Page 50 of Silent Vows

In our world, you never know when you might need another weapon.

We make our way through the monastery’s winding corridors, Antonio’s team providing cover. The sound of gunfire erupts outside—staccato bursts that echo off ancient stone, announcing the Calabrese family’s arrival in bullets and blood. Each shot makes me flinch, memories of my father’s death still too fresh.

“Exit route?” I ask as we reach the ground floor, adjusting my grip on Matteo. His skin burns with fever against mine, though he’d never admit weakness.

“Underground tunnel system,” he manages through gritted teeth. Sweat beads on his forehead, and I can feel tremors running through his body. “Connects to the old wine cellars. Transportation waiting on the other side.”

“Of course there are secret tunnels,” Bianca mutters, but her grip on her father remains steady. Her hospital gown is spattered with his blood now, making her look even younger, more vulnerable. “What else don’t I know about this place?”

“Later,” I cut in as more gunfire sounds closer, close enough to shower us with stone dust from the ancient walls. “Stories later, survival now.”

We find the tunnel entrance hidden behind a false wall in the chapel’s confessional—because of course the Catholic Church would have escape routes built into their houses of worship. The passage is narrow, medieval stone giving way to packed earth. Emergency strips along the floor cast everything in sickly green light that makes Matteo’s pallor look worse.

Our progress is slow with his injury, but no one suggests splitting up. We’ve all learned the hard way what happens when family separates. The tunnel air is thick with centuries of secrets, heavy with the weight of earth above us. Water drips somewhere in the darkness beyond the emergency lights, a steady rhythm like a dying man’s heartbeat.

“Wait.” Bianca stops suddenly, her body tensing. “Listen.”

Footsteps echo behind us, followed by voices—Johnny Calabrese’s distinct tone carrying through the tunnel like poisoned honey. The sound makes my skin crawl, remembering how he looked at me through my studio window, like I was something to be broken.

“Keep moving,” Matteo orders, though his voice is weaker now. “Antonio’s team will hold them?—”

“No.” I help him lean against the rough wall, my decision already made. “They’ll follow us straight to the exit.” I pull out Romano’s gun, checking the magazine. Six shots left. It’ll have to be enough. “Bianca, get your father to the cars. I’ll delay them.”

“Bella, don’t—” Matteo reaches for me with his good hand, blood seeping through his makeshift bandages. The sight steels my resolve.

“Trust me,” I whisper, echoing his words from our wedding night, from every moment he’s asked me to believe in him. “Like I trusted you.”

Before he can argue, I kiss him hard and fast, pouring everything I can’t say into it—how quickly I’ve come to need him, how afraid I am of losing him, how much I might just love him despite everything. When I pull away, I find Bianca watching us with an unreadable expression.

“Take care of him,” I tell my stepdaughter, this girl who’s become family in the strangest way.

To my surprise, she nods, something like respect flickering in those DeLuca eyes. “Take care of them.” She presses something into my hand—a small explosive device, clearly lifted from one of Antonio’s men. A smile curves her lips, and for a moment I see the woman she’ll become. “Make it count.”

The footsteps grow closer as Bianca helps Matteo deeper into the tunnel. I wait until they turn a corner, then set the charge where the passage narrows. The timer gives me two minutes—more than enough time to create a distraction that will either save my family or get me killed.

“I can smell your perfume, little artist,” Johnny’s voice echoes off stone walls, turning my blood to ice. “Jasmine, isn’t it? Like Sophia used to wear. Like all DeLuca women wear before they die.”

I back away from the charge, deliberately letting my footsteps be heard. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure it must echo off the walls, but my hands are steady on Romano’s gun. “Come find out.”

I make it thirty feet before they appear—Johnny and three of his men, their shadows stretching grotesque and massive in the emergency lighting. His smile reminds me of a shark scenting blood, all teeth and soulless eyes. The sight makes my finger tighten on the trigger, but I force myself to wait. Timing is everything.

He emerges from the shadows like a nightmare given form, three of his men flanking him. The emergency lighting casts his features in sickly green, highlighting the cruelty in his perfect smile. He moves with a predator’s grace, every step measured and deliberate.

“The artist princess,” he mocks, spreading his arms wide. “Giovanni’s precious daughter, who thought she could escape her birthright by hiding behind easels and paint.” His laugh echoes off the stone walls. “How’s that working out for you, sweetheart?”

My finger tightens on the trigger. “Better than being your puppet, Johnny. How’s it feel, being Carmine’s attack dog?”

Something ugly flashes across his handsome features. “You think you know so much, little girl. But you don’t even know how your father died, do you?”

The words are like a knife through me, but I force myself to stay focused. Keep him talking. Buy time. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“He begged at the end.” Johnny’s voice drops lower, silkier. “Not for his life—no, Giovanni was too proud for that. He begged for yours.” He takes another step closer, and I have to fight the urge to back away. “Want to know what his last words were?”

Forty seconds. My blood roars in my ears, but I make myself stand my ground. “You’re lying.”

“‘Not mybella mia,’” Johnny mimics my father’s accent perfectly, twisting the endearment into something obscene. “‘Not my little artist.’ Such a disappointment you must have been to him—the heir to his empire, running away to play with paintbrushes.”

“Shut up.” The words tear from my throat before I can stop them. Thirty seconds.

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