Page 119 of Vow of Silence

The weeks that followed Ignazio’s death were a blur of meetings and visits from people whose names I still struggle to recall. Senior members of the six families and bosses from Italy stopped by to discuss the details of Ignazio’s betrayal.

I recounted the facts as understood from my point of view so many times that I’m numb to the emotions the stories used to provoke.

I blubbered like a fool when Benito finally managed to walk downstairs from his bedrest, only to fall to one knee and offer me his grandmother’s ring.

We needed to do it right, his handwritten note had said. A proper proposal was the only tradition that mattered.

So, we canceled the ballroom, and I brought a tear to Brigida’s eye when I told her I wanted to use her rose pergola as the aisle.

“I don’t care what you say,” Lana mutters, pushing hard on a pin. “But I bet Benito is still hot as fuck in a tux.” She catches my stern glare in the mirror and removes her hands from my head to lean around me and remove the scissors from my reach. “Just in case.”

We’re on the road to recovery. There’s still a way to go.

“How are we, ladies?” My soon-to-be mother-in-law sweeps into the room in a stunning crimson gown that hugs her fit physique. I only hope to be as glamorous as her at Brigida’s age. “Nastasya. You’re a dream.” She tilts her head, gaze softening. “My son is a lucky man.”

“Are the guests seated?” I rise from the beauty stool and cross to where my dress hangs before the veiled window.

“They are. The violinist awaits my signal when you’re ready.”

I lift the couture gown from its hanger, Lana helping me to gather the front of the skirts to lift the bodice over my head. Between her and Brigida, I’m laced, tugged, cinched, and smoothed down, ready to go within minutes.

I stall before the full-length mirror, hands against the front of my hips.

“You look like her,” Lana murmurs, affirming my thoughts. “Your mama would have loved today.”

She would have celebrated the fact I married her best friend’s son.

My best friend.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, using the ache of my ribs against the boned bodice to snap me into the present.

My father rises to his feet when we cross into the wide hall. “Moya malen’kaya roza.”He takes my face gently between his hands, careful not to disturb my makeup as he kisses both cheeks. “Are you ready?”

I take his offered arm. “I am.”

He leads me toward the door that leads outside, Brigida scurrying ahead to give the signal.

Lana fusses with the train of my dress while we wait. “He’s going to lose his shit when he sees you.”

“Ack,” Papa chides. “Language.”

“I’m not five anymore, uncle.”

He lifts a brow, nodding toward her ample cleavage. “I see that.”

I nudge Papa. “Stop being disgusting.”

He chuckles, face softening. “I’m proud of you, Nastasya.” The fucker stares straight ahead, and I’m thankful for it. Otherwise, I’d probably cry too. “Not only for the things you did,” he says with a tilt of his chin. “But for the things you’ve yet to do.”

“I’m sure the De Santis will keep me busy as a mafia wife,” I tease.

He shakes his head, fighting a smile. “I’m sure they could, but that’s not what I mean.”

The violin starts its serenade. I prepare to walk, yet Papa holds me back.

“When you’re ready, we can discuss the details of my abdication.”

“Papa…”

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