish mob’s movements are tied to it somehow. Mario’s mentioned the O’Connors have been expanding their operations, but their old-school methods don’t align with the sophisticated financial trails I’ve been tracking.

Someone’s modernizing their approach to human trafficking, hiding it behind legitimate businesses, and I need to know who. The DeLucas would never be involved in trafficking—it’s one of Matteo’s hard lines—but the Calabreses have no such scruples.

I’ve got a job to do—one that might finally prove I’m worth more than just planning parties and playing peacemaker. If only the guilt about betraying Bella’s trust didn’t feel like it was choking me with every fake moan, every calculated arch of my back.

My burner phone buzzes in my discarded clutch. I already know it’s Mario, probably watching through his network of surveillance. Let him watch. Let him see exactly what this game costs.

Anthony’s hands grip my hips, pulling me closer as he enters me with a slow, deliberate force. The world outside of this room fades, and all I can focus on is the lack of heat between us, the rhythm of his movements as he claims me. I try to drown out the lingering thoughts of Mario, but every kiss, every touch from Anthony is an empty echo compared to the wild connection I felt in just a few words from Mario.

I close my eyes, pretending it’s someone else’s touch lighting up my skin. Someone with dangerous grace and knowing eyes, who saw past my perfect facade from the very beginning.

“Some games burn everyone who plays them,”Mario had warned me.

Good thing I’ve always liked playing with fire.

4

MARIO

The surveillance photos spread across my desk like evidence of betrayal. Elena leaving Anthony’s penthouse, that red Versace now wrinkled in ways that tell their own story.

Her perfectly styled hair is mussed, lipstick smeared just enough to confirm what happened behind those penthouse doors.

In one photo, she’s adjusting the strap of her dress where it had clearly been hastily fixed. Another shows Anthony’s hand on her lower back as he escorts her to the waiting car, his fingers splayed possessively against the silk.

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