Page 62 of Silent Vows

The threat hangs in the air between them like smoke. Anthony steps forward, offering his hand to his grandfather. In that moment, the family resemblance is striking—the same aristocratic features, the same calculated charm. But where Johnny’s eyes held cruelty, Anthony’s hold something else.

“Tell me, Mrs. DeLuca,” the don says suddenly, his smile cold. “Do you still paint? I heard you were quite…talented. It would be a shame if anything happened to interfere with such a…delicate pursuit.”

The words send ice through my veins. He’s reminding us that they’ve been watching, gathering intelligence, learning our routines and vulnerabilities. Matteo’s hand finds mine, squeezing once as Antonio escorts our guests out.

Once they’re gone, the tension bleeds from the room like a physical thing. Bianca collapses onto the leather sofa, kicking off her heels. “Well, that was suitably terrifying.”

“You did well,” Matteo tells her, pride evident in his voice as he moves to the bar cart. The crystal decanter catches late afternoon light as he pours three fingers of scotch. “Standing your ground about choosing your own path.”

“Yes, well.” She shoots me a look that’s half grateful, half mischievous. “I learned from the best. Knowing Bella killed Johnny rather than be forced into anything tends to clarify one’s priorities.”

I move to Matteo’s desk, needing the familiar comfort of this space. The room still carries traces of his cologne, mixed with leather and aged wood. That turned-away photo frame catches my eye again—young Matteo with his father’s hand on his shoulder, a gesture that had always struck me as wrong somehow.

Now I understand why he keeps it faced away, why Giuseppe’s shadow still darkens even our brightest moments.

“They’re watching us,” I say, perching on the desk’s edge. “Have been for a while, judging by his comment about my painting.”

“Let them watch.” Bianca’s voice carries that DeLuca steel. “We protect our own now.”

“Speaking of protection.” Matteo hands me a glass of water instead of scotch—he’s noticed I haven’t been drinking lately. The gesture makes my heart flutter. “That look between Elena and Anthony…”

“Elena’s stronger than Mom was,” Bianca points out, twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger—a gesture so like her father it makes my chest ache. “And Anthony seems…different from Johnny.”

“Still.” Matteo’s jaw clenches. “We watch. We wait. We protect.”

“Always.” Bianca stands, smoothing her dress. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a FaceTime date with Sophie Martinez.” At our raised eyebrows, she adds, “What? A girl needs normal friends too. Even Mafia princesses.”

She kisses both our cheeks before leaving, her designer heels clicking against hardwood floors. The sound fades, leaving us alone in the gathering dusk.

The setting sun paints his study in shades of gold and crimson, turning the space into something from a Renaissance painting. The light catches on his signet ring as he moves to stand behind his desk, every inch the powerful don—except for how his eyes soften when they meet mine.

“You saw it too?” he asks, pulling me into his lap. His cologne wraps around me, and for a moment I have to fight a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with stress.

“Elena and Anthony?” I trace the scar on his shoulder through his shirt, remembering how close I came to losing him. “Yes. History repeating?”

“No.” He catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm that sends electricity through my body. “Because this time we know better. This time we protect our own.”

“Speaking of our own…” I take a deep breath, gathering my courage as I place his hand on my still-flat stomach. “We might need to clear out that room next to Bianca’s.”

I feel him go absolutely still beneath me. “Bella?” He barely breathes.

“I’m late.” I meet his eyes, seeing my own mix of fear and hope reflected there. “And the doctor confirmed it this morning. Six weeks.”

“Since our wedding night,” he breathes, hand spreading possessively across my stomach. For a moment, something dark crosses his face—old fears, old wounds—I’m only beginning to understand. I see him glance at that turned-away photo of his father, then back to me. His hand trembles slightly when it rests against me.

“Talk to me,” I whisper, cupping his face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…” His voice is rough with emotion. “I’m thinking about how terrified I am of becoming him. Of failing this child like he failed me.”

“You won’t.” I press my forehead to his. “You’re nothing like Giuseppe. Look at how you are with Bianca—how you protect her, support her, let her choose her own path.”

“A baby,” he whispers against my lips, wonder breaking through the fear. “Our baby.” His other hand slides into my hair, cradling my head like I’m something precious. “You’re sure?”

I nod, watching joy finally overtake the shadows in his eyes. “I know it’s fast, and with everything that’s happened?—”

He cuts me off with a kiss that steals my breath. When we break apart, I see everything in his face—the lingering fear of his father’s legacy, the fierce protective instinct already building,and underneath it all, a deep, staggering love that makes my heart ache.

“You know what this means?” he murmurs, both hands now cradling my stomach. “No more rushing into gunfights. No more facing down killers alone.”

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