Page 67 of Silent Vows

“I want you safe.” He turns to his daughter, cupping her face in that gentle way that always makes my chest ache. “Both of you. All of you.” His eyes flick meaningfully to my stomach, where our child grows beneath Italian silk. Three lives to protect now. Three potential targets.

“We’re stronger together,” I argue, moving closer to them both. The morning sickness seems distant now, replaced by a clarity born of fear. “The moment we separate, we give him opportunities.”

“She’s right,” Antonio adds, ignoring the thunderous look Matteo shoots him. “Mario will expect you to send them away. He’ll be watching the airports, the usual routes. And if he has people inside our organization already…” He lets the implication hang heavy in the air.

Matteo’s jaw clenches, but before he can respond, Maria appears in the doorway. The housekeeper’s usual calm demeanor seems shaken, her hands trembling slightly. “Sir? There’s a delivery for Mrs. DeLuca.”

She holds out a small box wrapped in black silk paper, tied with a bloodred ribbon. No card, no marking to indicate its sender. The elegance of it makes my skin crawl—like a beautiful snake coiled to strike.

I reach for it instinctively, but Matteo moves faster. “Don’t,” he orders, taking the package himself. His voice carries thatedge of command that usually makes everyone obey without question. “Antonio…”

But it’s too late. A high-pitched whine fills the air, mechanical and wrong, like the sound death might make if it had a voice. Matteo’s eyes meet mine for one frozen moment—fear and love and rage all warring in those steel-blue depths. Then he’s moving, hurling the box through the study’s windows.

The explosion rocks the room, shattering glass and spewing flames. Matteo tackles both Bianca and me behind his desk as security swarms in. The chaos is deafening—shouted orders, breaking glass, the wail of distant sirens. The acrid smell of smoke mingles with gunpowder and fear.

Then all our phones chime simultaneously.

The message that appears makes my blood turn to ice:

Welcome to the family, little artist. Time to play a game.

29

MATTEO

Smoke curls through the shattered study windows, acrid and sharp in my lungs as security sweeps the grounds. Radio chatter and tactical movements create a familiar symphony of controlled chaos, but I barely register it. All I can focus on is the precious weight of my wife and daughter in my arms, their bodies still protected by mine even though the immediate danger has passed. I won’t release them—can’t release them—while Mario’s message burns in my mind:“Time to play a game.”

My brother always did love games. Dangerous ones that left scars both visible and hidden. The product of Giuseppe’s affair with his secretary, Mario came into our world already fighting for a place. His mother fled shortly after his birth, leaving him to be raised alongside me in a household where competition meant survival. He grew up in my shadow, forever trying to earn our father’s approval, to prove he was worthy of the DeLuca name despite being the “bastard son.”

“I’m fine,” Bella insists, trying to step away from my protection. But I can’t let go—not when the memory of anotherexplosion, another threat to my family, still haunts my dreams. “We both are.”

Her hand rests protectively over her stomach where our child grows, and the gesture ignites fresh rage in my chest. Mario’s timing is too perfect, too precise. He knows about the pregnancy—which means someone close to us has betrayed us. Someone with access to medical records, to security protocols, to our most intimate moments.

Another game, another test of loyalty.

I will find the traitor. And when I do, their death will serve as a message to anyone else considering betrayal.

“The compound’s clear,” Antonio reports, holstering his weapon. Through his earpiece, I hear the coordinated movements of our security teams sweeping the grounds. His weathered face shows the strain—he was there five years ago too, when Mario first turned on us. “No signs of other devices. But Boss…we’ve got movement at the old Brooklyn territory. Mario’s been seen meeting with some of your former captains.”

Bella goes rigid beside me. “The ones who were loyal to him before the exile?”

“Not just them.” Antonio pulls up surveillance photos on his tablet. The images flood the room’s screens—crystal clear shots that make my blood boil. “He’s been watching the wedding reception. These were taken right before all hell broke loose.”

The photos show Mario lurking in the shadows of the gardens at the reception, observing the chaos after Bianca’s outburst. He looks exactly as I remember—that same calculated cruelty in his eyes that I first saw when we were children. Even then, he watched from shadows, waiting for moments of weakness. I remember finding him in Giuseppe’s study once, going through private files, searching for something to use against me. When I confronted him, he just smiled that coldsmile and said, “Knowledge is power, brother. And in this family, we take what power we can get.”

“He’s planning something,” Bianca says quietly. Her voice trembles slightly—the first crack in her armor I’ve seen since the explosion. “Using the chaos in our family to find weak points.”

“Like he did before.” Ice coats my words as memories assault me. Five years ago, that warehouse in Red Hook where my brother chose to make his stand. I can still smell the rotting fish and diesel fuel, still hear water lapping against the pier. The call had come at midnight—Mario’s voice carrying that edge of madness I’d always feared would surface:

“Remember how Father always made us compete, brother? How you always won? Well, now we play my game. Your empire or your daughter. Choose quickly—she’s running out of air.”

I’d found Bianca in a shipping container at a warehouse, curled into herself like a broken bird. Twelve years old, wearing the navy school uniform she’d been taken in, her wrists raw from fighting the restraints. The sight of her—my fierce, proud daughter reduced to that—broke something in me that’s never fully healed.

“Daddy?” Her voice had been barely a whisper, hoarse from screaming. “I tried to fight. Like you taught me. But Uncle Mario…he said it was just a game…”

The memory of her tears soaking my shirt, of her body trembling against mine as I cut her free, feeds the rage building in my chest now. Mario had wanted me to choose between my power and my child, never understanding that there was no choice. Never comprehending that real power comes from what we protect, not what we destroy.

My phone buzzes with another message from Mario, and the image that fills the screen makes my blood freeze. It’s us leaving Elena’s apartment yesterday—Bella’s hand resting protectivelyover her stomach, Bianca laughing at something, all of us unaware we were being watched.

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