Page 79 of Forbidden Vengeance

The space is industrial modern—exposed brick and steel beams, floor-to-ceiling windows with bulletproof glass. Less luxurious than our last place, more tactical. Every piece of furniture positioned for defensive advantage, weapons caches disguised as art installations.

Elena moves through the space like a ghost, her usual elegance replaced by something fragile. Her hands haven’t stopped shaking since we left the alley, and she flinches at every car horn from the street below. Blood stains her clothes—evidence of lives I took to keep her safe.

“How are you doing?” I ask softly, watching her catalog exits with the tactical awareness I taught her. But her eyes are distant, seeing things I wish I could protect her from.

“I…” She swallows hard, wrapping her arms around herself. “That boy. He was so young. And the sound when the car…” Her voice breaks. “There was so much blood.”

I clench my fists, rage and fear warring in my chest. This is what I was afraid of—that she’d finally see exactly what kind of monster Giuseppe created. That the violence would be too much, that she’d realize loving me means wading through rivers of blood.

But then she’s there, her hands gentle on my face. “Hey,” she whispers, “I’m not going anywhere. It was just…a lot. All at once.” Her fingers trace the scar along my jaw. “This is the world we live in. I knew that when I chose you.”

I swallow, feeling something heavy in my throat. “Elena?—”

“No.” She cuts me off with a fierce kiss. “I chose this. Chose you. The violence, the danger—it’s part of who you are. Who we are.” Her hand finds mine, pressing it to her stomach where our daughter grows. “I just need time to process.”

I pull her closer, breathing in her scent beneath the gunpowder and blood. My little planner, always surprising me with her strength.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I say finally. “Then we figure out our next move.”

She nods against my chest, but neither of us moves. For now, we just hold each other, letting the night’s horror wash over us like baptism by blood.

Elena’s phone rings, making her jump while I immediately shift into a defensive stance. She fishes it out of her pocket, frowning at the display.

“It’s Siobhan.”

“Put her on speaker,” I demand, still not trusting the O’Connor princess despite her earlier warning. Elena obliges, holding the phone between us.

“Hello?” Elena says into the receiver.

“Oh good, you’re still alive,” Siobhan drawls, sounding entirely too pleased with herself. “Now, about the meeting happening in two days?—”

“What fucking meeting?” I cut in, making Elena roll her eyes at my tone.

“If you’d let me finish,” Siobhan sighs with exaggerated patience, “I was about to tell you that the five Irish families are gathering. First time in twenty years they’ve all agreed to meet.”

My body goes rigid. The five Irish families never meet unless something massive is about to shift. “Why?”

“Because, darling, the old guard is losing their grip and they know it. My father’s called them all in—trying to shore up support against the modernization movement. Against me.” Her voice holds a dangerous edge. “I want you both there.”

“How the fuck do you expect that to happen?” I demand, amazed at her stupidity. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re public enemy number one and two right now.”

“Christ,” Siobhan sighs loudly. “Elena, how do you stand being with such a fucking moron?”

Elena grins while I scowl. “Sometimes I wonder,” she teases, squeezing my hand to take the sting out.

“You’ll be joining remotely,” Siobhan explains like she’s talking to a particularly slow child. “Only Sean and I will know you’re listening in. Think of it as…insurance. For all of us.”

I study Elena’s face, seeing that brilliant mind already working through possibilities. Always thinking ahead, my little planner.

“What exactly are you planning, Siobhan?” I ask, though I’m starting to see the shape of it.

Mirth bleeds from her words. “Revolution, DeLuca. Care to help?”

Two days later,the five Irish families gather at Boston’s Fairmont Copley Plaza, the images crisp on Elena’s laptop screen thanks to Siobhan’s carefully hidden cameras.

“Sound check,” Siobhan’s voice comes through their encrypted channel. She stands behind her father’s chair in Chanel, her red hair softly framing her face. Everything about her radiates careful submission—the perfect daughter hiding revolution behind her smile. Sean Murphy hovers nearby, his tactical awareness masked by a perfectly tailored suit.

I catalog the players as they enter—faces I know from years of navigating Irish politics. Seamus O’Connor sits at the head of the table, his steel-gray hair and cold eyes commanding respect even as his power base erodes. Declan Flaherty, whose dock workers’ unions control the port. Michael Gallagher, construction trades giving him a stranglehold on development. Patrick Brady with his politicians in his pocket. And finally Kevin O’Brien, whose South Boston territory makes him kingmaker in any power shift.

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