Page 43 of Silent Vows

BELLA

Saint Benedict’s Monastery looms against the darkening sky like something from a Gothic nightmare. Through my binoculars, I study every detail with an artist’s eye—the weathered stone walls that seem to absorb what’s left of the daylight, the spires that pierce the purple-tinged clouds like accusing fingers, the ancient windows that hold who knows how many dark secrets.

Something about the place feels wrong, like the very stones are soaked in decades of sins and confessions.

The monastery grounds spread out below our observation point like something from a medieval painting. Stone walls, weathered by centuries of harsh Canadian winters, rise at least thirty feet high. Gargoyles perch at regular intervals, their grotesque faces seeming to watch our every move. The courtyard is paved with ancient cobblestones, uneven and treacherous, creating shadows perfect for concealment.

As I watch the guards make their rounds, I can’t help but think of all the art history classes I’ve taken. How many times have I studied buildings like this in textbooks? Analyzed their architecture, their purpose? But this place feels different.

I crouch beside Antonio in our observation point, surrounded by pine needles and early autumn chill. The forest provides good cover, but there’s something oppressive about the air here. Like we’re being watched not just by the guards, but by something older. Something darker.

“Two men at the main gate,” I murmur, counting defensive positions just as my father taught me. The memory hits unexpectedly—afternoons I thought were just father-daughter time at the shooting range, now revealed as careful preparation for exactly this kind of situation.

My father’s voice echoes in my head as I count defensive positions:“Always note your exits, bella mia. Pattern their movements. Find their weaknesses.”At the time, I thought he was just being paranoid. Now I wonder how long he knew this day would come.

“Three patrolling the walls. Security cameras covering the courtyard.”

“Good eye.” Antonio sounds impressed despite himself. “The Boss taught you well.”

“My father did.” I shift position, pine needles crunching under my boots as I get a better angle on the east wing. Something bitter rises in my throat. “Though I’m starting to think they were both preparing me for this life, whether I wanted it or not.”

Movement at an upper window catches my attention. My heart jumps as a figure in priest’s robes crosses past the glass, followed by another man carrying what appears to be medical equipment. The sight sends a chill down my spine—what kind of monastery needsmedicalsupplies?

“There,” I whisper, passing the binoculars to Antonio. “Third floor, east wing. That has to be where they’re keeping her.”

The window is large, Gothic-arched, its stained glass partially broken out as if someone wanted a clearer view inside. Or outside. The thought makes my skin crawl.

He studies the window for a long moment, his weathered face grim. “Agreed. But getting in there…”

“We don’t need to get in.” I pull out my phone, quickly sketching the monastery’s layout. My artist’s training comes in handy as I mark entry points and guard positions. Years of studying perspective and composition now being used to plan a potential rescue mission.

Is this what my father saw in me? A tactical mind hidden behind an artist’s eye?

My phone buzzes—Matteo. His message is brief.

Meeting starting. Stay safe.

I send back a quick acknowledgment, trying not to think about what he’s facing. The other Families voting on his leadership, Carmine’s political maneuvering, the video of Sophia still circulating…And beneath it all, these whispers about Giuseppe DeLuca. What could his father have possibly done that’s worth all this?

“Movement,” Antonio’s voice pulls me back to the present. “North side.”

I redirect my attention as a black SUV pulls through the iron gates, its headlights cutting through the gathering dusk. Father Romano steps out, along with another priest I recognize from my wedding. Their black robes seem to absorb what’s left of the daylight as they move, heads bent together in conspiratorial closeness.

“Can we get closer?” I ask, frustration building in my chest. More secrets, more whispered conversations that seem to hold the key to everything. “Maybe hear what they’re saying?”

Antonio shakes his head. “Too risky. But…” He pulls out a small device. “We might be able to pick up their phone calls. The Boss had their frequencies tracked after the wedding.”

As if on cue, Romano’s voice crackles through the device: “—getting restless. The sedatives are wearing off.”

“Keep her under,” Carmine’s voice responds, and hatred burns hot in my chest at the sound of my uncle. “DeLuca should be at the meeting by now. Once the Families vote him out, we move to phase two.”

“And what of Giuseppe’s records? The DNA tests?” Romano asks impatiently.

That damned name again. Giuseppe DeLuca. Every time someone mentions Matteo’s father, it’s like a shadow falls across the room. What kind of monster was he? What could he possibly have done that’s worth all this?

“Those files could destroy everything the DeLucas built,” Carmine continues, his voice turning cold. “Once we prove what he did…” He pauses, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Matteo’s precious family will crumble.”

“And the girl? His wife?”

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