Page 5 of Silent Vows

God forgive me for what I’m about to do.

3

BELLA

The words echo in my head like a death knell: “Your father arranged our marriage before his death.”

I stare at Matteo across his massive desk, waiting for the punchline, for any sign that this is some twisted joke. The Manhattan skyline behind him blurs as tears threaten to fall, but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of him. Not in this office that screams old money and violence, with its dark woods and subtle hints of weapons displayed as art.

My stomach churns. Less than forty-eight hours ago, I was in my studio mixing colors for my thesis piece. Now I’m here, being told I have to marry my father’s best friend. Matteo DeLuca. The boogeyman of New York’s underworld.

“That’s impossible,” I manage, proud that my voice doesn’t shake. “My father would never?—”

“Your father,” Matteo interrupts, his deep voice gentle but firm, “knew exactly what would happen if he died. The vultures are already circling, Isabella. Without protection, you’ll be forced to marry someone far worse than me.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. Memories flash through my mind—Matteo at family dinners when I wasyoung, his presence always making the room feel darker, more dangerous. The way other men would go quiet when he entered a room. The whispers about what he did to the last family that crossed him.

“Worse than you?” The words come out sharp as broken glass. “You’re my father’s best friend. You’re sixteen years older than me. You’re—” I cut myself off, but we both know what I was about to say.

You’re a killer.

My fingers twitch for a paintbrush, for the comfort of canvas and color. Art has always been my escape from this world—the violence, the power plays, the constant undercurrent of threat. In my studio, I could pretend to be normal. Could paint beauty instead of darkness.

Now even that’s being taken from me.

Matteo rises from his chair, and I fight the urge to step back. Even in my heels, he towers over me. He moves around the desk with a predator’s grace, stopping close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne mixed with the lingering scent of scotch. My heart pounds traitorously. I’ve always been aware of him, even when I didn’t want to be. Even when I was painting, I would sometimes catch myself thinking about the way he moved, the intensity in his eyes, the?—

No. I shut that thought down hard. This is insane. This iswrong.

“I’m also the only one who can keep you alive,” he says quietly. “Johnny Calabrese has already put in a bid for your hand. Do you know what he does to his wives, Isabella?”

The blood drains from my face. Everyone in this world knows about Johnny Calabrese’s last wife, who “accidentally” fell down a flight of stairs. And the one before that, who “tragically” overdosed. I’ve seen him at family functions, the way he looks at women like they’re toys to be broken.

“This is insane,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I’m supposed to be preparing for my thesis exhibition. I’m supposed to be graduating in the spring. I’m supposed to?—”

“You’re supposed to be alive,” Matteo cuts in, his voice hardening. “Everything else is secondary.”

A knock at the door makes me jump. Carmine enters without waiting for permission, his oily smile making my skin crawl. My uncle has always watched me with calculating eyes, waiting for his chance. I see it clearly now—with my father dead and me married off, who else could take over the Russo family but him?

“Ah, good. You must be telling her about the arrangements.”

“Get out,” Matteo growls, and something in his tone makes even Carmine take a step back.

“Of course, of course. But remember, we need an answer tonight. The Calabrese family won’t wait forever.” The door clicks shut behind him.

I want to scream. Carmine has always resented me, I realize. The artist daughter who should have been a son. Who should have wanted to take over the family business. He can have it all—the territory, the power, the blood money. I never wanted any of it. I wanted galleries and paint-stained fingers and a normal life where I didn’t have to watch every shadow.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the office. My entire world is imploding, again, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. Matteo watches me with those intense eyes that have always seen too much. Even when I was younger, trying so hard to avoid this world, I was aware of his gaze.

The way he would watch me at functions, how he always seemed to know where I was, what I was doing.

I used to think it was just him being a friend to my father. But there were moments, especially in the last few years, when Icaught him looking at me differently. Like now, with that mix of guilt and hunger that makes my stomach flip.

“When?” I manage to ask, hating how breathless I sound.

“Three days,” Matteo answers. “After the funeral. It needs to be done quickly to ensure your safety and maintain control of the territory.”

“Territory?” My voice rises. “Is that all this is about? Real estate and power?”

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