Page 46 of Silent Vows

Like a cornered animal, Carmine shows his teeth. The polished mask of the society don slips, revealing the desperation beneath. “You know nothing,” he snarls, and I see the same madness that consumed Giuseppe starting to eat at his edges. “You don’t even understand what your father did. What you helped cover up.”

“Enlighten me.” Around the table, the other dons are frozen, watching our deadly dance. Vitelli’s hand hasn’t left his weapon. Marconi’s eyes dart between us like he’s watching a tennis match. But with deadlier stakes.

“You still don’t understand what Sophia found, do you? What those records proved?” Carmine’s smile turns cruel, and for a moment I see my father in his face. The same twisted pleasure in holding power over others. “About that night. About why Giuseppe insisted on that marriage so quickly.”

The words land like physical blows, each one threatening to crack the control I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting. Seventeen years of secrets, of protecting Bianca from the truth, all balanced on a knife’s edge. But I don’t flinch. Can’t flinch. Not with twelveof the most powerful men in our world watching for any sign of weakness.

“Interesting theory.” I muse as I continue my advance, noting how the other dons lean forward in their chairs, scenting blood in the water. The crystal chandeliers cast shifting shadows across faces that have ordered countless deaths, made and broken countless fortunes.

“Medical records can be altered. DNA tests can be manipulated. The only question is what exactly you think you’ll prove about my daughter.”

“You understand nothing,” Carmine snarls, backing up until he hits the hand-painted wallpaper. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the room’s perfect temperature. “About Sophia. About the—” He shuts up abruptly, realizing he’s said too much.

I press harder, using his slip to my advantage. “Why wait ten years to use Sophia’s death against me? Why do you need both Bianca and Bella under your control?” Each question drives him further into the corner, both literally and figuratively. “You can run all the tests you want. You’ll never find what you’re looking for.”

The other dons lean forward, the scrape of their chairs against hardwood almost deafening in the tense silence. This is what they came for—the truth behind the power plays, the real stakes in our deadly game.

“You’re still protecting him,” Carmine’s voice comes out wet, desperate. His fingers inch toward his jacket. “Even now, you’re protecting Giuseppe’s legacy of lies. About Sophia. About who Bianca really?—”

“Bianca,” Don Vitelli breathes from his seat, his aged voice cutting through the tension. “She’s not your daughter at all, is she, Matteo? She’s Carmine’s. With Sophia.”

The accusation hangs in the air for one heartbeat, two. I can almost taste the anticipation as the other dons hold theirbreath, waiting for my reaction. So many theories over the years, each one wrong but dangerous in their own way. Each one threatening everything I’ve built to protect her.

Carmine moves suddenly, reaching for his gun with the desperation of a man who knows he’s already dead. But I’m faster. I’ve always been faster.

The first shot echoes through the dining room, the sound magnified by the elegant acoustics. Carmine stumbles back, red blooming across his suit like a macabre rose. His blood stains the hand-painted wallpaper—some designer in Milan’s masterpiece ruined forever.

Good.

“That was for my wife’s mother,” I say coldly, watching the life drain from his face. Another shot—this one higher. “That was for Giovanni.” The final shot, center mass. “And that was for involvingmydaughter in your games.”

He slides down the wall, leaving a crimson trail in his wake. His last words come out as a wet chuckle, blood staining his teeth: “You think this ends with me? Giuseppe’s secrets will come out. Ask Matteo…ask him why his father insisted on that marriage. Why Sophia had to die…”

Then he’s gone, taking his secrets with him. Or so he thinks.

I turn to face the shocked dons, noting who looks afraid and who looks calculating. Power abhors a vacuum, and Carmine’s death will create ripples. But that’s a problem for another day.

“Any other questions about my control?”

Silence greets me. One by one, they shake their heads. Even Vitelli keeps his mouth shut about Bianca’s parentage. Smart man.

“Good.” I straighten my cuffs, already moving toward the door. Carmine’s blood has splattered my sleeve—Italian wool ruined, but worth it. “Then this meeting is adjourned. I have a family to rescue.”

Vitelli’s voice stops me at the threshold: “The girl—Bianca. If she’s not yours…”

“She’s mine in every way that matters.” I don’t turn around, but my words carry enough threat to make the crystal vibrate. “Anyone who suggests otherwise won’t live to repeat the mistake.”

My phone buzzes again as I reach my car. Another photo from the monastery—Bella being led into the east wing where they’re keeping Bianca. But something about her posture catches my eye. I zoom in, and a slight smile curves my lips despite everything.

My brilliant wife has managed to slip a note into view of the camera. In her elegant hand, two words:Third floor.

She’s giving me exactly what I need to find them. Even in captivity, she’s thinking three moves ahead.

My dangerous, beautiful wife, turning her capture into an advantage.

“Hold on,piccola,” I murmur, calling in my strike team as I drive. The Montreal skyline spreads out before me, lights twinkling like fallen stars. Somewhere in those lights, a monastery holds my family. Holds secrets that could destroy everything.

They’ve forgotten the first rule of our world: never threaten a man’s family unless you’re prepared for war.

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