Page 15 of Silent Vows

My hands shake as I open the garment bag containing my funeral dress. Black Valentino, the fabric so fine it feels like water between my fingers. The design is elegantly simple—knee-length with long sleeves and a high neck, perfectly appropriate for a Mafia princess burying her father. My mother’s choice, of course. Cher had shown up an hour ago with an entire team of stylists and her usual acid tongue.

“Really, darling,” she’d said, eyeing me with disdain. “This artistic phase has served its purpose, but it’s time to be who you were born to be. The DeLuca name comes with certain expectations.”

I’d bit back a retort about what exactly I was born to be. A pawn? A replacement? A pretty puppet in designer clothes?

A knock at the bedroom door makes me jump. “Miss Bella?” It’s Maria, the housekeeper. “Mr. DeLuca asked me to bring you these.”

The older woman enters, her silver hair neatly coiled at her nape, warm brown eyes crinkling with kindness. She’s exactly what a grandmother should look like, from her sensible shoes to her pressed uniform, and something about her gentle presence eases the tension in my shoulders.

She carries a stack of shopping bags—Neiman Marcus, Bergdorf Goodman, La Perla. The signature colors andlogos mock me with their luxury. “He said you might need…everything.”

Everything. Because the Calabrese family had destroyed everything I owned. My throat tightens as I think of my ruined supplies—the specialized brushes I’d collected over years, the imported paints I’d saved up for, the sketchbooks filled with ideas and dreams. All gone, replaced with designer labels and price tags that probably equal my yearly tuition.

“Thank you, Maria.”

“Do you need help?—”

“No,” I say quickly, needing to be alone with my grief, my anger, my confusion. “No, I can manage.”

Once Maria leaves, I dump the bags onto the massive bed. The contents spill out like a fashion magazine exploded—cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, tailored pants, all in a muted palette of blacks and grays and creams. Everything in exactly my size, because of course Matteo would know my measurements. The thought makes heat rise to my cheeks.

Then I find the La Perla bag.

My breath catches as I pull out piece after piece of barely-there lingerie. Emerald silk and black lace, delicate straps and strategic cutouts. A negligee that would fall like water to my thighs. A bra set that costs more than my monthly rent. Things designed to entice, to seduce, to submit.

The message is clear: I’m to look the part of a Mafia don’s wife. Every inch of me, even the parts only he will see, must be perfectly curated.

The bedroom door opens again, this time without a knock. Matteo strides in, and my heart stutters to a stop.

He stops short at the sight of me in just a towel, and the air in the room suddenly feels electric. Even after hours of meetings, he looks devastating in his tailored suit—all controlled power and lethal grace. His jacket stretches across broad shoulders thatmake me feel delicate in comparison. His hair, usually perfectly styled, is slightly mussed as if he’s been running his fingers through it. The silver at his temples catches the lamplight, and something low in my belly tightens at the sight.

“I—I thought you were still in your meeting,” I stammer, clutching the towel tighter. That’s what I had been told—that Matteo would be busy until late. Water drips from my hair down my back, and I’m acutely aware of how little I’m wearing. The towel suddenly feels too short, too thin. Every drop of water sliding down my skin feels like a caress, and from the way his eyes darken, he’s tracking their path.

“It ended early.” His voice is rough, deeper than usual. The sound sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with being cold. “The Calabrese family sent another message.”

Fear slices through my embarrassment, dousing it like cold water. “What kind of message?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” The dismissive tone should infuriate me—and it does—but it’s hard to focus on anger when he’s looking at me like that. He loosens his tie with one hand, a gesture that shouldn’t be erotic but somehow is. The suit jacket comes off next, revealing a crisp white shirt that does nothing to hide the power in his frame.

“The funeral.” My knees suddenly feel weak as reality crashes back. I sink onto the edge of the bed, among all the shopping bags. “I don’t know if I can…”

Matteo crosses to me in two long strides, kneeling before me. This close, I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, smell the lingering traces of his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine. His eyes hold mine—steel blue with hints of gray, like a storm over water—and my breath catches in my throat.

“You can,” he says softly, and the gentleness in his voice undoes me more than any show of force could. “You’re stronger than you know, Isabella.”

“Bella,” I correct automatically, then want to laugh at myself for caring about names when he’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. A drop of water falls from my hair onto his hand where it rests near my knee, and I watch his fingers twitch.

His lips quirk slightly. “Bella,” he concedes, reaching up to brush a wet strand of hair from my cheek. The gesture is surprisingly gentle for hands I know have killed. His callused fingers graze my skin, and my entire body comes alive at the touch.

I should pull away. Should grab my new clothes and retreat to the bathroom. Should maintain some distance between us. But I find myself leaning into his touch instead, my body betraying me as it has since that first moment in his office. He smells like scotch and danger and something uniquely male that makes my head spin.

“Tell me about him?” I whisper, desperate to break this tension before I do something stupid like trace that stubble with my fingers. “My father. Not…not the Mafia don everyone feared. Tell me about my father, your friend.”

Something soft crosses Matteo’s face, transforming his features from dangerous to devastating. He rises from his crouch to sit beside me on the bed, close enough that his thigh brushes mine through the towel. The contact sends electricity skittering across my skin.

“He was the best man I knew,” Matteo says, his voice warm with memory. “And the worst poker player.” His chuckle resonates through me, making my stomach flip. “He’d tell the same terrible jokes at every family dinner, and your mother would pretend to be embarrassed, but she’d laugh every time.”

“I remember those dinners.” I pull my knees to my chest, careful of the towel even as I’m aware of Matteo’s gaze sliding over my bare legs. Water droplets trail down my calves, and I swear I hear his breath catch. “Before…before everything got complicated.”

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