Page 17 of Silent Vows

Gio deserved better than the political theater his funeral became. Every family in New York sent representatives, each condolence offered with precise measurement of power and threat. The church had been packed with our world’s most dangerous players, all of them watching, assessing how the DeLuca-Russo alliance would reshape the landscape.

But it was Bella who commanded the space, even in her grief. She stood beside me in that elegant black Valentino, her spine straight as steel despite the dark circles under her eyes that even careful makeup couldn’t quite hide. Her hand had trembled slightly when I helped her from the car, but no one else would have noticed. By the time she reached the church steps, she was every inch a donna.

The memory of her at the pulpit haunts me. Standing there in profile like a Renaissance painting of a saint, her voice neverwavering as she spoke about her father. “He taught me that true strength lies not in power over others, but in remaining true to yourself.” Her eyes had met mine then, a clear challenge in their hazel depths.

Even grieving, she fought against the cage I was building around her.

Father Romano’s sermon had dragged on, filled with carefully coded messages about family and loyalty. I barely heard it, too focused on the slight tremor in Bella’s shoulders, the way she bit her lip to keep from crying. I wanted to reach for her, to offer comfort, but comfort wasn’t what she needed from me. Not when I’m the one forcing her into this marriage, this life.

The nauseating sweetness of too many flower arrangements had filled the air, competing with Cher’s perfectly theatrical displays of grief. Gio’s wife had played her part well—dabbing at carefully smudged mascara, leaning on her brother-in-law Carmine’s arm at just the right moments.

But I saw how her eyes kept darting to the other families’ representatives, measuring their reactions, calculating her next move.

Now, hours later, the rain matches the heaviness in my chest. Bella hasn’t spoken since we returned to the compound, disappearing to our room immediately. I should be with her, but there were too many fires to put out—the thinly veiled threats from the Calabrese family, Carmine’s endless machinations, the other families’ probing questions about tomorrow’s wedding.

I miss Giovanni with an ache that surprises me. He should have been here today, sharing cigars and memories, teasing me about becoming his son-in-law. Instead, I had to watch his daughter stand alone, had to field questions about how quickly I’m claiming her. The politics of it all leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

My phone buzzes. Another message from Johnny Calabrese. I delete it without reading it. Whatever new threat it contains can wait. Right now, I need a drink and silence. The scotch burns going down, but it does nothing to ease the weight of memory, of duty, of the growing need to check on Bella.

The study door opens softly, and my heart stops. Bella slips in like a ghost in black silk, her hair falling loose around her shoulders in dark waves. Tears shine on her cheeks, but there’s something else in her eyes—something that makes my blood heat despite the solemnity of the day.

The robe she’s wearing clings to curves I shouldn’t notice, especially not today. But I’m only human, and she’s devastating in her unconscious grace. Her feet are bare beneath the hem, making her look somehow more vulnerable and more dangerous at once.

“I thought you’d be here,” she says softly, closing the door behind her. The click of the latch sounds final, intimate.

I set down my scotch, needing my hands empty before I do something unforgivable. “You should be resting. Tomorrow?—”

“I don’t want to think about tomorrow.” She moves to the bar cart with fluid grace, pouring herself a generous measure of scotch. The robe shifts as she moves, revealing glimpses of black lace underneath that make my mouth go dry. “Tell me about the threats. The ones you’ve been hiding from me.”

“Bella—”

“Don’t.” She turns to face me, and Christ, she’s beautiful in her fury. Fire burns in her eyes despite her tears, and her chest rises and falls rapidly with emotion. “Don’t treat me like something fragile. My father’s dead, I’m marrying you tomorrow, and Johnny Calabrese wants to destroy us both. I deserve to knoweverything.”

I study her for a long moment, struggling to maintain control. The silk robe clings to every curve, and a drop of waterfrom her damp hair trails down her neck, disappearing beneath black lace. She looks like every fantasy I’ve denied having—vulnerable yet fierce, innocent yet knowing. The urge to taste that drop of water, to follow its path with my tongue, is almost overwhelming.

“They’ve been watching you,” I admit finally, forcing myself to focus on the threat rather than how her lips part at my words. “For months. They knew about your art shows, your favorite coffee shop, your morning routine at the gym.”

She takes a long swallow of scotch, and I watch her throat work, entranced. Her hand shakes slightly as she lowers the glass. “Before or after they killed my father?”

“Before. They were always going to come for you.” I stand, drawn to her like a moth to flame. When I move closer, I can smell her signature jasmine perfume mixed with something uniquely her. It makes my head spin more than the scotch. “Your father knew. That’s why he asked me to protect you.”

“By marrying me?” Bitterness edges her voice, but I see how her breath quickens as I approach. Her pupils dilate, a flush creeping up her neck.

“By any means necessary.”

She sets down her glass with a sharp click. “And what about Sophia? Did you protect her by any means necessary too?”

The question hits like a physical blow, but I barely register the pain. Not when she’s looking up at me like that, defiance warring with something darker, hungrier.

“Don’t,” I warn her, feeling like I’m standing at the precipice.

“Why not?” She steps closer, tilting her head back to meet my eyes. This close, I can see the gold flecks in her hazel irises, count each dark eyelash still damp with tears. “I’m wearing her ring tomorrow, sleeping in her bed. Don’t I deserve to know how she died?”

“You know how she died.” The words come out sharper than intended, but Bella doesn’t flinch. Instead, she steps closer, and the heat of her body tests every ounce of my control.

“I know what you told me. That the Calabrese family killed her. But why? What really happened?”

“Isabella.” Her full name comes out as a warning, but even I’m not sure what I’m warning her against—pushing me about Sophia or standing so close I can feel her breath on my skin.

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