Page 19 of Silent Vows

Tomorrow she becomes my wife. Tonight, I’ll make sure everyone understands exactly what that means.

Starting with Johnny fucking Calabrese.

9

BELLA

The wedding dress hangs like a ghost in the predawn light, mocking me with its perfection. Yards of Italian silk and French lace cascade from delicate cap sleeves to a cathedral train, the bodice hand beaded with thousands of tiny crystals that catch the gray morning light. It’s a Vera Wang masterpiece, the kind of dress I used to sketch in the margins of my notebooks during boring lectures.

But in my dreams, my father was always there to walk me down the aisle.

I curl tighter into the window seat of my studio, pulling the cashmere throw closer around my shoulders. I haven’t slept, couldn’t sleep, not after what happened in Matteo’s study. My lips still tingle from his kisses, my skin burning everywhere his hands touched me. The memory of his mouth on my neck makes heat pool low in my belly even now.

God, the way he’d kissed me. Not gentle or hesitant, but demanding, possessive, like a man starving. The taste of him—scotch and smoke and something darker, more dangerous—haunts me. His groans when I’d touched his chest, the way he’d growled my name against my throat, how his hands had feltsliding up my thighs…I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes the memories more vivid.

My studio, at least, offers some refuge from the madness. Matteo had it prepared before I arrived, setting it up on the third floor with windows facing east to catch the morning light. The space is bigger than my apartment, with pristine white walls, perfect track lighting, and enough room for multiple easels. He even stocked it with better supplies than I’ve ever owned—imported paints, handmade brushes, canvases of every size.

Another gilded cage, but at least this one speaks my language.

I painted until my arms ached last night, trying to capture the storm inside me. Grief for my father weights every brushstroke—not just that he’s gone, but that his death has forced me into exactly the life he tried to protect me from. Rage follows close behind, that the Calabrese family could just decide to destroy our lives, that I have to marry for protection like some medieval princess.

And then there’s Matteo.

The canvas before me tells that story too well—dark swirls of midnight blue and crimson, shot through with glints of gold. The colors of desire and danger, of attraction I shouldn’t feel and safety I can’t trust. How can I want a man who represents everything I’ve tried to escape? How can my body crave his touch even as my mind rebels against his control?

A knock at the studio door makes me tense. “Go away, Maria. I know it’s time.”

“It’s not Maria.” Elena’s voice comes through the door, followed by her striking presence. My best friend is everything I’m not—tall, willowy, with the kind of blonde beauty that turns heads. This morning she’s perfectly put together in a pale blue dress that makes her eyes look like sapphires, her honey-blondehair falling in elegant waves past her shoulders. Even at this ungodly hour, she looks like she stepped off a magazine cover.

“Elena.” My voice breaks as I launch myself at her. Just having her here makes me feel less alone, less like I’m drowning. “You came.”

“Of course I came.” She hugs me tight, then holds me at arm’s length to examine me. Her perfect features draw into a frown. “You look like hell, B. Did you sleep at all?”

“How did you get past security?” I change the subject, not wanting her to know the truth.

“Please.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s something tight around her mouth. “I do all the event planning for these families. The guards know me.” She pauses, those striking blue eyes turning serious. “There’s still time to run.”

I shake my head, moving to study my painting. Elena’s the best event planner in New York, especially for our world’s particular brand of parties. She can make a mob wedding look like a royal celebration, knows exactly how to arrange seating to prevent blood feuds, and can spot an undercover FBI agent at fifty paces.

But even she can’t plan an escape from this.

“You know there isn’t.”

“Then tell me what happened last night. Maria said you never came to bed, and Matteo…” She trails off meaningfully.

Heat floods my cheeks as the memories rush back—Matteo’s hands tangled in my hair, his mouth hot on my neck, the way he’d growled my name like it was something sacred and profane at once. The way his chest felt under my hands, all hard muscle and heated skin…

“Oh my God.” Elena’s eyes widen as she takes in what must be a very telling blush. “You slept with him?”

“No! We just…almost…” I can’t even form coherent thoughts about it. How do I explain that I wanted him so badly itscared me? That part of me wishes Antonio hadn’t interrupted? That I’m equal parts relieved and disappointed we didn’t finish what we started?

“Details. Now.” Elena’s demand is cut short as the studio door bursts open. My mother sweeps in like a perfectly coiffed hurricane, her Chanel suit impeccable, her platinum hair styled just so. Even at dawn, Cher Russo looks ready for a society photograph. A team of stylists trails in her wake, laden with bags and equipment, their faces a mix of determination and fear.

“Isabella Marie Russo!” Her voice could cut glass. “What are you doing hiding in here? In your paint clothes, no less! The hair and makeup team has been waiting for an hour.”

“Mom—”

“No arguments. You’re marrying one of the most powerful men in New York in four hours. You will look perfect.” She snaps her fingers at the stylists. “Get her cleaned up. And someone do something about those paint stains under her nails.”

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