Page 61 of Silent Vows

I turn to find Elena in the doorway, looking better though still carrying shadows in her eyes. The bruises on her face havefaded to yellowed memory, but I catch how she still flinches at sudden movements. Her designer dress is perfect as always—black Chanel that makes her look even more willowy than usual—but she holds herself differently now. More carefully. More aware.

Like a survivor rather than a victim.

“Good different or bad different?” I ask, wiping paint from my hands with a stained rag. Some habits are too hard to break, even as a donna.

“Powerful different.” She moves closer, studying the painting with a curator’s eye. Her hand traces the air near the canvas, following the sweeping lines of gold through darkness. “Less hiding, more truth. Like you.”

I smile, remembering our conversation just weeks ago about running away from this life. Now here we both are—deeper in than ever. Elena has taken over all event planning for the Families, her near-death experience earning her respect among even the most traditional dons. Her talent for managing egos and arranging seating charts that won’t start blood feuds has proven invaluable.

“Mrs. DeLuca?” Maria appears in the doorway, her silver hair neatly coiled at her nape, her crisp uniform a sharp contrast to my paint-splattered appearance. The housekeeper’s warm eyes hold a mixture of affection and concern as she takes in my disheveled state. “Mr. DeLuca needs you in his study. The Calabrese family’s representatives have arrived.”

I exchange a look with Elena. This meeting will determine whether Johnny’s death leads to war or peace. Whether his family accepts the evidence of his crimes or seeks revenge.

“I should change,” I say, looking down at my clothes. Paint stains my favorite jeans and oversized sweater—Matteo’s actually, stolen from his closet this morning.

“No.” Elena’s voice carries an edge I’ve never heard before. “Let them see you exactly as you are. The artist who became a donna. The woman who killed their heir to protect her family.”

Understanding flows between us as I nod. Following Maria through the mansion’s corridors, I breathe in the familiar scents—leather and wood polish, fresh flowers from the conservatory, the lingering traces of Matteo’s cologne. His study door stands open, and my heart still skips when I see him behind his desk.

My husband looks every inch the don today in a charcoal Brioni suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders. His hair is perfectly styled despite the hand he occasionally runs through it when stressed, and the silver at his temples catches the afternoon light. He’s finally stopped favoring his injured shoulder, though I know it still pains him more than he admits.

Bianca stands at his right hand, every inch his daughter despite what blood might say. She’s traded her usual casual style for a navy sheath dress that makes her look older than her seventeen years. Her dark hair is swept up elegantly, highlighting cheekbones that mirror her father’s. The past four weeks have changed her too—she stands straighter, more confident in her place in our family.

They both look up as I enter, twin expressions of pride crossing their faces at my appearance. Because Elena’s right—there’s power in this, in being exactly who I am. Let the Calabrese family see the paint under my nails, the creativity that makes me different from their polished society wives.

“Don Calabrese,” Matteo greets the elderly man seated across from him. “You remember my wife.”

The don’s eyes narrow at my paint-stained appearance, but he rises with proper respect. He’s elegantly dressed in an Italian suit that probably costs more than most cars, his silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the humidity. But there’s something predatory in his dark eyes that reminds me too much of Johnny.

“Mrs. DeLuca.” His voice carries decades of power and threat wrapped in courtesy. “My condolences on your mother’s loss.”

“And mine on your son’s,” I return smoothly, moving to stand at Matteo’s left. My eyes catch movement behind the don—Anthony Calabrese, Johnny’s nephew, stands quietly observing. He’s younger than I expected, maybe twenty-five, with clean-cut good looks and an air of sophistication his uncle lacked. “Though we both know Johnny’s actions left no other choice.”

“Did they not?” The don’s smile is cold, reptilian. “A son dead, a family heir lost…some might say that demands response.” The threat hangs in the air like smoke, making the familiar scent of Matteo’s study—leather and sandalwood and power—feel suddenly oppressive.

“Some might,” Matteo agrees, his tone carrying that deadly calm that makes smarter men tremble. “Others might consider the evidence we gathered at the monastery. The medical records showing your son’s…proclivities with his previous wives. The video footage of his attack on an innocent event planner.”

I feel Bianca tense beside me as Elena enters quietly, taking her place near the door. The don’s eyes track her movement like a snake watching prey, noting the fading bruises on her face. But it’s Anthony’s reaction that catches my eye—the slight softening of his expression, the way his hands clench at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for her.

“Johnny was…troubled,” Don Calabrese admits finally. His manicured fingers tap a rhythm on the arm of his chair. “But he was my blood.”

“Blood isn’t everything,” Bianca speaks up, chin lifted in that defiant way she gets from Matteo. “Family is who we choose. Who chooses us.”

Something shifts in the don’s expression as he studies us—this unlikely family unit forged in fire and choice rather thangenetics. His gaze lingers on Bianca, and I know he’s heard the confirmation about her parentage. The sunlight streaming through Matteo’s windows catches on his signet ring as he strokes his chin thoughtfully.

“Perhaps,” he says slowly, “it’s time for new alliances. My grandson, Anthony, will take Johnny’s place as heir. He’s a bit older than your daughter, but in a few years…”

“No.” Matteo’s voice brooks no argument. The muscle in his jaw jumps—the only sign of how close he is to violence. “Bianca will choose her own path. Her own family.”

The don inclines his head, but I catch the calculation in his eyes. They remind me of a shark’s—cold, ancient, patient. “Of course. Then perhaps we can discuss other arrangements. Territory agreements, business partnerships…”

The negotiations continue, subtle threats wrapped in politeness as expensive as their suits. I observe it all—the power plays, the careful words, the way Matteo manages to secure peace while giving up nothing of real value. Every movement in this room is choreographed, a deadly dance where one misstep could start a war.

A movement near the door catches my attention. Elena slips out, but not before I see her exchange a look with Anthony Calabrese. The heat in that glance, the barely concealed longing, makes my stomach clench with familiar worry. How many times will history try to repeat itself?

“We have an understanding then,” Don Calabrese says, rising with that predatory grace that makes my skin crawl. His eyes sweep our family unit one last time, lingering just a moment too long on Bianca. “Though remember, the Calabrese family has a long memory. And even longer reach.”

“As do we,” Matteo responds, his voice carrying that lethal softness that makes even hardened killers pause. “I trust you’ll remember that when considering future…arrangements.”

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