Page 70 of Silent Vows

She responds with a soft hum, her fingers lazily tracing patterns along my back as we come down from the high together. The intimacy lingers in the air, wrapping around us like a protective cocoon. In this moment, nothing else matters but her.

“I love you,” she whispers. Her head rests on my chest, her fingers drawing idle patterns over my skin. “All of you. Our whole complicated, dangerous, beautiful family.”

I hold her closer, one hand still protectively covering our child. Outside, security teams patrol the grounds, ready for Mario’s next move. But here, in this moment, I let myself feel only gratitude. For my fierce daughter who survived his games once. For my brave wife who fights beside me. For this new life we’ve created together.

Whatever comes next, we face it as one.

As a family.

30

BELLA

The war room buzzes with carefully controlled chaos as Matteo’s captains gather to plan our response to Mario’s threat. From my place at my husband’s right hand, I catalog details with an artist’s eye—the way shadows from tactical screens paint faces in shifting blues, how each captain arranges themselves around the massive table with practiced precision. They move like dancers in a deadly ballet, everyone knowing their exact position.

Except for one chair that remains conspicuously empty. At the head of the table opposite Matteo—Giuseppe’s old place. No one acknowledges it, but no one sits there either. The vacuum it creates feels like a haunting, the ghost of Matteo’s father still presiding over every decision. I notice how the older captains’ eyes occasionally drift to that empty seat, decades of conditioning still governing their movements.

My father taught me to read these subtle power plays, these unspoken traditions that govern our world.“Watch how they arrange themselves, bella mia,”he’d say during family gatherings.“Every empty space tells a story.”

“The Irish connection changes everything,” Antonio explains, drawing my attention to the map dominating the main screen. Red markers dot the Brooklyn waterfront like bloodstains, each one representing property acquisitions we’ve only just discovered. The pattern makes my stomach clench—not from morning sickness this time, but from growing dread.

“Using Mario’s old network,” Matteo adds, his voice carrying that edge that makes younger captains flinch. “The captains who stayed loyal to him, the businesses that never fully accepted my leadership…”

I study the map, my father’s lessons about territory and influence surfacing in my mind.“Every stronghold needs a supply line, bella mia. Find that, and you find their weakness.”The markers form a clear pattern, creating a corridor from the docks inland like a river of blood flowing through our city.

“These properties form a pattern,” I say, moving closer to the display. “They’re creating a corridor from the docks inland.”

Several captains look at me with surprise—these strategy sessions have always been male territory. But Matteo smiles grimly, pride mixing with concern in his eyes. “For weapons shipments. The Irish are well-connected with European arms dealers.”

“But that’s not Mario’s endgame,” Bianca speaks up from her position near the door. Even though she’s changed into torn jeans and a T-shirt she looks every inch the Mafia princess, her spine straight despite the tension in the room. “He doesn’t care about weapons or territory. This is personal.”

“Very personal.” My hand moves unconsciously to my stomach. “He’s targeting the future of the family. Especially with threats against the baby.”

Matteo’s hand finds mine under the table, squeezing gently. Before he can respond, a guard enters with a package—another delivery, this one marked specifically for Bianca. The box iswrapped in expensive black paper with a bloodred ribbon, an echo of the one that exploded in Matteo’s study.

The room erupts into controlled chaos. Vicente crosses himself, muttering in Italian. Two younger captains reach for weapons. Matteo moves with lethal grace, putting himself between the package and us. But it’s the older captains’ reactions that catch my eye—the way they look at that empty chair at the head of the table, as if seeking guidance from Giuseppe’s ghost.

“Clear the room,” he orders, his voice carrying that tone that brooks no argument. “Now.”

“Dad—” Bianca starts to protest, but Matteo cuts her off.

“Antonio, get them to the panic room.” His eyes never leave the package as he pulls out his phone. “Full containment protocol. No one in or out until we’re sure.”

Antonio appears at my elbow, trying to guide us toward the door, but I resist. “Matteo?—”

“Please,piccola.” The rare plea in his voice makes me pause. “I can’t think if you’re in danger. Let me handle this.”

I let Antonio lead us to the reinforced room down the hall, designed specifically for situations like this. Through the security feeds, we watch Matteo coordinate with precision born of experience. The bomb squad arrives within minutes—they’ve been on standby since the first explosion—in full protective gear. The package is moved to a containment unit, scanned with equipment that looks military grade.

Only after they confirm it’s clean does Matteo allow us back in. But those ten minutes of waiting, of watching him handle another threat to our family with such lethal efficiency, remind me exactly who I married.

Not just the don who commands respect, but the man who would die to protect what’s his.

The bomb squad’s equipment confirms what their initial scan suggested—no explosives, no chemical agents, nothingovertly dangerous. Just a single photograph that makes my blood run cold when they finally clear us to open it.

A preteen Bianca tied to a chair in what appears to be a warehouse, Mario standing behind her with a gun to her head. The image is dated five years ago—the night that led to his exile. The harsh fluorescent lighting catches every detail my artist’s eye wishes it couldn’t see—Bianca’s slumped over body, the rope burns on her small wrists, the casual way Mario’s finger rests on the trigger.

But it’s his expression that haunts me most—that DeLuca smile twisted into something cruel, something that speaks of carefully planned revenge rather than spontaneous violence.

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