Page 12 of Silent Vows

Iwatch Isabella take in my study with an artist’s eye, her gaze lingering on details most people miss. The late afternoon sun streaming through bulletproof windows catches the light in her hair, turning ordinary brown to burnished copper. She moves like a dream through my carefully curated space of dark walnut paneling and leather-bound books, touching nothing but seeing everything.

When she stops before the Rembrandt above the fireplace, something in my chest tightens. I acquired “The Storm on the Sea of Galilee” through less than legal means, though its official provenance is impeccable. The painting was stolen from the Gardner Museum decades ago, and it took considerable resources to track it down.

Worth every penny to see the way her eyes light up now, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to touch the canvas.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, and for a moment I forget she’s Giovanni’s daughter, forget she’s barely twenty-two, forget everything except how the sunlight loves her face. “The way he captured the light breaking through the storm clouds…”

I make a mental note to have Antonio research her favorite artists. I’ll fill this house with masterpieces if it helps ease her transition, helps make this cage feel more like home.

She’s still wearing paint-stained jeans and a loose sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing a small tattoo I hadn’t known existed before the other day. It’s a delicate thing—what appears to be a compass rose with an artist’s paintbrush as the needle. The urge to trace it with my tongue is so strong I have to clench my fists. She looks entirely out of place among the old-world luxury, yet somehow she belongs here more than any of the polished society women who’ve tried to claim this space.

God knows they’ve tried. After Sophia, it seemed every family with an eligible daughter suddenly needed my “counsel.” They’d arrive in designer dresses and expensive perfume, these carefully crafted dolls with their practiced smiles and calculated moves. Some were subtle, some were obvious, all were ambitious. I sent them away with varying degrees of politeness, depending on how persistent they proved.

But Isabella…she’s different. Real in a way they never were, with paint under her nails and creativity burning in her eyes. She’s not trying to be anything except what she is, and that makes her more dangerous than all the society climbers combined.

“Drink?” I offer, moving to the bar cart before I do something stupid like kiss that tattoo.

“I don’t—” She stops herself, squaring those delicate shoulders. “Actually, yes. Make it strong.”

I pour two fingers of scotch for each of us, noting how her hands shake slightly as she takes the crystal tumbler. She chooses the leather armchair farthest from my desk, curling into it like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Paint smudges her cheekbone—green this time—and my fingers itch to wipe it away.

Control. I need to maintain control. But she makes it nearly impossible, perched in my chair like some wild creature accidentally brought indoors. Everything about her calls to something primitive in me—something that wants to claim, to possess, to mark. The same something I’ve been fighting since she turned eighteen and stopped being Gio’s little girl in my mind.

“Your daughter hates me,” she says finally, staring into her drink. The crystal catches the light, throwing amber shadows across her throat. I force my eyes away.

“Bianca hates everyone.” I settle behind my desk, needing the barrier between us. The mahogany expanse feels like my last line of defense against the urge to touch her. “She’s been…difficult since her mother died.”

“Died?” Her eyes snap to mine, and Christ, those eyes could bring empires to their knees. Hazel with flecks of gold, artist’s eyes that see too much. “Or had an ‘unfortunate accident’?”

The bitterness in her voice cuts deep. My grip tightens on my glass as memories surface—memories I’ve spent a decade trying to bury. “Sophia was murdered,” I say flatly. “Ten years ago. The Calabrese family sent her back to me in pieces.”

A lie. But Isabella doesn’t need to know that.

The color drains from Isabella’s face. She’s always been pale, even with her olive undertones, but now she goes almost translucent, the green paint smudge on her cheek standing out like a bruise. She downs her scotch in one go, barely wincing at the burn. I’m impressed despite myself—society girls usually sip their drinks, trying to appear delicate. But Isabella drinks like someone who’s been to her share of college parties, someone who knows how to handle her liquor.

The thought of her at parties, of other men’s eyes on her, makes something dark curl in my gut.

“Why?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Because I wouldn’t sell them territory in Brooklyn.” My knuckles whiten around my glass as the memories flood back. “Because they wanted to prove they could take what was mine. Because they’re sadistic bastards who—” I cut myself off, reining in the rage that still burns hot after a decade.

“And now they want me.” It’s not a question.

“They want to destroy me,” I correct, watching her process this. “You’re just their chosen method this time.”

Isabella stands abruptly, pacing to the window. The sun catches her hair, turning the dark strands to fire. She’s beautiful—all wild grace and unconscious sensuality. The paint-stained jeans hug curves that her baggy sweater tries to hide, and that damn tattoo keeps peeking out, taunting me.

“My father knew about Sophia?” The question draws my attention back to her face. In the weak light, shadows play across her features, highlighting the delicate architecture of her cheekbones, the vulnerable line of her throat.

“He helped me hunt down the men responsible.” I stand, unable to remain seated with her looking like that—like some tragic heroine in an oil painting, all beauty and sorrow backlit by the sun.

“Did you kill them?”

“Yes.” No point lying to her now. She’ll need to understand what our world is really like. WhatI’mreally like. “Your father helped me track them. Each one died slower than the last.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, watching the gardens below where security teams patrol the perimeter. Her fingers trace patterns on the glass—artist’s fingers, long and elegant, stained with various colors. I imagine those fingers on my skin and have to turn away, pouring myself another drink.

“Will you tell me what really happened to my father?”

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