Page 48 of Silent Vows

But something doesn’t add up. The way Matteo reacts to any mention of his father. The timing of it all. The look in Sophia’s eyes in that security footage…There’s more here, something darker that makes Romano’s revelation about Carmine feel like misdirection.

“That’s what this is about? Succession?”

“Power, my dear. It’s always about power.” He moves to the door, his movements smooth and practiced. “I’ll let you think about what that means for your own position. After all, if Matteo’s marriage to Sophia was invalid, what does that make his marriage to you?”

The door closes behind him with a heavy thud, the lock’s click echoing in the stone cell. I wait until his footsteps fade completely before moving into action. The bobby pin Elena insisted I always hide in my sleeve (another memory that makes my chest tight—my best friend, probably sick with worry) comes free easily. Her voice echoes in my head as I work the lock:“Every society girl needs an escape plan, B. Especially in this world.”

The lock yields after two minutes of careful manipulation. My hands shake slightly, but years of controlling brushes for detailed work helps me maintain the precision needed. The ancient mechanism finally gives with a soft click that sounds deafening in the quiet cell.

The hallway stretches before me like something from a Gothic nightmare—all worn stone and shadows, lit intermittently by modern LED fixtures that seem obscene against the medieval architecture. The contrast makes my artist’s eye twitch—clinical white light harsh against ancient stone, like the past and present are at war. The air smells of incense and antiseptic, another jarring juxtaposition.

I move silently toward the medical wing, remembering the path they’d taken me past earlier. Every shadow could hide a guard, but I push forward, driven by the need to reach Bianca. My boots make no sound on the stone floor. Through narrow windows, moonlight creates patterns that my mind automatically tries to capture—how would I paint this? What colors would convey this mixture of ancient holiness and modern corruption?

The medical wing’s security focuses outward—guards at external doors, cameras covering approaches from outside. But they’re overconfident about their internal security, another sign of Romano’s arrogance. I slip through a service door, following the steady beeping of medical monitors.

The sound leads me to a private room that makes my blood run cold. The space might once have been another monk’s cell, but now it’s been transformed into something out of a nightmare. Modern medical equipment crowds the small space—heart monitors, IV stands, and more sinister-looking machines whose purposes I don’t want to contemplate. The harsh fluorescent lighting makes everything look sickly and unreal.

Bianca lies amid this technological invasion like a broken doll. They’ve dressed her in a hospital gown that makes her look younger than her seventeen years. Tubes and wires connect her to various machines, their steady beeping a mockery of lullabies. Dark bruises mark the crooks of her arms where they’ve drawnblood—too many times, judging by the rainbow of colors that speaks to different healing stages.

“Bianca?” I whisper, moving to her side. Up close, the resemblance to Matteo is even more striking—the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark hair. Even unconscious, she has that DeLuca grace.

Blood or not, she’s her father’s daughter.

Her eyes flutter open, revealing those steel-blue eyes that match Matteo’s exactly. “Bella?” Her voice comes out rough, like she’s been screaming. The thought makes rage burn hot in my chest. “What…what are you doing here?”

“Breaking you out.” I start removing monitoring leads with trembling fingers. Each one seems determined to mock me with its steady rhythm. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.” She tries to sit up, wincing. New bruises peek out from under her gown—they’ve been none too gentle with their “tests.” “They’ve been…taking samples. Blood, tissue…They keep asking about my mother.”

“I know.” I help her stand, supporting her weight against my side. She feels too light, like they haven’t been feeding her properly. Another sin to add to Romano’s growing list. “But right now we need to move. Your father’s coming, but we need to help ourselves first.”

“My father…” Her voice breaks slightly, vulnerability showing through her usual ice princess facade. “Is it true? What they said about him not being…”

“Hey.” I turn her to face me, one hand cupping her chin like Matteo does when he’s trying to make a point. “Listen to me. Family isn’t about blood. It’s about who stays, who fights for you, who loves you no matter what. Your father has fought for you since the day you were born. That’s what matters.”

Tears slip down her cheeks, cutting through the pallor of her skin. “Why are you helping me? After how I treated you…”

“Because you’re family. And I protect my family.” The words come easily, naturally, surprising us both with their truth. I check the hallway—still clear. “Now, can you run?”

A shadow of Matteo’s dangerous smile crosses her face, transforming her from victim to survivor in an instant. “Try to stop me.”

We make it three corridors and a flight of stairs before the alarms start wailing—high-pitched electronic screams that seem to pierce the ancient stone like daggers. The sound echoes off the vaulted ceilings, making it impossible to tell where pursuit might come from. I guide us toward the monastery’s old kitchen, following the mental map I’d created during my earlier captivity. My father’s voice echoes in my head:“Always know your exits, bella mia. Always have a plan.”

“Wait.” Bianca pulls me to a stop near a modern security door that looks obscene against the medieval stonework. Despite her weakness, her grip is strong—DeLuca strength showing through. “The lab. We need to destroy the samples.”

“Bianca—”

“Please.” Steel enters her voice, transforming her from scared teenager to Mafia princess in an instant. “I won’t let them use me against my father. Against our family.”

Our family. The words echo my own from earlier, and something warm unfurls in my chest despite the danger. I nod once, changing course. The lab isn’t far—I noted its location earlier, my artist’s eye automatically mapping the incongruous modern additions to the ancient space.

The laboratory itself is a jarring intrusion of chrome and fluorescent lighting into the monastery’s sacred space. Banks of sophisticated equipment line the walls—centrifuges, PCR machines, genetic sequencers that probably cost more than most hospitals can afford. The air smells sharp with chemicals, burning my nose and making my eyes water.

While Bianca moves through the space with surprising purpose, destroying samples and hard drives, I stand guard. Her hands shake slightly as she works, but her movements are precise, deliberate. Another thing she gets from Matteo—that ability to focus through fear, to turn terror into fuel for action.

The sound of running feet echoes through the stone corridors, growing closer. “Time to go,” I urge, already calculating escape routes.

But as we turn to leave, Father Romano appears in the doorway like a demon manifesting from shadow. The gun in his manicured hand looks wrong—too modern, too brutal for hands that were meant to offer blessings. His expensive suit is slightly disheveled now, his mask of civility slipping to reveal the monster beneath.

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