Page 55 of Silent Vows

The words land like a bucket of ice water. Because suddenly I remember—Elena had caught Johnny’s eye at the wedding reception when Elena had squared off with a drunk Bianca. AndJohnny Calabrese has a very specific way of dealing with his fascination with women.

“Call in everyone,” I order Antonio, already reaching for my jacket. “I want?—”

“No.” Bella’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. “You’re injured, and Bianca’s still recovering from whatever drugs they pumped into her. This one’s mine.”

“Bella—”

“He’s using my best friend to draw me out?” Her smile is all danger now, all Russo steel wrapped in artist grace. “Fine. Let’s give him what he wants.”

Looking at her now—my artist, my warrior, my salvation—I realize I’ve never loved her more. And I’ve never been more afraid of losing her.

Because some choices, once made, can never be unmade. And some loves, once admitted, can never be denied.

Even if they destroy us both.

24

BELLA

“Absolutely not.” Matteo’s voice fills his study like a thundercloud, dark and threatening. He’s been arguing against this for the past hour and a half, ever since I declared my intention to rescue Elena. The protest would carry more weight if he weren’t still pale from blood loss, his shoulder heavily bandaged beneath his perfectly tailored shirt.

I check my gun—my own now, not Romano’s. The weight of it feels different, like it was made for my hand. Is this how my father felt before going into battle? Did he too find strange comfort in the cold steel, in knowing he had the means to protect what’s his?

“I’m not going alone.” I tuck the weapon into my shoulder holster, the movement already feeling natural. Another change this week has brought—artist’s hands now equally comfortable with brushes or bullets. “Antonio’s team will be in position. But I need to be the one to make contact.”

“Because you’re bait.” His good hand clenches on his desk, knuckles going white. I see the muscle jumping in his jaw, thetelltale sign of barely contained emotion. “He wants to use you to hurt me.”

“No.” I move to him, resting my hands on his chest. The steady thud of his heart beneath my palms grounds me, reminds me what I’m fighting for. I almost smile at his protectiveness—this dangerous man who makes hardened killers tremble, reduced to worry by one small artist. “He wants to use Elena to hurt me. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t see one.” The words come out like gravel, rough with fear he’d never admit to feeling.

“The difference,” I say softly, smoothing the lapels of his jacket, “is that he doesn’t know what I’m capable of. He still sees Giovanni Russo’s sheltered daughter. The artist playing at being a Mafia wife.”

Understanding dawns in his steel-blue eyes, turning them to storm clouds. He sees it now—the advantage of being underestimated, of letting Johnny think I’m still that scared girl who walked into this office a week ago.

“But that’s not who you are anymore.”

“It’s not who I’ve been since the moment I said yes in your office.” I rise on my toes to kiss him briefly, tasting scotch and worry on his lips. “You taught me that. You and Bianca both—showing me that we choose who we become, regardless of blood or background.”

“Let me come with you.” His free hand cups my face, and the near pleading in his voice tells me exactly how much this costs him. Matteo DeLuca doesn’t beg. Ever. “Please,piccola.”

“You can barely lift your arm.” I turn to kiss his palm, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. Gun oil and sandalwood and something uniquely him that still makes my pulse race. “Besides, I need you here. Keeping Bianca safe in case this is another distraction.”

“I hate that you’re right.” The words come out like they’re being dragged from him.

“I know.” I step back, checking my appearance in the study’s gilt-framed mirror. My mother would be proud—gone are the paint-stained jeans and messy hair of a week ago. In their place stands a donna in a black Armani suit that costs more than my old apartment’s monthly rent.

The jacket’s cut is precise enough to hide my shoulder holster while highlighting every curve. My hair falls in careful waves past my shoulders, and subtle makeup makes my hazel eyes look huge in my pale face. Even the Louboutins are deadly—four-inch stilettos that could double as weapons in a pinch.

“How do I look?”

“Like a donna.” Pride and fear war in his expression as he drinks me in. “Like my wife.”

A knock interrupts whatever else he might have said. Bianca enters, carrying something wrapped in black silk. My stepdaughter moves with that innate DeLuca grace, but there’s tension in her shoulders that wasn’t there before the monastery.

“I want you to take this,” she tells me, unwrapping the package to reveal an ornate dagger. The blade gleams wickedly in the afternoon light, its handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl and what look like actual emeralds. The craftsmanship is exquisite—this is no mere weapon, but a work of art designed for killing.

“It was my mother’s. Dad gave it to her for protection, but…” She swallows hard. “She never used it. Maybe you’ll be braver than she was.”

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