Forbidden Vengeance (Bonds of Betrayal #2)

1. Elena

1

ELENA

T he champagne flutes chime like warning bells as I survey Bella’s baby shower from my carefully chosen vantage point near the French doors. Every detail is perfect—from the hand-painted Italian cookies arranged in delicate spirals to the cascade of white roses tumbling from crystal vases.

Exactly what’s expected from New York’s premier event planner to the crime families.

Six months after Mario’s exile, the DeLuca mansion’s grand ballroom sparkles with old money and hidden tensions. Chandeliers splinter light across faces that hold more secrets than congratulations.

My phone burns in my clutch, Mario’s latest text still unanswered: Tell me everything, little planner.

I adjust a slightly crooked place card, more from habit than necessity. Everything must appear flawless, controlled. Like me in my perfectly tailored Chanel suit, my manicured hands steady only through years of practice. The women around me chatter about nursery colors and designer baby clothes, their voices a symphony of practiced refinement masking calculation.

Bella stands at the center of it all, radiant in a cream silk maternity dress. One hand rests on her prominent baby bump while the other gestures animatedly as she shows off ultrasound photos to cooing society wives.

The DeLuca twins. Future heirs to an empire built on blood and lies.

“They’re already so active,” Bella laughs, her happiness genuine in a room full of manufactured emotions. “The boy especially—just like his father.”

The comparison sends a ripple of polite laughter through her audience. These women, with their designer dresses and carefully maintained smiles, all know exactly what Matteo DeLuca is capable of. They’ve seen the news reports, heard the whispers.

Yet here they are, exclaiming over baby shower games and pretending this is just another society event.

Matteo himself hovers at the edges of the crowd, ever the protective shadow. He’s traded his usual black suit for a dark navy Tom Ford, trying to look softer, more approachable.

More like a father-to-be than one of New York’s most dangerous men.

But I see how his eyes constantly scan for threats while attempting to appear relaxed. How his hand occasionally brushes the spot where his shoulder holster would usually rest.

His gaze catches mine and lingers a beat too long, those gray-blue eyes x-raying me. He’s cataloging my every movement, looking for signs of betrayal. Signs that his wife’s best friend isn’t quite as loyal as she appears.

He’s right to be suspicious, of course. I’ve spent the last six months feeding information to his exiled brother, playing a game so dangerous it makes my previous schemes seem laughably simple.

My phone vibrates again. Another text from Mario: Security rotation changed. Why?

I don’t respond immediately. Mario knows better than to expect instant replies during events like this. Instead, I move through the crowd with practiced ease, noting which families have aligned themselves closer to the DeLucas since Mario’s exile. Who’s watching whom.

Which alliances might be fracturing under the surface.

“Elena!” Bella’s voice cuts through my observations. “Come see the latest ultrasound photos. Look how clear their profiles are!”

I navigate toward her, accepting air kisses and deflecting questions about when I’ll finally settle down with “the right man.”

If they only knew.

The irony of their matchmaking attempts almost makes me smile.

“They’re beautiful,” I say, studying the grainy images. And they are, in their own way. Two tiny lives that have no idea they’re being born into this world of beautiful facades and lethal undercurrents. “Have you decided on names yet?”

Bella’s hazel eyes sparkle. “We’re thinking Giovanni for the boy, after Papa.” Her voice catches slightly on her father’s name, the wound still fresh even after almost a year since her father died. “And Arianna for the girl.”

“Perfect choices,” I murmur, ignoring the weight of Matteo’s stare from across the room. He’s watching our interaction like a hawk, probably wondering if I’ll suddenly reveal myself as the traitor I am.

But I’ve learned from the best. Mario taught me how to wear masks so convincing that I sometimes forget they’re there. How to turn my position as the overlooked event planner into an advantage.

After all, who pays attention to the woman arranging flowers and coordinating caterers? Who thinks twice about sharing sensitive information in front of someone they consider merely decorative?

“You’ve outdone yourself with everything,” Bella says, squeezing my hand. Her trust makes my chest ache. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I squeeze back, pushing down the guilt that threatens to surface. “What are best friends for?”

Another buzz from my clutch. I know without looking it’s Mario again. He’s probably impatient for details about the security changes, about which families are here, about every subtle shift in allegiance that this baby shower represents.

This isn’t just a celebration—it’s a display of power, a statement about the DeLuca family’s strength even after the scandal of Mario’s exile.

I excuse myself to check on the kitchen staff, using the moment alone to quickly type: Increased security due to Calabrese movement in Brooklyn. Full details later.

His response is immediate: Careful, little planner. You’re playing with fire.

I almost laugh. As if I don’t know that. The memory of our first meeting floods back, as vivid as if it happened yesterday instead of six months ago.

I was working late at my office, finalizing details for a charity gala. The kind of event where blood money gets laundered through silent auctions and champagne toasts. The hallway was dark except for the soft glow from my office, and I remember thinking I should call my car service instead of walking to the parking garage alone.

That’s when I saw him—Mario DeLuca, emerging from the shadows like some dark angel in an expertly tailored suit. I recognized him immediately, of course, although I lied to Bella about not knowing him.

Everyone knew about Matteo’s exiled brother, the DeLuca who chose revenge over family loyalty. But pictures didn’t do him justice. Didn’t capture the dangerous grace of his movements or the intensity of his gaze as he studied me.

“Working late, little planner?” His voice was smoke and silk, nothing like Matteo’s controlled tones. He moved closer, and I caught the scent of expensive cologne mixed with something darker. “Always so efficient, so…overlooked.”

I should have been terrified. Should have called security or screamed or run. Instead, I felt something wake up inside me—something hungry and ambitious that I’d tried desperately to deny.

“What do you want?” I asked, proud that my voice didn’t shake.

His smile was sin itself. “The question is…what do you want, Elena? To keep playing the perfect society planner? Or to show them all what you’re really capable of?”

He reached out, adjusting my sleeve where it had risen slightly. The touch was barely there, but it sent electricity through my entire body. “I’ve been watching you,” he continued. “The way you gather secrets like others collect art. The way you see everything while pretending to see nothing. You’re wasted on them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But I did. Of course I did.

“Don’t you?” He leaned closer, and I caught a glimpse of a scar along his jaw—a reminder that this man was as dangerous as he was compelling. “Tell me, Elena…don’t you ever get tired of being underestimated? Of being treated like part of the decorations while you’re smarter than half the men in those rooms?”

I remained silent, but something must have shown in my face because his smile widened. “Let me show you what you could really be,” he whispered. “Let me show you how to turn their underestimation into power.”

I should have said no. Should have walked away. Instead, I heard myself ask, “And what do you get out of it?”

“Smart girl,” he praised, and the approval in his voice shouldn’t have thrilled me the way it did. “I get an ally they’ll never suspect. And you…you get to become who you were always meant to be.”

He pulled out a burner phone, already programmed with his number. “Your choice, little planner. Stay small and safe, or…” His eyes traveled over me in a way that made my skin tingle. “…play with fire.”

I took the phone.

Now, six months later, I’m in so deep I can barely remember what it felt like to be that other Elena—the one who was content with being overlooked. The one who hadn’t yet tasted real power or felt the addictive thrill of Mario’s approval.

The party continues around me, a glittering facade of normalcy. Movement near the French doors catches my eye—Bianca, Matteo’s eighteen-year-old daughter, slips into the room like a shadow in Balmain jeans.

She has Matteo’s striking looks—long dark hair and those piercing blue-gray eyes—despite not being biologically his.

Another secret I’m not supposed to know, though Mario made sure I understood the truth about his brother’s heir.

Bella spots her stepdaughter and her whole face lights up. “Bianca! I thought you were staying at school today.”

“And miss all this?” Bianca’s smile is genuine, though there’s still a hint of wariness in her stance. “Besides, I wanted to see the ultrasound photos of my siblings.”

The word “siblings” catches slightly in her throat, and I notice how her hand tightens on her Gucci clutch.

Seven months ago, she was an only child, secure in her position as Matteo’s heir. Now she’s about to become a big sister to twins who will be Matteo’s biological children.

It’s the kind of subtle family drama I’ve become expert at noticing.

Bella, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore the tension, pulls Bianca into a gentle hug. “Come see—they’re so clear in these new photos. The boy already has your father’s profile.”

I watch as Bianca’s expression softens, the way it always does when someone compares her to Matteo. Blood might not bind them, but love clearly does.

The sight makes my stomach seize with guilt. These are the moments I’ll be betraying—these small, precious instances of family connecting despite their complicated past.

I direct servers, adjust flower arrangements, and keep everything running smoothly while gathering intelligence that could destroy it all.

Each smile, each conversation, each perfectly executed detail is both real and fake—just like me.

When Bella catches my eye again across the room, her smile bright with friendship and trust, I force myself to smile back while ignoring the guilt that threatens to choke me. Let them think I’m just an efficient event planner, making sure everything runs smoothly.

Let them underestimate me, like they always have.

Like Mario never did.

Because that’s the real danger, isn’t it? Not the game itself, but the way Mario sees through every mask I wear. The way he recognized something in me that first night—something hungry and ambitious and tired of playing small.

Something that made him whisper, “You’re wasted on them, little planner. Let me show you what you could really be.”

I check my phone one last time before rejoining the party. His final message makes my pulse quicken: Miss me yet?

More than I should. More than is safe for either of us.

But that’s a dangerous thought for another time. Right now, I have a baby shower to run, intelligence to gather, and a best friend to betray.

All in a day’s work for New York’s premier event planner to the criminal elite.

I smooth my suit, check my lipstick, and step back into the spotlight. The champagne flutes continue their warning chime, but I’ve learned to dance to more dangerous music than this.