Page 13 of Silent Vows

I sit, setting down my glass, studying her rigid posture. The sweater has slipped again, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the edge of that damned tattoo.Control.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“No.” She turns to face me, and there are tears in her eyes even as she lifts her chin defiantly. The combination of vulnerability and strength hits me like a physical blow. “But I need to.”

I gesture to the chair closer to my desk. When she sits, I catch a hint of her scent—jasmine mixed with paint thinner and something uniquely her. It makes my mouth water. Forces me to grip the arms of my chair to stay seated.

“The Calabrese family wanted to expand into your father’s territory in Queens. He refused. They made threats.” My jaw clenches at the memory. “He thought he could handle it alone. Didn’t want to involve me because he knew what they’d done to Sophia. Two days before he died, he came to me, said he needed help. But it was too late. They’d already infiltrated his security detail.”

“The shooting wasn’t random,” she whispers. Her face goes chalk white, fingers clutching the chair arms so hard I expect to hear the leather crack. A tear slips down her cheek, catching the last ray of sunlight like a diamond.

“No. His own driver betrayed him.” I lean forward, holding her gaze. Fighting the urge to wipe away that tear. “I found out too late. By the time I got to the scene…”

“Stop.” She wraps her arms around herself, and the protective gesture makes me want to kill someone. Preferably Johnny Calabrese. “Just…stop.”

Silence falls between us, heavy with unspoken grief. Outside, darkness from an impending storm creeps across the grounds like spilled ink. Soon the compound’s exterior lights will click on, turning the gardens into a floodlit security zone. But for now, wesit in the growing shadows, and I watch her try to rebuild her composure.

“The funeral is tomorrow,” I say finally, hating how inadequate the words feel.

“And our wedding the day after.” Her laugh holds no humor, the sound like broken glass. “My professors won’t believe my excuse for missing critique week.”

“You can continue your studies,” I remind her, though the thought of her leaving the compound’s protection makes my blood run cold. “That was part of our deal.”

“Our deal.” She stands again, this time moving to examine the Rembrandt more closely. The last light catches her profile, and for a moment, she could be one of Vermeer’s subjects—all quiet grace and contained passion. “Tell me, does this deal include the truth about everything? Or will I have to wait for the next attempt on my life to learn all your secrets?”

The question hangs between us like smoke. I rise, drawn to her like a moth to flame. My feet carry me across the room until I’m standing behind her, close enough to feel her body heat, to breathe in that intoxicating mix of jasmine and paint and woman. She tenses but doesn’t step away.

“There are things you don’t want to know, Isabella.”

“Bella,” she corrects automatically, still staring at the painting. Her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. “Everyone calls me Bella except you.”

“Bella,” I test the name, letting it roll off my tongue like honey. Watching goosebumps rise on her exposed shoulder, I fight the urge to trace them with my fingers, my mouth. She shivers slightly, and the movement draws my attention to the curve of her waist, the slight sway as she shifts her weight.

“Some secrets are better left buried.”

She turns suddenly, and we’re too close. Much too close. I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, count each darkeyelash, note how her pupils dilate as she looks up at me. Her lips part slightly, and I swear I can feel her breath on my skin.

“Those secrets got my father killed.”

“Those secrets keep you alive.” My voice roughens without my permission. Everything about her strips away my control—her scent, her proximity, the way she looks at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Trust that what I do, I do to protect you.”

“Like marrying me?” There’s a challenge in her tone that makes heat pool in my gut.

“Yes.”

“And sharing your bed?” The words come out barely above a whisper, but they hit me like a physical blow.

My control snaps. I catch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up. Her skin is silk under my callused fingers, and I can feel her pulse racing. “That’s not about protection,” I growl, watching her eyes darken. “That’s about making sure every man in New York knows you’re mine.”

Her breath catches, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of hazel remains. For a moment, the air between us crackles with possibility. I could close this distance, taste those parted lips, finally discover if she’s as soft as she looks. My free hand moves to her hip of its own accord, and I feel her tremble.

But then she steps back, putting a safe distance between us. The loss of her warmth is like a physical ache.

“I’m not yours,” she says quietly, though her voice shakes. “And I’m not your dead wife. I won’t be a replacement for Sophia, or a pawn in your war with the Calabrese family.”

“No,” I agree, letting my hand fall. The ghost of her skin lingers on my fingers. “You’re something far more dangerous.”

Before she can ask what I mean—before I can do something unforgivable like pull her back against me—a knock interrupts us. Antonio enters, his expression grim enough to instantly set me on edge.

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