Page 34 of Silent Vows

“It was Carmine,” he says finally, dismissing the attendant with a sharp nod. The words fall between us like stones, heavy with implications. “He orchestrated all of it—your mother’s death, the attack at the lake house, Johnny’s video release.”

“My uncle?” My hands shake so badly I almost drop the scotch Matteo offers. The amber liquid catches the morning light streaming through the jet’s windows, creating patterns that remind me of fire. Of explosions. Of everything I’m leaving behind. “Why?”

“Power.” Matteo moves to sit beside me, taking the glass back for his own sip before returning it. The casual intimacy of sharing a drink shouldn’t affect me so much, not after everything we’ve shared, but the brush of his fingers against mine sends electricity through my body. “With your father dead and you married to me, he lost his chance at controlling the Russo territory. Unless…”

“Unless I die too.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. My uncle—the man who used to bring me gelato after Sunday mass, who taught me to drive in his Mercedes, who cried at my first art show. All of it lies, carefully crafted to hide the monster beneath. “Let me guess—tragic accident on my honeymoon?”

“With evidence pointing to me as your killer.” His laugh holds no humor, and the sound makes my skin crawl. “History repeating itself. Johnny releases the video about Sophia, making me look like a man who murders his wives. Carmine swoops in to avenge his beloved niece, taking control of both families in the process.”

“And my mother?” The question burns my throat like the scotch. I see her face in my mind—perfectly coiffed even in death, I’m sure. For all our differences, all her criticism of my choices, she was still my mother.

“Knew too much, probably. Or refused to play along.” He hesitates, and I see something dark cross his face. “Bella, there’s something else you should know about her death.”

I turn to face him fully, noting the fresh blood already seeping through his bandage. The sight makes my heart clench. “More secrets?”

“She called me yesterday, before the reception.” His words come slowly, carefully, like he’s defusing a bomb. “Said she had proof Carmine was working with the Calabrese family. That’s why I arranged the plumbing emergency—to get everyone out before?—”

He breaks off, jaw clenching, but I finish the thought in my head. Before they could kill her at my wedding reception. The realization hits me like a physical blow. My mother tried to warn us, tried to protect me in her own way. And now she’s dead because of it.

Nausea rises in my throat as memories assault me—her critical comments about my art suddenly feeling less like disapproval and more like desperation to keep me away from this world. Her insistence on the perfect wedding dress, perfect hair, perfect everything…Was she trying to give me one last beautiful day before everything fell apart?

“I should have moved faster,” Matteo says, his voice rough. “Protected her better.”

“Like you protected Sophia?”

The words slip out before I can stop them, sharp as broken glass. Matteo goes very still beside me, and I feel the temperature in the cabin drop ten degrees.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching for him instinctively. “That wasn’t fair.”

“No, it was perfectly fair.” He takes the scotch glass, finishing it in one swallow. The morning sun catches his profile, highlighting the silver at his temples, the barely contained violence in his frame. “I failed to protect Sophia, failed to protect your mother. You have every right to question whether I can protect you.”

“That’s not—” I stop, really looking at him. Beyond the dangerous facade, beyond the power and control that radiates from him like heat, I see something that breaks my heart. Guilt. Raw and deep and eating him alive. “You really believe that, don’t you? That you failed them?”

“Didn’t I?” The vulnerability in his voice makes my chest ache.

“You saved Bianca.” I reach for his hand, linking our fingers together. His skin is warm against mine, callused from years of violence but somehow still gentle when he touches me. “You chose to protect your daughter over your wife. Over your own reputation and power. That’s not failure, Matteo. That’s love.”

He stares at our joined hands like they hold some answer he’s been seeking. “Love makes you vulnerable. Gets people killed.”

“Love makes you human.” I shift closer, pressing my free hand to his cheek. The stubble under my palm reminds me of last night, of how it felt against my inner thighs. Heat floods my body at the memory. “And right now, I need you to be both—the ruthless don who can keep us alive, and the human man who’ll do anything to protect the people he loves.”

His eyes darken as he turns his face into my touch. The man I glimpsed last night emerges, making my breath catch. “And what about you,piccola? Where do you fit in all this?”

“I’m your wife.” The words come easier now, feeling more true with each passing hour. With each shared danger. Witheach moment I fall harder for this complicated man. “Which means your fights are my fights. Your enemies are my enemies.”

“Even when those enemies include your own blood?” His voice drops lower, sending shivers down my spine.

“Carmine stopped being family the moment he ordered my mother’s death.” Steel enters my voice, surprising us both. “Just like he stopped being family the moment he conspired to kill me on my honeymoon.”

Matteo’s hand tightens on mine, almost painful. “I won’t let that happen.”

“I know.” I lean in, resting my forehead against his. His cologne surrounds me, mixed with gunpowder and something uniquely him that makes my head spin. “Because this time, we’re in it together. No more secrets, no more lies. Just us against them.”

“Us,” he echoes, like he’s testing the word. His free hand slides into my hair, grip gentle despite the darkness in his eyes. When he kisses me, it’s hungry, desperate, full of all the things we can’t say. I melt into him, opening for his tongue, letting him claim me all over again.

Somehow we end up stumbling toward the jet’s bathroom, need overwhelming common sense. He presses me against the wall, hiking my legs around his waist. The cashmere sweater hits the floor, followed quickly by my borrowed leggings.

“Mine,” he growls against my throat, and God help me, I love when he gets possessive like this.

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