Page 11 of Silent Vows

Really, darling? Matteo DeLuca? Well, I suppose you could do worse. At least he’s wealthy. We’ll need to get you properly dressed—that paint-splattered look won’t do for a donna.

Tears sting my eyes and I refuse to answer. My father’s not even buried, and she’s already planning my society debut as Matteo’s wife. But that’s Cher Russo for you—always focusing on appearances, on status, on how to climb higher in our world’s twisted social hierarchy.

She never understood why I preferred paint-stained jeans to designer dresses, why I chose art studios over charity committees. “You could be so beautiful,” she’d sigh, eyeing my messy hair and practical clothes with disappointment. “If you’d just try.”

As if beauty was the only currency that mattered. As if I could paint with perfectly manicured nails or create while constrained in Chanel.

I turn off my phone, watching the city fade away through the window. The skyline retreats behind us—my beloved New York with its endless inspiration, its constant pulse of life and creativity, its promise of freedom. In its place, the old money suburbs rise with their stone walls and security gates. Each property we pass is its own fortress, each mansion its own carefully guarded kingdom.

An hour later, the SUV pulls through imposing iron gates marked with the DeLuca family crest. The compound rises before us, and my breath catches despite myself. It’s even more impressive than I remembered—a sprawling Italian villa in pale stone, three stories of old-world elegance backed by thoroughly modern security. Roses climb the walls, their last autumn blooms adding splashes of bloodred to the cream-colored stone. Fountains dance in the circular drive, the water catching late afternoon light like scattered diamonds.

It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s my prison.

As we pull up to the front steps, I see Matteo waiting, his broad shoulders tense under his suit jacket. The sight of him makes my pulse jump traitorously. Even I can’t deny hispresence—the way he commands attention simply by existing, the dangerous grace in his movements, the intensity in his steel-blue eyes that makes my skin feel too tight.

Behind him stands a girl who can only be his daughter. Bianca DeLuca is stunning in that particular way that comes from both genetics and expensive maintenance—all glossy dark hair, perfect makeup, and designer clothes that probably cost more than the average New Yorker’s annual salary. She has Matteo’s eyes, and right now they’re filled with pure hatred.

“Welcome home,” Matteo says as he opens my car door, offering his hand.

I ignore it, stepping out on my own. “This isn’t my home.”

“It is now.” His voice softens slightly, and something in his tone makes heat curl in my stomach. I hate my body’s reaction to him, hate that even now, even knowing what’s happening, I can’t help but respond to his presence. “Johnny made contact?”

“He was watching my studio.”

Something dangerous flashes in Matteo’s eyes. He turns to one of his men, giving rapid orders in Italian. The language rolls off his tongue like silk over steel, and I force myself to look away, to not notice how his jaw clenches with controlled rage.

When he looks back at me, his expression is unreadable. “We’ll get your things from your apartment tomorrow. For now, Maria will show you to your room.” He pauses, and my heart stumbles. “Our room.”

“I’d rather stay in a guest room,” I say quickly, heat flooding my cheeks.

“Not possible.” His tone brooks no argument. “Appearances matter, especially now. The other families will be watching for any sign of weakness.”

“Heaven forbid you appear weak,” Bianca cuts in, her voice dripping with disdain. “I’m sure Bella understandsallabout appearances. Don’t you, future stepmother?”

“Bianca.” Matteo’s warning is clear.

“What? I’m just welcoming my new mom. Should I call you Mama Bella?” Bianca’s smile is razor-sharp, cutting me to the bone. She’s everything I’m not—polished, perfect, bred for this world of power and violence. My mother will adore her. “Though you might not want to get too comfortable. Dad’s wives tend to have…unfortunate accidents.”

Wait, what? What is that supposed to mean?

“Enough!” Matteo’s roar echoes off the marble steps. “Bianca, go to your room.Now.”

The girl tosses her dark hair and stalks inside, leaving me with more questions than answers. Wives? Accidents?

What exactly had Matteo DeLuca done to earn his daughter’s hatred?

“Isabella.” Matteo’s voice draws my attention back. “We need to talk.”

Looking up at him—this man who will be my husband in less than forty-eight hours—I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the autumn air. His eyes hold secrets darker than anything I’ve painted, promises I’m not sure I want to understand.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I believe we do.”

A wind stirs the roses, sending their sweet scent mixing with Matteo’s cologne. Behind us, the iron gates close with a sound of finality. There’s no going back now. My old life, like my father, is dead. All that remains is to discover what kind of woman I’ll become in this new one—and whether I’ll survive the transformation.

6

MATTEO

---