Page 56 of Silent Vows

The gift carries weight beyond the physical—it’s acceptance, acknowledgment, family. I take it carefully, securing the sheath at my ankle beneath my tailored pants. The blade settles against my skin like a promise.

“I’ll bring it back,” I promise.

“Bring yourself back,” Bianca corrects, surprising us both with a fierce hug. Her arms are strong around me despite the lingering effects of Romano’s drugs. “I just got used to having a stepmom. I’m not breaking in a new one.”

I hug her back, meeting Matteo’s eyes over his daughter’s shoulder. The love I see there nearly steals my breath. How did we get here? A week ago, I was just a college student trying to escape this world.

Now I’m walking willingly into danger, armed with his and my father’s training and his daughter’s trust.

“Time to go,” Antonio says from the doorway. “Elena’s neighbor reported movement in her apartment.”

One final kiss for Matteo, one last hug for Bianca, and I follow Antonio out. The Mercedes glides through Manhattan traffic like a shark through dark water. I review the plan as we drive, noting how the city I’ve lived in my whole life looks different now. Every shadow could hide a threat, every glittering window could conceal a sniper’s scope.

Is this how my father saw the world? How Matteo sees it?

Elena’s building rises before us, a gleaming tower of steel and glass that has always represented safety to me. How many nights have I spent in her apartment, drinking wine and dreaming of gallery openings? Now only one window shows light on the tenth floor, a beacon or a trap, I’m not sure which.

“Remember,” Antonio says as we take position, “the Boss’s orders are to extract Elena and get out. No unnecessary risks.”

I check my weapons one last time—gun at my shoulder, knife at my ankle, backup piece strapped to my thigh. “Define unnecessary.”

His laugh is grim. “Just try to come back in one piece. He’s impossible when you’re in danger.”

“Speaking from experience?” I tease.

“Speaking as someone who’s never seen him like this.” Antonio’s voice softens. “Not even with Sophia.”

The comparison should bother me, but it doesn’t. Because I understand now—Sophia was his past, his lesson in trust and betrayal. But me? I’m his future. The one he chose, just as I chose him.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. The video attachment makes my blood run cold—Elena tied to one of her designer dining chairs, mascara streaking her face. Her bottom lip is split, a bruise darkening her left cheek. But her eyes…her eyes are fierce despite her fear.

Come alone, the message reads.Or she dies like your mother.

My hands don’t shake as I respond:Coming up. Touch her and I’ll show you exactly what I learned from Matteo DeLuca.

“Ready?” Antonio asks as I step out of the car.

I think of Matteo’s lessons in strategy, of Bianca’s fierce acceptance, of my father’s voice teaching me to shoot. Of Elena, who’s only in danger because she loved me enough to stay when she learned the truth about my world. “Ready.”

The lobby is eerily silent—no doorman at his usual post, no residents coming and going. My heels click against marble floors that have been polished to mirror shine, the sound echoing off walls that usually buzz with Manhattan’s elite. The emptiness raises the hair on my neck. How many of Johnny’s men are watching? How many guns are trained on me right now?

The elevator ride gives me time to center myself, to become who I need to be. Not the artist, not the scared girl forced into marriage. But Matteo’s wife. A donna in her own right.

I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls—black suit, perfect makeup, eyes that have seen too much in too little time.

My mother would be proud of how I look.

My father would be proud of why I’m here.

Elena’s door stands slightly open when I reach it. The scent of her signature perfume—Chanel No. 5—mingles with something metallic that makes my stomach turn. Blood. Taking a deep breath, I step into the apartment that’s been my second home for years.

The space has been transformed into something from my nightmares. Elena’s carefully curated furniture has been shoved aside to create sight lines to every entrance. Her collection of fashion photographs—all originals, all signed—hang crookedly on walls now marred by bullet holes. And in the center of it all, Johnny Calabrese lounges in her favorite armchair, gun trained lazily on my best friend’s head.

He’s not as polished as he was at my wedding. The tunnel collapse left its mark—a nasty cut above his eye, the way he favors his left side. But his smile is still razor-sharp, still promising beautiful violence.

“Bella,” Elena manages through split lips. Even bound and bleeding, she maintains that society poise. “I’m sorry. He said he just wanted to talk, and I?—”

“Shut up.” Johnny presses the gun harder against her temple. “Well, well. The artist becomes the warrior. Love the suit, by the way. Very donna.”

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