Page 10 of Silent Vows

My phone chimes for the hundredth time. Elena, my best friend, has been texting nonstop since I told her about the arrangement. Just thinking about that conversation makes my chest tight. The shock on her face when I finally admitted what happened to my father…She’d gone pale but hadn’t run away. Instead, she grabbed my hands and started planning our escape.

You can’t marry him!her latest text reads.We can run. I have contacts, we can disappear.

My hand trembles as I respond.They’d find us. They always do.

Elena’s been my touchstone of normalcy since freshman year. The one person who just saw me as Bella, the art student who always had paint under her nails, not Isabella Russo, daughter of one of New York’s most powerful men. I tried so hard to keep my two worlds separate, to be just another college student. Now those worlds are colliding in the most violent way possible, and I’m terrified Elena will get caught in the crossfire.

I turn back to my painting, studying the dark twisted thing emerging on the canvas. Professor Martinez would be shocked. Gone are my usual cityscapes and subtle shadows, the careful studies of light and form. This piece screams of cage bars and broken wings, of deals made in blood, and promises that feel like chains. Maybe I’ll submit it for my thesis—Arranged Marriage in Oils. The thought brings a bitter laugh to my lips.

A knock at my studio door makes me jump, paintbrush clattering to the floor. “We’re closed,” I call out, even though the gallery hasn’t been open since my father’s death. The brief moment of dark humor evaporates, replaced by immediate tension.

“Miss Russo.” The voice belongs to one of Matteo’s men—I recognize him from the hospital. “Mr. DeLuca sent a car. You need to come with me now.”

“I’m working,” I say firmly, though my heart races. Who does Matteo think he is, sending his men to collect me like I’m some package to be delivered? Just because I agreed to this marriage doesn’t mean I’m his possession. Not yet, anyway. I bend down to pick up my paintbrush. “Tell Mr. DeLuca?—”

“Johnny Calabrese was spotted in the area.” The man’s voice drops. “Please, Miss. Don’t make this difficult.”

My blood runs cold at the name. The paintbrush I’d just retrieved slips from my suddenly numb fingers. Through the studio windows, I catch glimpses of black SUVs lining the street.

Matteo’s not taking chances with his investment.

“Let me pack my supplies,” I manage, proud that my voice remains steady as I quickly text Elena what’s happening. My hands shake as I gather my brushes, trying to focus on the familiar motions instead of the panic clawing at my chest.

My phone buzzes again—Elena.

Bella, no! Don’t go with them. I’m five minutes away.

My fingers hover over the keys. Sweet, fierce Elena, always ready to fight my battles. But there’s nothing normal about this situation, and I won’t drag her into danger. Not when I’ve seen the casual violence my father’s world is capable of.

Not when I know what men like Johnny Calabrese do to people who get in their way.

Stay away, I type back, hoping she’ll listen.It’s too dangerous, E. I’ll explain later. Just trust me.

I’m shoving brushes into my bag when movement outside catches my eye. A man stands across the street, watching my studio with predatory intent. He’s handsome in a cruel way—expensive suit, perfectly styled dark hair, the kind of face that belongs in boardrooms and charity galas. But his dark eyes…his eyes remind me of a documentary I once saw about great white sharks. Dead. Soulless. Hungry.

Even without ever having met him, I know it’s Johnny Calabrese. Our eyes meet through the window, and his smile makes my skin crawl. It’s the smile of a man who enjoys breaking beautiful things.

“Miss Russo.” Matteo’s man sounds urgent now. “We need to go.”

I grab my bag, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. The guard—a mountain of a man with close-cropped gray hair and scars on his knuckles—leads me through the back exit. More men in black suits materialize, surrounding me like a moving wall. The autumn air hits my face, carrying the scent of exhaust and rain and fear. Every car horn makes me flinch. Every shadow seems to hide a threat.

They hustle me into a waiting SUV, the leather seats cool against my paint-stained jeans. The interior smells new and expensive—leather and that distinct new car smell mixed with subtle hints of gunmetal that make my stomach turn. Just as the door closes, I hear shouting from the street.

“Drive,” the guard orders, and the car peels away from the curb.

Through the tinted windows, I see Johnny Calabrese watching our departure, phone pressed to his ear. The casual menace in his stance, the way he tracks our movement…bile rises in my throat. This is what I would have been condemned to if I hadn’t agreed to marry Matteo. This is what my father died trying to protect me from.

“Where are we going?” I ask, though I already know.

“The compound,” the guard answers. “Mr. DeLuca’s orders.”

Of course. The DeLuca compound—my gilded prison for the foreseeable future. I close my eyes, memories washing over me. I haven’t been there since I was twelve, back when I still thought my father’s world was normal. The sprawling estate had seemed magical then, with its manicured gardens and marble fountains. I’d spend hours sketching the classical statuary, fascinated by the way the Italian gardens created perfect lines of sight.

Now I wonder how many of those sight lines were designed for security rather than beauty.

The car winds through Manhattan traffic, taking a circuitous route that I recognize as a security measure. Past Madison Avenue’s gleaming storefronts, through the Upper East Side where old money hides behind historic facades, across the bridge where the city gives way to old estates and older money. Each mile takes me further from my life, from my dreams, from everything I’ve worked so hard to build.

My phone buzzes one final time before we leave the city proper. It’s my mother.

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