Page 24 of Silent Vows

“Antonio will make our excuses.” I’m already leading her toward the exit, my mind made up. The warmth of her hand in mine feels right, feels necessary. “If you want the truth, all of it, you’ll have it. But not here. Not with Johnny watching and waiting to use it against us.”

She allows me to guide her to the waiting Bentley, her wedding dress whispering against the leather seats. In the privacy of the car, I finally let myself really look at her—my bride, my salvation, possibly my destruction. The diamonds in her hair catch the streetlights as we pull away, making her look otherworldly.

“Where are we going?” she asks, and I hear the mix of fear and anticipation in her voice.

“Somewhere safe,” I answer, taking her hand. Her new wedding ring catches the light, and I force myself to continue. “Somewhere I can show you exactly who you’ve married, for better or worse.”

As we drive through the gathering darkness, I pray I’m making the right choice. But looking at her now, fierce and beautiful and mine, I know there’s no going back. It’s time for the truth, whatever the cost.

God help us both.

11

BELLA

The Bentley winds through darkening streets, each turn making me more disoriented. I try to track our path through Manhattan, into what must be Westchester, but the route seems deliberately circuitous. My wedding dress rustles with every movement, the sound impossibly loud in the tense silence, like the whisper of secrets about to be revealed.

Matteo sits beside me, one hand still holding mine while the other types rapid messages on his phone. His rough fingers stroke the back of my knuckles absently, each touch sending electricity up my arm. It’s surreal to think that I’m married to him now—my father’s best friend, the man whose dangerous reputation kept me awake at night as a teenager.

The man who now makes me lose sleep for entirely different reasons.

The city lights paint shadows across his sharp features, and my artist’s eye can’t help but analyze the chiaroscuro effect. He’s all stark planes and dangerous angles, like something carved from marble by an angry god. The silver at his temples catches the passing lights, and my fingers itch for a pencil to capture theway shadow pools in the hollow of his throat where he’s loosened his tie.

I’d paint him in oils, I decide. Dark colors for his power, but with unexpected warmth underneath—burnt umber and deep crimson rather than pure black. Something to capture both the danger and the passion I’ve glimpsed beneath his control.

“My mother will be furious we left the reception,” I say finally, needing to break the silence before I do something stupid like tell him how beautiful he is.

“Your mother,” he says, not looking up from his phone, “is currently dealing with a convenient plumbing emergency at the venue. The reception will end early, with our absence blamed on the chaos.”

“You arranged a plumbing emergency at my wedding reception?” The words come out strangled. Just when I think I understand how his mind works, he does something like this. Plans within plans, every detail controlled.

He looks at me then, and my heart stammers in my chest. The slight smirk playing at his lips shouldn’t be attractive—nothing about him should be attractive, given what he is, what he does. But God help me, in the dim car light he’s devastating. The perfectly tailored tuxedo, the barely contained power in his frame, the intensity in his steel-blue eyes…it’s almost too much.

“Would you prefer to still be there,” he asks, “listening to Johnny Calabrese make thinly veiled threats while Bianca drinks herself into another scene?”

“I’d prefer the truth.” I pull my hand from his, immediately missing his warmth but needing the distance to think clearly. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “Starting with where we’re going.”

The smirk fades, and something darker crosses his face. “The lake house. It’s secure, private, and…” He pauses, choosing hiswords with obvious care. “It’s where everything started. With Sophia.”

My pulse jumps at her name. All evening I’ve been demanding answers, insisting on truth, but now that it’s coming, fear slides cold fingers down my spine. “Why do I feel like I’m being driven to my execution rather than my honeymoon?” I ask weakly.

“Because you’re smart.” His voice roughens, becoming something dark and honeyed that makes heat pool low in my belly despite my fear. “And because you know that after tonight, nothing between us will ever be the same.”

The car turns onto a private road, trees crowding close on either side like sentinels. Through the branches, I catch glimpses of water, black and mysterious in the gathering dusk. When we finally pull up to the house, my eyes widen in shock.

The lake house is a modernist dream of glass and steel, a structure that looks like it was born from the landscape rather than built upon it. Cantilevered sections stretch out over the water, their clean lines softened by the organic curve of the lake behind them. In the fading light, the glass walls reflect purple-tinged clouds, making the building seem to float between water and sky.

“This is…not what I expected,” I admit as Matteo helps me from the car. His hand is warm at my elbow, and I try not to think about how natural his touch feels. How right. “I thought all Mafia safe houses were stone fortresses.”

“That’s next door,” he says dryly, nodding toward a more traditional mansion visible through the trees. A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and his answering smile makes my breath catch. Then he adds, “This was my personal project. Sophia hated it.”

Just hearing her name sends ice through my veins. Everything always comes back to her—his dead wife, heremeralds I refused to wear, her ghost haunting every moment between us.

Inside, the house comes alive around us, sensors detecting our presence. If the exterior was impressive, the interior steals my breath. I drink in every detail—the way rich walnut paneling softens the industrial elements, how carefully placed lighting creates pools of warmth in the modernist space. One entire wall is windows, offering a stunning view of the lake that makes my fingers itch for paint and canvas.

I can already imagine how it would look in different seasons—autumn leaves creating a fiery frame for the glass, snow transforming the view into a monochromatic study, spring bringing new greens to soften the stark lines. Even at Christmas, the clean architecture would make a perfect backdrop for traditional decorations, the contrast making both more striking.

“Your dress,” Matteo says suddenly, his voice cutting through my artistic musings. “There’s a closet upstairs with clothes. More appropriate clothes.”

---