Page 20 of Silent Vows

Elena squeezes my hand before the whirlwind of preparations sweeps me away. Soon I’m seated in front of my vanity, surrounded by people intent on transforming me into someone I barely recognize. The irony isn’t lost on me—this is what I’ve been doing all my life, trying to paint myself into something I’m not. Only now it’s being done for me.

I catch glimpses of myself in the mirror as they work. My dark hair is being curled and pinned in an elaborate style that somehow looks both elegant and effortless. Makeup artists turn my pale skin luminous, define my eyes until they look huge and haunted in my face. My hands—my artist’s hands with their telltale stains and calluses—are being scrubbed and buffed into submission.

“The foundation needs to be heavier,” my mother critiques, circling like a shark. “Those dark circles are atrocious. And do something about that rebellious curl at her nape.”

“She looks beautiful,” Elena interjects, earning a glacial stare from Cher.

“Beautiful isn’t enough. She needs to be flawless. The other families will be watching her every move, analyzing every detail.” My mother’s perfectly painted lips twist. “The DeLuca name comes with certain expectations.”

I close my eyes, trying to block out her voice, but it only makes everything more intense. This should be a happy day. I should be surrounded by bridesmaids and champagne, giggling about my honeymoon and my future. Instead, I’m being polished like a weapon, prepared for a marriage that feels more like a funeral.

“The dress is Vera Wang,” my mother continues, directing the chaos like a general. “The emeralds are from the DeLuca family collection—they belonged to Matteo’s grandmother, then his first wife.”

My stomach lurches at the mention of Sophia. Another ghost haunting this wedding. “Mom, please?—”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, darling. Sophia’s been dead for years. Though you might want to avoid emeralds at first, just to be safe. Speaking of safe…” Her voice drops to a stage whisper, eyes gleaming with gossip. “I hear Johnny Calabrese paid a visit last night.”

The makeup artist’s hand jerks at the mention of Johnny, smudging eyeliner across my temple. I barely notice, my mind flying back to the interruption in Matteo’s study. The way his body had tensed against mine, how quickly passion had turned to rage at the mention of those photos. What happened after I fled? What evidence did Johnny have?

“For God’s sake,” my mother snaps at the makeup artist, her beautiful features twisting into irritation. “Are you qualified to do anything besides ruin my daughter’s wedding photos? Fix it.Now.”

A commotion in the hallway saves me from my mother’s continued criticism. Maria appears in the doorway, her kind face pinched with anxiety. “Miss Bella? Mr. DeLuca sent this for you.”

She holds out a large black velvet box. Inside, nestled on white silk, lies a delicate gold chain supporting a stunning oval pendant. My breath catches—it’s my painting from last night, perfectly reproduced in miniature enamel and gold, backed by a spiral of tiny diamonds. Every brushstroke I made in my midnight frenzy has been captured with exquisite detail, the dark blues and crimsons swirling around hints of gold.

How did he do this so quickly? More importantly, why? The note accompanying it makes my heart race.

You see the beauty in the darkness. Wear this today instead of Sophia’s emeralds. -M

“But the tradition—” my mother begins to protest, gaping at the necklace.

“I’m wearing this,” I cut her off, my voice firm for the first time today as Elena helps me put it on. My fingers trace the pendant, remembering how Matteo had looked at my painting when he’d come to the studio last night after dealing with Johnny.

He hadn’t said a word when he entered, just studied the canvas for a long moment. I’d tensed, expecting him to try to resume what we’d started in his study. The air had crackled between us with unfinished desire, but he’d maintained his distance.

Still, his presence had filled the room like smoke, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. When he finally left, the ghost of his cologne lingered, reminding me of how his skin had tasted under my lips.

A sharp knock shatters my reverie. Bianca enters, already dressed in her bridesmaid’s gown of deep blue silk. She looksexactly like what a Mafia princess should be—all elegant angles and expensive grace. Her dark hair is swept up in a complicated twist, her makeup perfect, her entire demeanor radiating cold disdain. The resemblance to her father is striking, especially in the way she holds herself—like she owns every room she enters.

“Dad wants to know if you’re still going through with it,” she says bluntly.

The room falls silent. Even my mother stops her fussing to stare at me, waiting for my response.

I meet Bianca’s eyes in the mirror—steel blue like Matteo’s, yet harder somehow. I touch the pendant as if to ground myself. “Tell him I’ll see him at the altar.”

She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Even after what Johnny revealed last night?”

My hand freezes on the pendant. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know?” Bianca’s smile is cruel, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “About how my mother really died? About Dad’s part in it?”

“Bianca!” Maria tries to intervene, her voice desperate, twisting her hands in agitation. “This isn’t the time?—”

“No,” Bianca shoots back, “she should know what she’s marrying into. Grandfather Giuseppe would have?—”

“Don’t.” Matteo’s voice cuts like steel. “Don’t ever presume to know what he would have wanted.”

I’ve never heard that tone from him before. It’s not anger—it’s something deeper, darker. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

---