Page 33 of Silent Vows

Something soft crosses her face, something that makes me think maybe, just maybe, we have a chance. But before she can respond, gunfire erupts from the tree line. The sound shatters the morning calm like breaking glass.

I shove her toward the jet’s stairs as my security team returns fire. The steady rhythm of automatic weapons fills the air, and my body moves on pure instinct, decades of violence making my reactions automatic.

“Go!” I shout, pushing her up the steps. My hands leave bloody prints on the white shirt she wears—my shirt—and the sight of it makes rage burn hot in my chest. “I’m right behind you.”

But as I turn to fire at our attackers, movement in the trees catches my eye. A familiar face appears in the scope of a rifle, and my blood runs cold. Not Johnny—someone much worse.

Carmine Russo smiles at me through his gun sight, and in that moment, understanding hits like a physical blow: this was never about Sophia’s video at all. This is about power, aboutcontrol, about a man who would kill his own sister-in-law and niece to claim what he thinks should be his.

The morning sun glints off his scope as I raise my weapon, and I pray Bella is safely inside the jet. Because her uncle is about to learn what happens to men who threaten what’s mine.

I take aim at Carmine just as he fires. The bullet whizzes past my ear, close enough that I feel the displacement of air. My return shot catches a tree trunk as he ducks behind it, wood splintering where his head had been. Around us, the air fills with crossfire—my men versus his, bullets painting deadly patterns in the morning light.

“Is this really how you want to play it, Carmine?” I call out, using the jet’s landing gear as cover. “Your own niece?”

His laugh carries across the tarmac, cold and calculated. “My brother was weak. His daughter is weaker. The Russo family deserves better than an artist playing at being a donna.”

More shots ring out. One catches my already injured arm, tearing through muscle. The pain is immediate, searing, but I force it down. I’ve fought through worse. Behind me, I hear Bella shouting my name from the jet’s doorway. Foolish, brave woman—she should be taking cover.

“Matteo!” The fear in her voice makes something primal rise in my chest. “Behind you!”

I spin just as one of Carmine’s men emerges from under the plane. My bullet catches him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling, but more are coming. Too many. They’ve planned this well, the bastards.

“Your time’s over, DeLuca,” Carmine calls out. “First you, then your precious daughter. Once everyone knows what Sophia found?—”

My roar of rage drowns out his words as I empty my clip in his direction. But he’s already moving, and my injury throws offmy aim. Fresh blood soaks my sleeve, making my grip slippery on the gun.

“Boss!” One of my men’s voices cuts through the chaos. “We need to go! Now!”

He’s right. We’re too exposed, and I’m losing too much blood. With a final shot toward Carmine’s position, I back toward the stairs. The engines roar as I take them two at a time, bullets pinging off the metal around me.

The jet door seals behind me as I collapse into the nearest seat. Bella’s hands are immediately on me, pressing something against my wound as the plane lurches into motion. Through the window, I see Carmine emerge from the trees, watching us with cold calculation as we taxi away.

“Hold on,” the pilot calls back as we pick up speed. More bullets strike the fuselage, but the reinforced metal holds.

I pull Bella close with my good arm as we lift off, leaving Carmine and his men behind. She’s shaking—from adrenaline or fear or rage, I’m not sure. Maybe all three.

“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice steady despite her trembling hands as she examines my wound.

“I’ll live.” I press my lips to her temple, breathing in her scent. “But this isn’t over.”

“I know.” She meets my eyes. “But next time, we face it together.”

The jet banks sharply west. Somewhere below, Carmine is already planning his next move. But for now, I have my wife in my arms, and we’re alive. Sometimes, that has to be enough.

I just pray it stays that way.

15

BELLA

The jet climbs through turbulent air, each bump sending shockwaves of pain through my battered body. Tiny cuts from the shattered glass sting under my borrowed clothes—leggings and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my old apartment’s monthly rent. The luxury feels surreal against my skin, like everything else about my new life. Was it really just yesterday I was painting in my studio, worried about my thesis exhibition? Now I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, running from someone who wants me dead.

Across from me, Matteo sits perfectly still as the flight attendant—a severe-looking woman with steel-gray hair and hands that move with military precision—cleans and bandages his arm. Blood has already soaked through his new shirt, the crimson stain a stark reminder of how close I came to losing him. His face betrays nothing, but I’m learning to read the subtle signs of his distress—the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum against his thigh when he’s processing something dangerous.

The attendant works methodically, her practiced movements suggesting this isn’t her first time patching up bullet woundsat thirty thousand feet. She removes his shirt with clinical efficiency, revealing the full extent of the damage.

The bullet tore through muscle, leaving an angry furrow that makes my stomach clench. But it’s the other scars that catch my eye—old wounds that map his violent history across his skin like some brutal constellation.

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