Page 25 of Silent Vows

“You just happen to have women’s clothes here?” The question comes out sharper than intended, a spike of jealousy I have no right to feel. These better not be Sophia’s things, preserved like some shrine to his dead wife.

“I had them brought this morning.” He moves to a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of scotch. The movement makes his tuxedo stretch across his shoulders, and my mouth goes dry at the play of muscles beneath the fine wool. I shouldn’t notice these things, not when he’s about to tell me God knows what about his first wife’s death. But my body seems to have its own agenda where Matteo is concerned.

Traitor.

“For what?” Even as I ask, heat floods my cheeks. This isn’t just about revelations. This is our wedding night, regardless ofwhat truths come between now and then. The thought makes my pulse race, desire and anxiety warring in my stomach.

“Change first,” he says, not answering my question and not looking at me. “Then we’ll talk.”

Upstairs, I find a closet that would make most boutiques jealous. Racks of designer casual wear in exactly my size fill the space—soft sweaters in neutral tones, perfectly cut jeans, silk blouses and cashmere loungewear. Everything is new, tags still attached, and absolutely my style. The attention to detail, to my preferences, makes something warm unfurl in my chest even as it unnerves me.

I choose soft black leggings and an oversized cream sweater that slips off one shoulder, a far cry from the wedding dress I’m wearing. It takes fifteen minutes to extract myself from the layers of silk and lace, another ten to wash away the elaborate makeup. In the bathroom mirror, I look more like myself—except for the massive diamond glinting on my left hand. The ring catches the light like a warning, a reminder that whatever comes next, I’m bound to this man forever.

When I return downstairs, soft jazz plays from hidden speakers, and my breath catches at the sight of Matteo. He’s shed his tuxedo jacket and tie, his shirt sleeves rolled to reveal powerful forearms corded with muscle. He stands at the windows, backlit by the last rays of sunset on the lake, looking like something from a Renaissance painting—all power and barely contained violence wrapped in elegant clothing.

“Better?” he asks without turning.

“Depends on what comes next.” I move to stand beside him, close enough to smell his cologne—spice and sandalwood and something uniquely him that makes my head spin. Part of me wants to reach out, to trace the strong line of his jaw, to feel if his stubble is as rough as it looks. Instead, I force myself to focus. “You promised me the truth, Matteo. All of it.”

The silence stretches so long I think he might have changed his mind. Then, “Sophia wasn’t killed by the Calabrese family.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath catches, heart stuttering. “But you said?—”

“I killed her.” His voice is flat, emotionless, but I see how his hands clench at his sides. “Right here in this house. Because she was working with Johnny Calabrese to destroy everything I’d built.”

I take an instinctive step back, but Matteo moves faster. His hand catches my wrist, not hurting but restraining. The heat of his skin against mine makes it hard to think straight, even as fear and something darker course through me.

“You wanted the truth,piccola. Now you’ll hear all of it.”

“Let go of me.” The words come out breathy rather than firm. I should be terrified—Iamterrified. I’ve just married a confirmed murderer.

But beneath the fear is something else, something I’m afraid to examine too closely.

“No.” His eyes bore into mine, and I see anguish beneath the steel. “Because you need to understand. Sophia wasn’t innocent. She wasn’t a victim. She was working with Johnny, plotting to destroy everything. But that’s not why I killed her.”

“Then why?” I hate how my voice shakes, hate how I’m leaning into his touch even as my mind screams to run.

His laugh is harsh. “She found something. Something that would destroy not just me, but Bianca’s future in our world. She was going to use it to force me to step down, to hand everything to Johnny.”

“What did she find?” The artist in me can’t help but note how beautiful he is in his pain—all sharp angles and raw emotion, like a Caravaggio painting brought to life.

“Documents that could destroy everything I’ve built to protect my daughter.” His voice roughens, and his thumb startstracing circles on my inner wrist, raising goosebumps. “Some secrets have to stay buried, Bella. For everyone’s sake.”

“So you killed her to protect those secrets?” God help me, I understand. Family above all—isn’t that what my father always taught me?

“No.” His grip on my wrist loosens, becomes almost a caress. “I confronted her. Gave her a chance to explain, to choose me instead. She laughed in my face, told me I was a fool to think anyone could love a monster like me. Then she pulled a gun.”

“Self-defense.” The realization hits me with surprising clarity. The monster isn’t the man before me—it was thewomanwho tried to destroy him, who’d have shot him to get what she wanted.

“She got off two shots before I reached her.” He gestures to a spot near the windows, and I can almost see it playing out. “One grazed my shoulder. The other…” His free hand moves to his side, and I remember the scar I glimpsed in his study, silvered with age but still angry looking. The memory of his bare chest under my hands makes heat flood my cheeks.

“And Johnny played along? Why?” I step closer without meaning to, drawn by the raw honesty in his voice.

“Because the truth would have exposed him too.” His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “Better to let everyone think he’d ordered her death than admit she’d chosen him in the end.” His thumb hasn’t stopped its maddening circles on my wrist, each stroke sending sparks through my body. “That’s who you’ve married, Bella. A man who killed his own wife and lied about it for a decade. Still want to stay?”

I should run. Everything I’ve ever believed about right and wrong tells me to run. But looking at him now—this dangerous, complicated man who had my painting turned into a pendant rather than force his dead wife’s emeralds on me—I can’t make myself want to.

“You’re not a monster,” I say softly, watching emotion flicker across his face. “Monsters don’t make their wives pendants from their art. They don’t protect daughters who hate them. They don’t…” My voice catches as heat pools low in my belly. “They don’t kiss like you kissed me last night.”

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