Page 7 of Silent Vows

Now I’ve become the very thing she needs protection from.

The irony would be amusing if it wasn’t so fucking tragic.

Blood seeps through the wraps—I’ve split my knuckles again. Good. Physical pain is easier to handle than the memory of Isabella’s face when I told her about the marriage. The way she’d looked at me, like I was something monstrous.

She wasn’t wrong.

The gym door opens, and Antonio enters, tablet in hand. At fifty-five, my consigliere moves with the same deadly grace he had when I took over the family fifteen years ago. His silver hair and grandfatherly appearance mask one of the sharpest tactical minds in New York. “Boss, we’ve got updates.”

I deliver one final punch that sends the bag swinging violently on its chain. “Report,” I order, unwrapping my hands. The white gauze is stained crimson—a fitting metaphor for what I’m about to do to Isabella’s life.

“The Calabrese family isn’t happy about the engagement announcement. Johnny’s already making threats.” Antonio swipes through his tablet. “We’ve increased security around Miss Russo’s apartment and studio. Father Romano has been arranged for both ceremonies—funeral and wedding. And…” He hesitates.

“What?”

“Miss Russo’s mother is at the front gate. She’s…quite insistent about seeing you.”

“This fucking early?” I curse in Italian. Of course Cher would show up now, probably to negotiate her cut of this arrangement. “Send her to my office. I’ll shower first.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed in one of my signature black suits, my hair still damp as I enter my office to find Cher Russo pacing the floor in designer heels. At forty-five, she’s still stunning—all sleek blonde hair and elegant bones.

But where Isabella’s beauty is natural, unconscious, her mother’s is a weapon, carefully honed and deployed. They share the same pale skin and delicate features, but there’s a hardness to Cher that Isabella hasn’t developed. Yet.

“How dare you?” she hisses, whirling to face me, her face the perfect mask of motherly rage. “My husband isn’t even cold in his grave, and you’re forcing my daughter into marriage?”

“Sit down, Cher,” I say coldly, already sick of her shit. “We both know you’re not here out of maternal concern.”

The mask immediately drops as she takes a seat, crossing her legs elegantly. Even in mourning, she’s perfectly coiffed, not a platinum hair out of place. Her black Chanel dress probably cost more than most people make in a month. “Fine. Let’s discuss numbers.”

“Your monthly allowance will continue. Isabella’s trust fund remains untouched.” I sit behind my desk, already tired of this conversation. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

“And my position in society?”

What a piece of fucking work she is. Instead of being concerned about her daughter’s well-being, she’s more focused on whether she will be invited to the next society ball.

“Will be secured by your daughter’s marriage to me.” My tone turns dangerous. “But understand this, Cher—if you do anything to upset Isabella during this transition, both your allowance and your social standing will disappear. Permanently.”

The threat isn’t lost on her. She stands, smoothing her designer dress. Her eyes drift to the turned photo on my desk, and her lips curve into a knowing smile.

“Your father Giuseppe always knew how to handle delicate situations,” she says with calculated casualness. “Especially involving young girls.”

Something dark flashes across my face before I can hide it. “My father isn’t relevant to this conversation.”

“No?” Cher’s smile widens. “He was so…investedin your marriage to Sophia.” A pause. “Just remember, Matteo—she’s not Sophia. Your first wife, may she rest in peace, was such a perfect DeLuca donna. Such atragicloss.”

The name hits me like a physical blow. My hand tightens on the desk, the wood creaking under my grip. “Get out.”

Once she’s gone, I remain at my desk, my hands shaking with the effort not to destroy something. Sophia. Even after ten years, the name is a blade between my ribs. Cher knows exactly what she’s doing, invoking her memory now. Trying to provoke me, to make me doubt myself. To make me remember what happens to the women I try to protect.

I force myself to breathe, to push back the memories of blood-stained emeralds and broken promises. Isabella isn’t Sophia. She’s stronger, fiercer, more alive. But the fear claws at my gut anyway—fear that history will repeat itself, that I’ll fail her just as catastrophically.

Needing reassurance, I pull up the security feed on my laptop. Isabella’s in her studio, probably seeking refuge in her art. She looks small surrounded by her canvases, but there’s determination in every brush stroke as she works on what appears to be a new piece. The colors are darker than her usual palette—all blacks and deep blues, sharp edges where she usually favors soft lines. She’s working through her trauma the only way she knows how.

My chest tightens watching her. Even through the grainy security footage, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she attacks the canvas like it’s personally wronged her. She’s wearing one of her oversized painting shirts, dark hair piled messily on top of her head, completely unaware of how beautiful she is.

How vulnerable.

My phone buzzes with a message from Carmine.

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