Page 30 of Silent Vows

His arms snake around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. The heat of his skin through the thin dress shirt makes my breath catch, memories of last night flooding back. “Some secrets protect you,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear in a way that makes me shiver. “Some would destroy you.”

“Like the real reason Sophia died?” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.

His body goes rigid against mine, every muscle tensing. Before he can respond, both our phones explode with notifications. My hands shake as I reach for mine first, and my breath catches at the headline that changes everything:

Calabrese Heir Releases Shocking Video: The Truth About Sophia DeLuca’s Death.

The security footage shows Sophia in this very house, backing away from someone off camera. Even in the grainy quality, I can see the terror on her face, her hands raised in surrender—not holding a gun like Matteo claimed. She’s begging, pleading for her life. My stomach lurches as I realize the implications.

The man I gave myself to last night, the man I’m starting to fall for, lied about killing his wife in self-defense.

“Matteo?” My voice comes out small, broken. “W-what is this?”

“Don’t.” He releases me, moving to the windows with lethal grace. “Don’t look at it. Don’t read any of it.”

“Why?” I follow him, gripping my phone like a lifeline. Last night I trusted him with my body, my heart beginning to trust him with more, and now this? “What aren’t you telling me? You said she pulled a gun, that it was self-defense. But this footage?—”

“Shows exactly what Johnny wants it to show.” He turns to face me, and something in his eyes—desperation maybe, or fear—makes my heart clench. “Trust me, Bella. Please.”

“Trust goes both ways.” I hold up my phone, hating how my voice shakes. “The video iseverywhere. Every family in New York is watching it right now. Whatever truth you’re hiding, it’s about to come out. Wouldn’t you rather I hear it from you?”

For a moment, I see it in his face—the war between truth and protection, between trust and fear. His jaw works as he struggles with something, and I think he might actually tell me everything. Then his phone rings—Antonio’s tone cutting through the tension like a knife.

The color drains from his face as he listens, and my world tilts before he even speaks.

“Get dressed,” he orders, already moving toward the stairs. “We’re leaving.Now.”

“Why? What’s happened?” I struggle to keep up with his long strides.

“Your mother’s dead.”

The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering on the hardwood. The sound seems to come from very far away, like I’m underwater. This can’t be happening. Not my mother. Not now. “What?”

“Someone broke into her penthouse last night. Made it look like a robbery gone wrong.” His voice softens slightly, and the gentleness in it breaks something in my chest. “I’m sorry,piccola.”

The room spins violently. I grab the kitchen counter, my knees threatening to give out. Memories assault me—my mother’s cutting remarks about my art, yes, but also the way she’d brush my hair when I was little, how she’d sing me Italian lullabies, the pride in her eyes at my first art show even as she criticized my clothes.

Oh God, both my parents are gone. In less than a week, I’ve become an orphan.

“The Calabrese family?” I manage through the tightness in my throat.

“Most likely.” He’s already on the phone, barking orders in Italian. “Which means you’re next on their list. We need to?—”

A window shatters upstairs, the sound like ice breaking in my chest. One moment I’m frozen in grief, the next I’m airborne as Matteo tackles me to the ground. Gunfire erupts through the house, the noise deafening in the modern space. Glass rains down around us like deadly diamonds, catching the morning light before turning lethal.

“Stay down!” Matteo shouts, pulling a gun from somewhere and returning fire.

But my artist’s eye, trained to notice details others miss, catches something he doesn’t—a red dot appearing on his chest like a deadly brushstroke. Without thinking, just pure instinct, I shove him hard. We roll behind the kitchen island together just as bullets pepper the spot where he’d been standing.

We land with me on top, his gun pressed between us, and for a surreal moment, all I can think about is how we were tangled together so differently just hours ago. Our faces are inches apart as more gunfire sounds outside. The scent of gunpowder mixes with his cologne, with the coffee he was making, with the lingering traces of our lovemaking—the ordinary and extraordinary colliding in this moment of chaos.

“You saved my life,” he says roughly, brushing glass from my hair with his free hand. Even now, even after the video, after the lies, he’s trying to protect me.

“If I let you die,” I manage through chattering teeth, grief and fear and adrenaline making me shake, “who’s going to tell me what was really on that video?”

His laugh is more breath than sound, ghosting across my face. “When we get out of this alive, I’ll tell you everything. I swear it.”

“If,” I correct, hearing footsteps crunching on broken glass. Oh God, they’re inside now. “If we get out alive.”

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