Page 47 of Silent Vows

And I’ve been fighting wars since before they were born.

21

BELLA

They keep me in what was once a monk’s quarters—a stone cell barely ten feet square, with walls that seem to breathe centuries of prayers and secrets. A narrow window, more arrow slit than proper opening, lets in thin ribbons of moonlight that paint silver stripes across the rough floor. I pace the space, counting steps—eight long strides one way, six the other—trying to keep my mind off what might be happening to Bianca in the medical wing.

The image of my stepdaughter’s unconscious face haunts me, so like Matteo’s in repose that it makes my chest ache. Strange how quickly she’s become family, despite her initial hatred of me. Or maybe not so strange. After all, we’re both products of this violent world, both pawns in games played by powerful men.

My mind is still racing through the path they took to bring me here. Even with a gun at my back, I had cataloged every turn, every doorway, every possible escape route—just as my father taught me.

“Move.” The guard’s grip is bruising on my arm as he marches me through ancient stone corridors. But while they expect fear or submission, I do what I’ve been trained to do sincechildhood—I observe. I paint the layout in my mind like I’m composing a canvas.

First floor: A massive wooden door marks the main entrance, its hinges ancient but well-oiled. Three guards posted there, all with automatic weapons. The entrance hall splits two ways—east wing to the right, where modern medical equipment is being unloaded, west wing to the left, where the original monastery kitchens must be, judging by the faint scent of old smoke and herbs that still lingers in the stone.

Second floor: They take me up a spiraling staircase, the steps worn smooth by centuries of use. More medical equipment here, being installed in what were once prayer rooms. A modern security door stands out garishly against medieval stone—that must be the lab. Two key card readers, retinal scanner. Expensive. Important.

Through a window, I glimpse the courtyard below, mentally mapping the patrol patterns. Four guards, probably rotating every fifteen minutes. Predictable. Exploitable.

Third floor: Where they’re keeping Bianca, judging by the concentration of guards and medical personnel. They pause outside a heavy door, and I catch a glimpse of my stepdaughter through the reinforced window. The sight makes my blood boil, but I force myself to focus. Count the turns. Note the cameras. Find the blind spots.

They finally shove me into the monk’s cell, but I’m already building the map in my head, adding details like brushstrokes to a canvas. Because that’s what my father really taught me all those years ago—not just how to shoot or fight, but how tosee. How to turn observation into survival.

But now, those mental brushstrokes could mean the difference between life and death.

An ancient wooden crucifix hangs crooked on one wall, its shadow wavering in the weak light like a dark guardian. Iwonder about the monk who once lived here, who sought peace and salvation in this austere space. Did he find it? Or did he too lie awake at night, haunted by the weight of the secrets these walls have absorbed?

The heavy iron lock clicks, and Father Romano enters. He’s traded his priest’s robes for an expensive suit that probably costs more than most parish priests make in a year. The black Brioni fits him perfectly, but something about seeing him in civilian clothes makes him more threatening. The pretense of holiness has been abandoned, revealing the predator beneath.

“Comfortable?” His voice carries none of the warmth it held during my wedding ceremony but more of what I heard on the beach after the jet crash. His eyes—pale blue and cold as arctic ice—study me with clinical detachment.

“Lovely space.” I lean against the rough wall, channeling my mother’s social grace. The thought sends an unexpected pang through my chest—has she even been buried yet? Have I been so caught up in survival that I haven’t properly mourned? “Though the hospitality could use work. How’s Bianca?”

“Awake.” His smile reminds me of documentaries I’ve watched about great white sharks—all teeth and soulless eyes. “And asking for her father. She’s quite confused about why he hasn’t come for her yet.”

The taunt is meant to hurt, to make me doubt Matteo. Instead, it gives me hope. If Bianca’s awake and asking questions, she’s stronger than they expected. Like her father—whether by blood or choice—she won’t break easily.

“What are you testing her for?” I move to the window, keeping my movements casual despite my racing heart. Through the narrow opening, I can see the monastery’s courtyard three stories below. Guards patrol in regular patterns, their weapons visible even from this height. “It must be important if you’re willing to risk Matteo’s wrath.”

“Clever girl.” Romano steps closer, and something about his movement reminds me of a serpent preparing to strike. The expensive cologne he wears can’t quite mask an underlying smell—something medicinal and sharp that turns my stomach. “You’ve figured out some of it, haven’t you? About Sophia?”

“I have theories.” I turn to face him, noting how the moonlight catches the silver at his temples, highlighting features that might be handsome if they weren’t twisted by cruelty. A small scar bisects his left eyebrow—old, with a story I probably don’t want to know. “But I think you want to tell me. Isn’t that why you had them bring me here? So you could gloat about finally destroying Matteo DeLuca?”

He studies me for a long moment, head tilted like a bird of prey assessing its next meal. “You’re nothing like Sophia was. She was…fragile. Easily manipulated. But you…” His hand reaches out as if to touch my face, and it takes everything in me not to flinch away. His fingers are manicured, soft—hands that have never known real work, only the administration of other people’s pain.

I hold my ground, though every instinct screams to back away. “Tell me what you found in those medical records. What was worth killing for?”

“Giuseppe DeLuca’s sins run deeper than anyone knows.” His voice drops to a whisper, but in the stone cell it seems to echo endlessly. “Ask yourself why he forced his son to marry a pregnant teenager.”

The words hit me hard, making my knees weak. “What are you saying?”

“That some secrets are written in blood.” He circles me slowly, like a shark tightening its hunting pattern. His shoes make no sound on the stone floor—expensive Italian leather, the same brand Matteo favors. “But Carmine…he saw an opportunity. A way to protect Sophia, to give her childlegitimacy. A secret marriage, performed right here in this monastery.”

My mind races, trying to process the implications. “You’re saying Carmine married Sophia first? Before Matteo?”

“Which makes their marriage invalid. And Bianca’s claim to the DeLuca empire void.” His smile widens, showing too many teeth. “Though her claim to the Russo family remains intact. Funny how these things work out.”

Wait, what thehell? Bianca is—she’s mycousin?

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