Page 74 of Silent Vows

32

BELLA

The compound’s medical wing reeks of antiseptic and copper as doctors treat Mario’s shoulder wound. Through the observation window, I watch them work with clinical efficiency, the fluorescent lights turning everyone’s skin a sickly shade of blue white. My hands still feel the phantom weight of the sniper rifle—the cold metal, the precise mechanics, the shocking recoil when I pulled the trigger.

I’ve never fired a weapon like that before tonight. Target practice with my father was one thing—neat paper targets in controlled environments. But this? Watching the red bloom across Mario’s expensive suit through my scope, knowing I could have easily shifted two inches left and ended his life? The power of that choice sits heavy in my chest.

“You didn’t kill him,” Matteo says softly, appearing beside me. He’s shed his wet jacket, but rain still darkens his hair, making it curl slightly at his temples. Even after everything, the sight of him affects me—power and danger wrapped in elegant violence. “You could have.”

“He’s your brother.” I meet his eyes in the glass reflection, seeing the war of emotions he tries to hide. Through the window,Mario stirs on the hospital bed, already fighting the sedation. “And I wanted him to live with his failure. Death would be too easy.”

His arm slides around my waist, hand protective over our child. The warmth of him against my back steadies something in me that’s been shaking since I pulled that trigger. He smells of rain and gunpowder and something uniquely him that still makes my pulse race despite everything.

“You’re a better person than I am,piccola.” His breath stirs my hair, and I lean back into his strength.

“No.” I turn in his embrace, placing my hands on his chest where his heart thunders beneath Italian cotton. Even his shirt is still damp from the rain. “Just different. You would have killed him to protect us. I chose to wound him to protect you.”

Understanding floods his expression—that rare softness few ever see beneath his dangerous facade. Because he knows I’m right—killing Mario would have changed him, would have proved Giuseppe’s poisonous lessons about violence and worthiness. This way, the choice and the mercy come from me.

“The Irish won’t be happy,” Antonio reports, joining us at the window. His lined face reflects in the glass, lined with decades of loyalty and violence. “O’Connor’s already making threats about what happens to people who betray Irish hospitality.”

I turn back around in Matteo’s arms to face the window, watching Mario fight against the doctor’s ministrations. Even wounded, even sedated, he radiates that dangerous DeLuca charisma. His eyes find us through the glass, and something dark crosses his face as he takes in our embrace, Matteo’s hand curved protectively over where our child grows.

“He’s still dangerous,” I observe, noting how Mario’s fingers twitch toward phantom weapons even as nurses bind his shoulder. Every movement, every glance carries calculation. “Even wounded, even failed…he’ll try again.”

“Yes.” Matteo doesn’t sugarcoat it, his chest solid against my back. “But not here. Not now.”

“What will you do with him?” I ask.

Before Matteo can answer, Bianca appears in the corridor. She’s traded her tactical gear for leggings and an oversized sweater, looking every bit the teenager she is rather than the Mafia princess who helped coordinate tonight’s operation. But her spine is straight, her chin lifted in that distinctly DeLuca way that speaks of steel beneath silk.

“Send him back to Boston,” she says, joining our vigil at the window. In the harsh medical lighting, I see how much she looks like her father—that same intensity in her eyes, that same ability to mask emotion beneath control. “Let him live with the Irish he chose over family. But make it clear—if he ever comes near us again…”

“Then I won’t aim for the shoulder,” I finish quietly, the words tasting like copper in my mouth.

Mario’s laugh carries through the glass, harsh and knowing. He pushes himself up on his uninjured arm, ignoring the doctor’s protests. “Sweet family reunion,” he calls out. “But tell me, nephew or niece? What kind of child will the artist and the monster create?”

Matteo tenses against me, but I press my hand over his where it rests on my stomach. His heartbeat thunders against my back, rage barely contained. “He’s trying to provoke you. Don’t let him.”

“Listen to your wife, brother.” Mario’s smile is all teeth and old wounds. “She’s smarter than Sophia ever was. Though just as dangerous to love, I’d wager.”

“Enough.” Bianca’s voice cracks like a whip. “You lost the right to speak about our family the moment you put a gun to my head.”

“Your family?” Mario barks out another laugh, but there’s something calculating in his gaze as it lands on Bianca. “Such a DeLuca trait, isn’t it? The way we reshape truth to protect what’s ours. The way we build families on carefully constructed lies. Some things really do run in the blood, don’t they, brother?”

His words carry weight I don’t quite understand—some hidden meaning that makes Matteo go perfectly still against me. Like all of Mario’s taunts, they seem designed to cut deep beneath surface wounds.

“Blood doesn’t make family,” I say, meeting Mario’s gaze through the glass. His eyes—so like Matteo’s but somehow colder—lock onto mine with predatory interest. “The lengths we go to protect each other, the secrets we keep, the love we have, the choices we make—that’s what builds a family. Something you threw away the moment you decided revenge was more important than loyalty.”

“Love?” Mario snorts, his eyes fixed on where my hand covers Matteo’s over our child. “Love makes us blind in our world. Makes us ignore the signs, bury the truth. Just ask my brother about Sophia—about what a father will do to protect his secrets.”

“I’m not Sophia.” I’m so fucking tired of her ghost haunting every corner of our lives. “And Matteo hasn’t failed anyone. You did that all on your own.”

Something shifts in Mario’s expression—not quite respect, but recognition perhaps. Like a predator acknowledging another hunter’s skills. “You’re right about one thing, artist. You’re nothing like Sophia.” His smile turns cryptic, almost amused. “You’remuchmore interesting.”

The way he says it sends chills down my spine. Because it’s not a threat, not exactly. It’s something worse—interest. The kind that suggests this isn’t over, that he’s seen something in me worth studying. Worth using.

“Boston,” Matteo says, decision made. His voice holds that tone that brooks no argument. “Tonight. Antonio, make the arrangements.”

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