Page 40 of Silent Vows

MATTEO

The safe house is actually a luxury penthouse in downtown Montreal, taking up the top two floors of a building I own through shell corporations. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate every wall, casting long shadows across Italian marble floors. The sight triggers unwanted memories of my childhood home, where Giuseppe’s shadow seemed to stretch endlessly, touching everything, poisoning everyone. I force the memories away, focusing instead on Bella as she takes in the space.

The penthouse is a study in power and luxury—all clean lines and sophisticated minimalism. A floating staircase of glass and steel curves up to the second level, while the main floor opens into a great room dominated by modernist furniture in shades of cream and charcoal. Custom lighting highlights carefully curated art pieces—most of them originals acquired through less than legal means. A Kandinsky here, a small Picasso there. The kind of collection that would make museum curators weep.

But it’s Bella’s reaction that captivates me. Even soaking wet and shivering, she moves through the space like she belongs here, her artist’s eye catching details I’ve long since stoppedseeing. She pauses before the Kandinsky, head tilting in that way that means she’s analyzing composition and color. Water drips steadily from her clothes onto the marble floors, each drop echoing in the vast space, but she seems oblivious to her discomfort.

The whole scene feels surreal—my bride of less than forty-eight hours, studying priceless art while we’re running for our lives. While my daughter is being held God knows where, drugged and scared. The thought of Bianca makes my chest tighten painfully. I’ve failed her, just like I failed Sophia.

“The bathroom’s through there,” I tell her, shrugging off my sodden jacket with a wince. Every movement pulls at my injury, a constant reminder of our narrow escape. “Everything you need should be in the closet.”

The master bath is a marvel of marble and chrome, with a freestanding tub that could fit four people and a shower system that cost more than most cars. I had it designed as another show of wealth and power, like everything else in this place. But now, watching Bella nod while water pools at her feet, it feels hollow. Like all the luxury in the world can’t make up for the fact that my daughter is missing.

“You’re bleeding again.” Her voice pulls me from dark thoughts. Those artist’s eyes miss nothing—including the fresh blood seeping through my makeshift bandage.

“It’s fine.” The lie comes automatically. My father’s voice echoes in my head:“DeLuca men don’t show weakness.”

“It’s not.” She steps closer, reaching for my injured arm with gentle hands that belie the strength I’ve seen her display today. “Let me help.”

“Bella—”

“Please.” Something vulnerable flashes across her face, something that makes my chest ache. “I need…I need to do something useful.”

I understand then—she needs control over something, anything, in this chaos our lives have become. Just like I need to feel in control when everything’s spinning apart. When my daughter is in danger and all my carefully buried secrets are threatening to surface.

“First aid kit’s in the kitchen,” I concede, watching her move through the space like she’s memorizing it. The kitchen is state of the art, all stainless steel and black granite, with views of Mont-Royal through more floor-to-ceiling windows. Like everything else here, it’s meant to impress. To intimidate.

She returns with supplies, directing me to sit on one of the Italian leather sofas. The piece probably costs more than most cars, but all I can focus on is her touch as she removes the wet bandage. Her fingers are gentle but sure, artist’s hands now turned to healing. The irony isn’t lost on me—how many times have these hands tended wounds caused by my world?

“This needs stitches,” she observes, cleaning the wound with a steadiness that surprises me.

“You know how?” I study her face in the soft lighting from the recessed fixtures above. Water still drips from her hair, curling around her face in a way that makes me want to reach out and touch. To make sure she’s real.

“My father made sure I could handle emergency medical care.” Her voice catches slightly on “father,” and I hate that I’m the reason she has to say that word in past tense. “Said an art studio could be as dangerous as a gunfight if you weren’t careful.”

I watch her work, trying to focus on anything except thoughts of Bianca. Of what they might be doing to her.

I’ll kill them all.

Bella’s fingers move with precision as she stitches the wound, each one neat and even. The lamplight catches the diamond on her finger—not Sophia’s ring, never Sophia’s—and for amoment, the domesticity of the scene threatens to undo me. My wife, tending my wounds in our safe house, while my daughter…

“Why did you really create that distraction on the beach?” I ask finally, needing to focus on something besides the gnawing fear about Bianca. The question has been burning in my mind since she stepped out from behind that boulder. Such goddamn bravery. Such fucking recklessness.

Her hands pause for a moment before resuming their work. In the soft light from the Murano glass fixtures, I can see every emotion that crosses her face. She’s still learning to hide her feelings—something that both worries and captivates me.

“I told you—for Bianca.”

“The truth, Bella.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. Too many emotions fighting for control—fear for my daughter, worry for my wife, rage at those who would hurt them.

She secures the last stitch before meeting my eyes. The directness of her gaze reminds me of the girl who first walked into my office, all defiance and hidden strength. “Because I saw your face when Carmine mentioned her being sedated. Because I knew you were about to do something reckless and probably get yourself killed.” She swallows hard, and I watch the movement of her throat. “Because I’m not ready to be a widow yet.”

That last sentence is said in an almost whisper.

The admission hangs between us, heavy with everything unsaid. With all the secrets I’m still keeping. Secrets about Giuseppe, about what really happened, about why Father Romano’s involvement terrifies me more than anything else. I reach up, tucking a damp curl behind her ear. Her skin is still cool from the lake water, but she leans into my touch like she’s seeking warmth.

“I thought you hated this marriage.” My voice is low.

“I did. I do. I…” She leans into my touch despite herself, a conflict I understand too well. “I don’t know anymore.Everything’s happening so fast, and I can’t tell which feelings are real and which are just adrenaline and survival instinct.”

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