Page 100 of Forbidden Vengeance

Because men like Anthony Calabrese are most lethal when they have nothing left to lose.

“He brought more men than we anticipated,” Elena’s voice comes through my earpiece, steady as a surgeon’s hand. Through the feed, I watch her work the grand staircase—all marble and gilt that’s witnessed a century of New York power plays. She greets donors with perfect poise, never betraying how she watches every threat. “At least twelve new faces I don’t recognize. Old guard specialists, based on their positioning.”

I adjust my surveillance angles, studying these new players. They move easily through the crowd—taking positions thateffectively cut off our planned escape routes. One by the northwest service corridor. Two flanking the kitchen access. Three more covering the main exits. This isn’t just about grabbing Elena anymore—Anthony’s preparing for war.

“Siobhan’s teams are tracking them,” Dante reports, his usual cool professionalism cracking slightly. “But they’re good. Professional. The kind of crews that specialize in extraction operations.”

My throat tightens as I watch Elena through our feeds. Her pregnancy gives her an otherworldly glow as she works her magic. I watch her charm seven-figure donations from Manhattan’s elite with practiced ease—a perfectly timed laugh here, a carefully placed compliment there. Every society figure who enters gravitates toward her, drawn by the grace that masks the predator beneath.

But Anthony watches her too. The possessive hunger in his eyes makes anger course through me. He tracks her every movement like a man obsessed, that polished exterior cracking to reveal something dangerous beneath. He’s not just here to take our daughter—he wants to destroy everything we’ve built. Wants to remake both families in his image of tradition and blood purity.

“He’s going to make his move soon,” I tell our teams, already moving toward the building. “Everyone in position. Remember—we let him think he has control until the last possible moment.”

I slip into the Plaza through channels my brother’s security helped establish—maintenance corridors that bypass normal security, service elevators monitored by DeLuca men. Matteo might never forgive my past actions, but he won’t let Anthony hurt Elena. Won’t let him tear another family apart.

“His men are getting antsy,” Elena murmurs, her voice steady in my earpiece as she works the crowd. “The ones by the service entrance keep checking their watches.”

As I move, I watch Anthony carefully. He plays his role perfectly—the legitimate businessman supporting a worthy cause. But beneath that polished veneer, I see Johnny’s madness waiting to break free. The same cruel edge that made men tremble at the Calabrese name.

“Latest intel from Siobhan,” Dante reports, his voice tight. “Fucking hell, Mario. Anthony’s got a medical team standing by at a private facility. He’s planning to take Elena there when…when it happens.”

Ice spreads through my veins as I process the implication. He’s not just waiting to strike—he’s waiting for Elena to go intolabor. Wants to take her at her most vulnerable moment.

“All teams hold position,” I order, forcing down the panic trying to claw up my throat. “No one moves until I give the signal. Let him think his plan is working.”

“Really, Mrs. Astor, your generosity is overwhelming,” Elena’s voice carries across the ballroom. “The pediatric wing will help so many children.”

Her hand drifts to her stomach—a gesture that could be maternal pride but I recognize as checking her concealed weapon. Her other hand pulls out her phone, fingers flying across the screen with practiced efficiency.

My phone buzzes with her message:He’s getting impatient.

I move closer to her position, every protective instinct screaming to grab her and run. Because that’s what Anthony’s counting on—that I’ll let emotion override strategy. That I’ll make the same mistakes Giuseppe always said I would.

Not this time. This time, we play it smart.

“Ready?” I ask, knowing she can hear me.

Her smile could cut glass as she accepts another champagne flute she won’t drink. “Always.”

I force myself to maintain position, watching as Anthony springs his trap. The bastard thinks he’s so clever, so perfectly in control. Let him.

Anthony’s forces move, tightening their formation like a noose. They isolate Elena from the crowd with subtle efficiency—a waiter requiring her attention near the service corridor, a donor “accidentally” blocking her path back to the main ballroom. Another of his men starts a minor scene near the east exit, drawing security’s attention away from their true target.

“Target is nearly in position,” one of Anthony’s men murmurs into his comm, not realizing we’ve hacked their channel. “Medical team confirms they’re ready.”

Dante’s voice comes through our comms: “They’ve got three men in the kitchen, two by the staff elevator. Whatever they’re planning, it’s centered around that service corridor.”

The same corridor where she once helped society wives escape their boring husbands. Now it’s become Anthony’s trap—a choke point where he thinks he can isolate her, control every variable. Force her exactly where he wants her.

“He’s moving,” Dante warns as Anthony smoothly excuses himself from a group of donors. “South entrance team is mobilizing.”

His men take their final positions. Each one exactly where we predicted they’d be. Each one thinking they’re the hunters rather than the prey.

I move through the crowd, watching as Anthony’s men systematically isolate Elena near the service corridor. They’re good—using waiters and donors as unwitting pawns to cut off her escape routes, to guide her exactly where they want her.

Elena plays along perfectly, letting them think their subtle manipulation is working. But there’s the slight adjustment ofher stance as she’s “accidentally” herded away from the main ballroom, her hand brushing her concealed weapon as she’s drawn toward the service area. She’s ready. We’re all ready.

Anthony’s smile as he approaches makes my blood run cold. He’s not just confident—he’s triumphant. Like he knows something we don’t.

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