Page 45 of Silent Vows

MATTEO

The private dining room at Le Saint-Martin hums with tension, the kind that makes lesser men’s hands shake. Crystal chandeliers cast strategic shadows across the massive mahogany table, their light reflecting off cut crystal glasses filled with wine worth more than most people make in a month. Every surface screams old money, old power—from the hand-painted silk wallpaper to the antique Aubusson carpet beneath our feet.

I sit at the head of the table, a position earned through blood and cunning. My external calm is a mask I’ve perfected over decades, hiding the rage burning in my chest. Around me, New York’s most powerful families have gathered—twelve dons whose combined influence could reshape the city’s underworld. Every one of them has watched the video of Sophia. Every calculating eye weighs my worth, my control, my right to lead.

Don Vitelli sits to my immediate right—old guard, traditional, dangerous in his rigid adherence to the old ways. His silver hair gleams under the chandelier light as he swirls his Bordeaux, the ruby liquid catching the light like blood. To my left, Alberto Marconi—younger, hungrier, already calculatinghow my potential fall might benefit him. He’s here on behalf of his father, whom Bella charmed at our wedding.

As I survey the table, Johnny Calabrese’s absence is conspicuous. He always represents the family at these meetings—his sadistic nature perfectly suited for our world’s political games. But neither he nor Don Calabrese sits in their usual place. Instead, a younger man occupies the Calabrese seat—Anthony, Johnny’s nephew, probably no older than Bella.

He has his uncle’s classic good looks—the sharp jaw, the aristocratic nose—but none of the cruelty that makes Johnny so dangerous. His Zegna suit still has that fresh-pressed look of someone not used to wearing one daily, his signet ring too bright and new on his finger. He keeps glancing at other dons for guidance. The Calabrese family is clearly making moves, but sending this wet-behind-the-ears boy to represent them?

“Interesting choice of representation,” I observe coolly, watching Anthony try not to squirm under my gaze. “The Calabrese family must be…distracted.”

Don Rosetti—always eager to curry favor with stronger allies—jumps in with a sneer. “Perhaps they’re too busy playing with drugs and whores to attend to real business.”

Anthony’s face flushes red as he half rises from his chair. “You’ll explain yourself, old man.”

“I don’t explain anything to children playing at being made men,” Rosetti snorts, swirling his wine with deliberate casualness. “Come back when your balls have dropped.”

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Anthony’s hand twitches toward his jacket as his bodyguards step forward. Around the table, other guards mirror the movement, hands disappearing beneath tailored suits. The click of multiple safeties being released echoes off the silk wallpaper.

I sit back, sipping my scotch, enjoying the spectacle. Let them posture and threaten—every moment they spend snappingat each other is one less focused on questioning my control. Besides, there’s something almost entertaining about watching the next generation fumble through our deadly dances.

“Gentlemen.” Don Vitelli’s aged voice finally cuts through the tension as he sets down his wine with precise movement. “While I find this display of testosterone amusing, we have more urgent matters to discuss.” His pale eyes fix on me. “Specifically, the video that’s been circulating through our circles. The one showing Sophia DeLuca’s final moments.”

The entertainment I’d been feeling at the younger men’s posturing evaporates. Around the table, the atmosphere shifts from potentially violent to deliberately calculating.

“And how is this the Families’ problem?” I ask carefully, my voice measured.

“The problem,” Vitelli continues, running his finger along the rim of his wine glass, “isn’t just the video. It’s the pattern of deception.”

“Pattern?” I keep my voice controlled, arctic. The temperature in the room seems to drop an additional ten degrees.

“First Sophia’s death. Now your new wife’s mother. And your daughter missing…” Vitelli spreads his manicured hands across the white tablecloth. His signet ring catches the light—a reminder of his family’s centuries of power. “It doesn’t look good, Matteo.”

“Careful, old friend.” I infuse the last two words with enough venom to make several of the younger dons shift uncomfortably in their leather chairs. Vitelli might be old guard, but he’s forgetting who made him rich enough to afford that ring.

“He’s right though.” A minor don—Salvatore, one of Carmine’s recent acquisitions—chimes in from further down the table. He’s sweating slightly, despite the room’s perfecttemperature. Amateur. “The Families need stability. If you’ve lost control?—”

“Lost control?” My laugh makes several dons flinch, wine sloshing in their glasses. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city’s lights spread out below us like a carpet of stars, reminding me of everything I’ve built. Everything at stake. “Let me be clear about what’s happening here. Carmine Russo orchestrated his own sister-in-law’s murder. He’s holding my daughter hostage. And you sit here, questioning my control?”

“Bold accusations,” Carmine says smoothly. “Where’s your proof?”

He stands near the ornate double doors, playing his part perfectly. His Brioni suit probably cost more than Salvatore makes in a year—blood money bought with my mother-in-law’s death. With my best friend’s murder. With my daughter’s freedom.

My phone vibrates against my chest, and something in me knows before I even look. Antonio’s message makes my blood turn to ice:They have her. I’m sorry, Boss.

A photo follows—Bella being led into the monastery at gunpoint. Even in captivity, she carries herself with that quiet dignity that first caught my attention. Chin lifted defiantly, spine straight despite the gun at her back. My beautiful, stubborn,foolishwife, walking straight into their trap. Into the same monastery where darkness takes root, where secrets I’ve spent seventeen years burying lie waiting like coiled snakes.

The rage that floods me is unlike anything I’ve felt since Sophia’s death. It takes every ounce of control not to put a bullet through Carmine’s skull right here, consequences be damned. But control is what separates men like me from common killers.

Control is what will keep my family alive.

“No proof?” I let my voice turn silky dangerous as I rise from my chair. Around the table, I note who tenses, who reachessubtly for weapons. Old Vitelli’s hand disappears beneath the tablecloth. Marconi shifts his weight, ready to dive for cover. Good. Let them remember why they fear me. “Tell me, Carmine, how’s my wife enjoying the monastery?”

Color drains from his face so fast it’s almost satisfying. The other dons shift uncomfortably in their chairs, sensing the change in atmosphere. The game has shifted, pieces moving into their final positions.

“That’s right.” I stalk toward my wife’s uncle, each step measured and deliberate. The carpet muffles my footsteps, but the tension in the room amplifies every movement. “I know where you’re keeping them both. I know about the medical tests you’re running on my daughter. I know everything.”

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