Page 83 of Forbidden Vengeance

I collapse against her and she brings her arms up to wrap them around me, rubbing soothing circles into my back as I come back down to earth.

“Good?” she whispers after we’ve been still for a few minutes. My heartbeat is still thundering in my chest and I’m still wrapped around her. The question is so ridiculous I can’t help but laugh and roll onto my back, tugging her with me.

“You’re seriously going to ask me that while you’re full of my cum?” I ask, laughing at the scandalized look on her face. “But yes, Elena,” I say, kissing her head. “That was fucking perfect.”

I tilt her chin up, smirking at the blush forming on her cheeks. “You are more than I deserve. You are everything I don’t believe I can have.”

Hours later,I realize we’ve become something I never expected—true equals, perfect partners in this deadly game we’ve chosen to play together. She catches me staring.

“What?” she asks, her eyes narrowing as she works to decode my expression.

“Just thinking about how perfectly you’ve surpassed every expectation,” I admit, pulling her closer until I can feel her heartbeat against my chest. “You’re not just playing the game anymore, little planner. You’re rewriting all the rules.”

Her answering kiss holds promises of more victories to come. Because we’re no longer exile and society girl, no longer predator and prey. We’re partners now—equally dangerous, equally brilliant, equally committed to burning down anyone who tries to come between us.

26

ELENA

Four months of calculated silence. Four months of watching Anthony’s empire crumble piece by piece while he searches frantically for external enemies. He’s too focused on hunting Mario and me to see how thoroughly we’ve turned his own infrastructure against him.

The young Irish families have proven masterful at dismantling his operation from within. Ships mysteriously redirected. Digital payments vanishing into cryptocurrency mazes. Security teams compromised by better offers. Each small cut precisely placed to bleed him dry while maintaining plausible deniability.

“Another shipping contract lost,” Siobhan reports through our secure channel. “Poor Anthony seems to be having terrible luck with port authorities lately.”

I smile, rubbing my now-prominent belly as I review her latest intelligence. At eight months pregnant, I’ve turned this safe house into a command center—coordinating with Siobhan and the other Irish heirs while Mario handles the physical security.

Sean Murphy visited last week, bringing detailed reports of how thoroughly Anthony’s support system is disintegrating. “He’s too proud to admit he needs the old guard’s help,” Sean had explained smugly. “And too suspicious of modernization. Prefers to cling to the old ways, like his grandfather and uncle. He’s isolating himself perfectly.”

Seamus O’Connor remains a looming threat—his rage at Mario’s betrayal only intensified by his daughter’s growing defiance. But Siobhan insists we focus on Anthony first. “One war at a time,” she’d said during our last call. “Let’s destroy the Calabrese heir before we deal with my father’s outdated vendetta.”

My phone buzzes with another update from Siobhan:Anthony just lost his Singapore connections. Apparently someone showed them proof he’s been skimming profits. Such a shame.

I grin, remembering how carefully we planted that evidence. Death by a thousand cuts, each one precisely placed to ensure he never suspects the real architects of his downfall.

“Something amusing?” Mario asks, coming up behind me to massage my shoulders.

“Just watching Anthony’s world burn,” I reply, leaning back into his touch. “One digital transaction at a time.”

Sometimes the best revenge isn’t swift or violent. Sometimes it’s watching your enemy destroy himself while searching for shadows in all the wrong places.

I studymy reflection in the safe house mirror, smoothing my Carolina Herrera dress over my eight-month bump. The baby has been active all day, kicking and rolling as if sensing thetension in the air. The letter sits beside my makeup bag, Bella’s familiar handwriting making my heart ache:

I know what you did at the hospital that night. How you made sure the right doctors were there. Please come home. Matteo has agreed to a temporary truce—proof attached.

The proof and letter came through one of my most trusted hospital contacts—someone even Matteo’s extensive network doesn’t know about. The video shows Matteo himself making the formal declaration of sanctuary: “For twenty-four hours, I invoke the old laws. The DeLuca compound is neutral ground, protected by traditions older than our grudges. Any violation will be met with total war.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Mario says from the doorway. I catch his reflection—devastating in a charcoal Stefano Ricci suit that emphasizes how handsome he is. His eyes linger on my stomach before quickly looking away, that shadow I’ve come to recognize crossing his face. These moments have become more frequent as my pregnancy progresses—the slight hesitation before he touches my bump, the way he pulls back when the baby kicks.

“It’s actually perfect,” I say, turning to face him. “Anthony’s watching every hotel, restaurant, and safe house in Manhattan. But the DeLuca compound? He’d never expect us to walk right into what he thinks is enemy territory.”

“Unless that’s exactly what he expects us to think,” Mario says.

“No. He knows Matteo would burn the city down before letting anyone violate sanctuary in his home. Even Anthony won’t risk breaking that kind of old world tradition—not when he’s trying to convince the conservative families to back him.” I turn back around to finish my makeup.

“Besides,” I add, watching his reflection carefully, “this might be our only chance to secure real protection. If I can make Bellaunderstand why I did what I did, if Matteo sees that helping us hurts Anthony and the Irish…”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs,’ little planner.” But I can see him considering the advantages. The DeLucas might hate Mario, but they hate Anthony more. And with the Irish families fracturing, new alliances become possible.

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