Page 22 of Silent Vows

My response had been equally coded. “Touch her and I’ll send you back to your father in pieces.”

Now he sits in my cathedral, wearing that same Brioni suit like armor, his presence a deliberate provocation. But before I can dwell on it, the first notes of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” fill the space, and everything else fades away.

Bella appears in the doorway, and my heart actually stops. She’s a vision in white Vera Wang lace, the dress somehow both elegant and ethereal. The bodice hugs her curves before flowing into a skirt that seems to float with each step. But it’s her hair that catches me—she took my suggestion, letting it fall in loose waves down her back, tiny diamonds scattered throughout like stars against dark silk. The style makes her look younger, more vulnerable, yet somehow more powerful too.

A murmur ripples through the crowd. I catch fragments of whispered appreciation, of calculated assessment. “Stunning.” “So young.” “The DeLuca bride.” She’s being weighed and measured by every eye in the cathedral, and she knows it.

My pendant rests at her throat instead of Sophia’s emeralds, and possessive satisfaction burns in my chest. I’d made the decision last night after seeing her painting—that swirl of midnight blue and crimson, shot through with gold. It spoke to something in me, that blend of darkness and light, danger and beauty. Just like her. I’d paid an obscene amount to have it replicated in precious metals and stones within hours, butseeing it grace her throat instead of Sophia’s cursed emeralds makes it worth every penny.

She walks alone, her chin lifted in quiet defiance. She’d refused Carmine’s offer to give her away, causing another wave of whispers to sweep through the church. I see Cher’s frozen society smile, the muscle working in Carmine’s jaw at the public slight. But Bella moves as though she doesn’t notice, each step precise and measured, her eyes locked on mine.

When our gazes meet, electricity shoots through me. There’s challenge in those hazel depths, but something else too—something that makes my blood heat as I remember her gasps in my study last night, the way she’d melted against me, the taste of her skin.

Soon she’ll be mine in every way, and the thought makes it hard to breathe.

My gaze shifts briefly to Bianca, standing stiffly in her deep blue bridesmaid’s dress. Her smile is brittle as glass, reminding me of our confrontation after I left Bella’s suite earlier.

“You’re making a mistake,” she’d hissed, catching me in the hallway. “She’s not ready for this world. She’s not?—”

“Enough.” I’d kept my voice low, conscious of the bustling preparations around us. “This isn’t about readiness. This is about survival.”

“Like it was with Mom?” Her eyes—so like mine—had filled with tears she refused to let fall. “How long before history repeats itself?”

Now she stands at the altar, every inch a DeLuca in her perfect posture and controlled expression, but I see the tremor in her hands as she clutches her bouquet. She’s so young, still carrying the wounds of her mother’s death, and here I am giving her a stepmother barely five years her senior.

But then Bella reaches the altar, close enough that I catch the scent of jasmine and something uniquely her. Her handstremble slightly as she holds her bouquet of white roses, but her eyes meet mine steadily. Strong. Defiant. Alive in a way Sophia never was.

“Dearly beloved,” Father Romano begins, his youthful face solemn beneath his vestments. He’s been the family priest for years, and he plays his part well. Too well, perhaps.

I barely hear the words of the ceremony. I’m too focused on Bella’s profile, the elegant line of her throat where my pendant rests, the way she holds herself like a queen despite her obvious nervousness.She’ll make a magnificent donna, I think.If she survives what’s coming.

The thought of what’s coming sobers me. Somewhere in the cathedral, Johnny’s men wait for any sign of weakness. One wrong move, one hint that this marriage isn’t absolutely real, and Bella’s life is forfeit. My hands don’t shake as I take the massive diamond ring—not Sophia’s, never Sophia’s—and prepare to slide it onto her finger.

“I take you, Isabella Marie Russo, to be my wife,” I pronounce clearly, letting my voice carry to the back of the cathedral. Making sure every family, every potential threat, hears the possession in my tone. “To have and to hold, to protect and cherish, until death do us part.”

She starts slightly at my deviation from the traditional vows—the added “protect” a message to both her and our audience. A faint flush colors her cheeks, and something warm flickers in her eyes. Pride, maybe. Or understanding.

Her voice is steady as she repeats her own vows, though her pulse flutters visibly at her throat where my pendant rests. Each word is clear, deliberate, a performance for our audience but something more too. When she says “to be your wife,” her eyes meet mine with such intensity that heat pools in my gut.

“You may kiss the bride.”

I cup her face in my hands, gentler than I was last night but no less possessive. Her lips part slightly in surprise at my tenderness, and I take full advantage. The kiss is both a claim and a promise—deep enough to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that this marriage is real, tender enough to make her melt against me despite herself. Her free hand clutches my lapel, and I feel her slight gasp against my mouth.

She tastes of mint and something sweeter, and the small sound she makes when I deepen the kiss nearly breaks my control. I want to devour her right here, show everyone exactly who she belongs to now. Instead, I force myself to end the kiss, though everything in me screams for more.

When we turn to face our guests, I keep my arm firmly around her waist, my hand splayed possessively against her side. The applause is thunderous, political alliances being sealed with each clap. My eyes find Johnny’s across the cathedral, and I let every ounce of warning show in my gaze: Mine. Protected. Touch her and die.

His smirk tells me this isn’t over.

The reception that follows is a masterclass in Mafia politics. The Plaza’s ballroom drips with elegant excess—crystal chandeliers throwing diamonds of light across white roses and silver centerpieces, champagne flowing from a fountain that probably costs more than most cars, an orchestra playing softly in the corner. It’s all Elena’s work, and she’s outdone herself. Every detail screams old money and power, exactly the message we need to send.

I guide Bella through the crowd, watching her handle each interaction with growing pride. She charms old Don Marconi with just the right mix of respect and grace, making the weathered bastard actually smile. When Donna Vitelli makes a thinly veiled comment about “young brides’ short lifespans,”Bella responds with such elegant brutality that I have to hide my grin in my champagne glass.

“You’re doing beautifully,” I murmur in her ear as we dance our first waltz. The silk of her dress whispers against my tuxedo, and her scent surrounds me, making it hard to focus on anything but how perfectly she fits in my arms.

“I’m doing what’s necessary,” she returns quietly, her smile perfectly maintained for our audience. One hand rests on my shoulder while the other is clasped in mine, her new ring catching the light. “But don’t think I’ve forgotten your promise. Tonight, I want the truth.”

My hand tightens on her waist, drawing her slightly closer than the waltz requires. “Be careful what you wish for,piccola.”

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