Page 72 of Silent Vows

“Together,” I agree, one hand still protective over our child, the other holding Bianca close.

Because Mario and the O’Connors have made a fatal mistake. They think love makes us vulnerable, that family ties can be used as weapons. But they don’t understand that real strength comes from what we choose to protect. What we choose to fight for.

And I choose this—this complicated, dangerous, beautiful family we’ve built. This future growing beneath my heart. This love that transforms fear into power.

Let them come with their games and threats. Let them think they understand family bonds and blood debts.

We’ll show them what real family means.

Together.

31

MATTEO

Rain pounds against the bulletproof glass of my SUV, each drop a staccato reminder of another night like this five years ago. The rhythmic sound mingles with the low rumble of the V8 engine and the squelch of tires on wet asphalt, creating a symphony of tension that sets my teeth on edge. Even the familiar scent of leather and gun oil can’t calm my racing thoughts.

Phase one of our plan is in motion. The media—those vultures who’ve been circling our family since Johnny’s death—have been carefully fed stories about Bella and Bianca’s departure to a “safe location.” Page Six couldn’t resist the scandal: “DeLuca Women Flee New York—Trouble in Criminal Paradise?” While theDaily Newswent with “Mafia Princess and New Bride Seek Italian Sanctuary.” The kind of headlines that would make Mario think his psychological warfare is working.

In reality, both of my women are secure in the panic room beneath the compound, surrounded by guards I’ve known since childhood. The thought of Bella there, probably driving the security team crazy with her tactical suggestions while protecting our unborn child, almost makes me smile.

Almost.

“Mario’s people took the bait,” Antonio reports from the passenger seat, his weathered face illuminated by the glow of his tablet. “They’re tracking the decoy convoy heading to the airport.”

I nod, my knuckles white on the steering wheel as we approach the warehouse district. The industrial wasteland rises around us like a graveyard of broken dreams—abandoned buildings with shattered windows, graffiti-covered walls that hold too many secrets. Five years of memories flood back, turning the rain-slicked streets into a battlefield of ghosts.

Every shadow, every corner of this district holds echoes of that night. Finding Bianca tied to a chair, her school uniform torn and bloody, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face. The way she’d whimpered “Daddy” when I cut her free, how light she felt in my arms—my stubborn daughter reduced to something small and broken by a man who shared my blood.

“You never told me what really happened that night,” Antonio says quietly, his voice barely audible over the rain. “Why you let him live.”

“Because killing him would have proved him right.” My jaw clenches as memories assault me—Mario’s voice on the phone, taunting me about choices and worthiness. Giuseppe’s lessons about family and power playing out in real time through his sons. “That I was exactly what our father always said—ruthless, unfeeling, incapable of mercy.”

“And now?”

“Now he’s threatening my wife. My children.” Ice coats my words as my phone buzzes with a message from Bella:Security feed shows movement at the warehouse. He’s there.

Of course he is. Mario always did have a flair for dramatic symbolism. The warehouse where he lost everything—where heforced a choice that was never really a choice at all—would be the perfect stage for his revenge.

Another text follows quickly:Be careful. Come back to us.

I allow myself a moment to picture her, safe in the panic room with Bianca. My beautiful artist, probably pacing like a caged tiger, one hand protective over our child while the other gestures as she argues strategy with the security team. The image brings both comfort and fear—everything I have to protect, everything Mario threatens to destroy.

“Boss.” Antonio’s voice draws my attention to the warehouse looming ahead of us like some Gothic monster in the rain. The old brick structure seems to absorb the darkness, its broken windows like hungry eyes watching our approach. Water cascades down its walls in sheets, creating a curtain that seems designed to hide secrets.

Three black SUVs emerge from the shadows, boxing us in with practiced precision. Even their driving style screams Irish training—aggressive but controlled, leaving no room for escape. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I watch a familiar figure step out of the center vehicle.

Mario.

Five years haven’t changed his core essence, though new scars mark his face—one particularly nasty one bisecting his left eyebrow, another along his jaw. He moves with that same predatory grace we both inherited from Giuseppe, but there’s something wilder about him now. Where I learned to contain my darkness, to channel it into protection, his burns openly in eyes that mirror my own.

“Brother,” he calls, his voice carrying that distinctive DeLuca timbre despite the rain. He’s dressed like me—black suit, tactical gear underneath—but where mine is precisely tailored,his has a deliberate dishevelment. A calculated display of chaos. “Expecting me?”

“Considering you practically sent an engraved invitation?” I keep my tone casual despite the dozen guns trained on me from his Irish backup. I count eight men, all with that hard-eyed look of O’Connor’s personal guard. “Subtle was never your strong suit.”

We face each other in the rain, neither mentioning how we’ve unconsciously taken the same stance—shoulders squared, chin lifted, hands relaxed at our sides ready to reach for weapons. Giuseppe’s stance, though acknowledging that would give Mario too much power. Water drips from his dark hair, plastering it to his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, more like the brother I failed to protect from our father’s games.

His laugh holds no humor, just decades of bitterness crystallized into sound. “Says the man who sent his pregnant wife to Italy. Tell me, how does it feel? Knowing you have to choose again? Family or power, brother. It always comes down to that.”

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