Page 6 of Silent Vows

Something flashes in his eyes—pain, maybe, or guilt—but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. I’ve spent years studying his expressions, though I’d never admit it. The slight tightening around his eyes when he’s angry, the barely perceptible softening of his mouth when he’s pleased.

“This is about keeping a promise to your father,” he corrects. “About protecting you.”

“By forcing me to marry you?” The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over. “Some protection.”

Matteo reaches out, his hand hovering near my face as if to wipe away my tears, but I jerk back. The gesture is too intimate, too close to the dreams I’ve guiltily pushed away. Dreams where those hands, capable of such violence, touch me with surprising gentleness. Dreams I hate myself for having.

He lets his hand fall, and for a moment, I see something like regret cross his features. “The choice is yours, Isabella,” he says quietly. “But understand this—if you refuse, I won’t be able to stop what comes next. Johnny Calabrese will claim you, and your father’s empire will fall into the hands of the man who ordered his death.”

The accusation hangs in the air between us. My legs give out, and I sink into the leather chair behind me. “The Calabrese family…they killed my father?”

Matteo’s silence is answer enough. I close my eyes, remembering my father’s laugh, his proud smile when he visitedmy art studio last month, his promise to be at my graduation. All of it gone, because of this world I’ve tried so hard to escape.

And now here I am, being offered a choice that’s not really a choice at all. Marry Matteo DeLuca—the man who both terrifies and fascinates me, who I’ve spent years trying not to think about, trying not to notice how he fills a room with his presence. The man who makes me feel like prey and protected all at once. The man who’s sixteen years my senior and was my father’s best friend.

Or marry Johnny Calabrese and end up another tragic accident.

My artist’s mind betrays me, sketching out the contrasts. Matteo’s controlled power versus Johnny’s sadistic impulses. The way Matteo’s eyes follow me with that mixture of guilt and want, versus the way Johnny looks at women like they’re toys to be broken. The memories of Matteo always being there, a shadow of protection in my peripheral vision, versus the stories of Johnny’s wives and their “accidents.”

When I open my eyes again, they’re dry. “I want conditions,” I say, my voice stronger than I feel. This may be a cage, but I’ll be damned if I don’t set some of the terms of my imprisonment.

Matteo’s dark eyebrow rises slightly, surprise and something like respect flickering across his face. “Name them.”

“I finish my degree. I keep my art studio. I maintain my own bank account.” I take a deep breath. “And this marriage is in name only. We may have to live together, but we won’t…we won’t…”

“Share a bed?” His voice is low, dangerous. He leans down, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair, caging me in. “Don’t make conditions you don’t fully understand, little girl. This marriage will be real in every way. Anything less would raise suspicions.”

My body betrays me immediately. Heat floods my cheeks and spreads lower, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. This close, his cologne wraps around me—something expensive and masculine that makes my head spin. I can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow. My artist’s eye catalogs these details against my will, already knowing how I would paint him—in oils, all dark colors and sharp edges, danger barely contained by the expensive suit.

Share his bed. The words echo in my mind, bringing unwanted images with them.

No. I feel sick at my own thoughts, disgusted by the way my body responds to his proximity. He’s my father’s best friend. A killer. The very embodiment of the world I’ve tried to escape.

And now I’ll be his wife. The thought hits me like a physical blow. Everything I’ve worked for, every dream I’ve had of a normal life—gone. Instead of gallery openings and art shows, my life will be endless charity galas and family functions. I’ll be expected to smile prettily on his arm, to play the perfect Mafia wife like my mother does. The thought of becoming like her—empty eyes behind designer clothes, drowning her misery in pills and cocktails—makes bile rise in my throat.

Will I be forced to give up my art entirely? Will my studio become just another room in his mansion, my paints gathering dust while I learn to navigate the politics of our world? And children…God, he’ll expect children. Heirs to his empire. The idea of bringing innocent lives into this makes me want to scream.

“Do we have a deal?” he asks softly, his breath warm against my face.

I think of my father, of Johnny Calabrese, of the life I wanted versus the life I’m being forced to take. Of my mother, who traded her soul for security and designer dresses. Of Carmine,who will use my marriage to consolidate his power. Of Matteo, who has always been both protection and darkness, safety and danger.

I’ll be trapped in a gilded cage, expected to be the perfect wife to one of the most dangerous men in New York. No more late nights in my studio, no more freedom to come and go as I please. Everything will be controlled, monitored, arranged. My entire existence reduced to being an ornament on Matteo DeLuca’s arm.

And at night…at night I’ll have to share his bed. My skin prickles with goosebumps at the thought, and I hate myself for the shiver that runs through me. It’s not entirely fear, and that terrifies me more than anything. How can my body react this way to someone who represents everything I’ve tried to run from?

Finally, I meet his gaze squarely.

“Yes,” I whisper, and with that single word, seal my fate.

4

MATTEO

The predawn hours find me in my private gym, punishing a heavy bag with precise, brutal strikes. Each hit echoes through the empty space, matching the rhythm of accusations in my head.Monster. Predator. Betrayer.

Sweat drips down my bare chest as I work through the rage that’s been building since Isabella left my office. Her whispered “yes” haunts me, along with the look of defeat in her eyes—like I’d personally extinguished some vital light within her.

The bag absorbs another series of combinations. Left hook. Right cross. Uppercut. Each impact sends shockwaves through my wrapped hands, but the pain does nothing to quiet my mind. I’ve spent years protecting her from afar, watching her bloom into an artist, keeping the darkness of our world from touching her innocent soul.

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