Page 77 of Silent Vows

MATTEO

Dawn breaks over Manhattan like spilled blood, painting the skyline in shades of crimson and gold. From my study window, I watch the city awaken—delivery trucks rumbling down empty streets, early commuters hurrying with coffee cups clutched like lifelines, the steady pulse of a world unaware that power shifted last night. Every shadow seems deeper this morning, every light somehow harsher.

Or maybe that’s just what happens when you exile your brother. Again.

The Irish have already sent confirmation of Mario’s arrival in Boston, their message carrying thinly veiled threats about consequences and broken alliances. The words sit heavy in my inbox:Your brother’s reception will match the hospitality he was shown in New York.

The photo they attached shows Mario being escorted into O’Connor’s compound, his shoulder bandaged but his spine straight. Even wounded, even defeated, he carries himself like a DeLuca.

Let them fucking threaten. Right now, my focus is entirely on the sleeping woman in our bed upstairs.

My wife. My miracle. My match in every way that matters. Bella’s aim last night was perfect—precise enough to stop Mario without killing him. Just like her heart is strong enough to love me without fearing me.

Memories of last night assault me—Mario’s blood blooming across his suit, Bella’s steady hand with the rifle, the way Elena looked at my brother like he was something fascinating rather than lethal. The same way Sophia once looked at him, before everything went to hell. Before choices were made that still echo through generations.

I touch the turned-away photo on my desk, Giuseppe’s face hidden but his presence still haunting every decision. Like father, like sons—always choosing who to cast out, who to protect, who to love.

“The Families are waiting for your statement,” Antonio says from the doorway. His weathered face shows the strain of a sleepless night, his usually pristine suit slightly rumpled. Dark circles rim his eyes—he’s been up all night coordinating with our Boston contacts, monitoring Mario’s transport. “They want assurance that the threat is contained.”

“The threat is never contained,” I respond, turning from the window. The taste of copper lingers in my mouth, though I haven’t eaten since yesterday. “We just change how we fight it.”

“And how do we fight this one?” Antonio’s voice carries a note of caution I’ve rarely heard from him. After thirty years of service, very little rattles my consigliere. But Mario has always been different—a snake we can’t quite kill, a threat we can’t fully eliminate. A brother I can’t quite bring myself to destroy.

“By being stronger than they expect.” I move to my desk, pulling up property records on multiple screens. Maps of Brooklyn glow blue in the dim morning light, each marker representing a piece of Mario’s old territory. “I want itcompletely restructured. New businesses, new management, new everything. Leave the Irish nothing to work with.”

“Already in progress.” Antonio’s tablet lights up with plans, his fingers moving swiftly across the surface. He pauses, something like concern flickering across his features. “But Boss…there’s something else. Elena’s been asking questions. About Mario.”

My jaw clenches as I remember the way my brother looked at Bella’s best friend yesterday, that calculating interest I recognized too well. I’d once looked at Bella the same way—like a fascinating puzzle to solve, a weakness to exploit. But where my interest grew into love, Mario only knows how to destroy what he desires.

The anger in Elena’s eyes when I ordered her away concerns me more than her fascination. That kind of defiance in our world usually ends one of two ways—submission or destruction. And Elena has never been one to submit.

She’s like Bella in that way—danger hidden behind beauty.

“Increase her security detail,” I order. “Quietly. And get me everything on her contact with the Calabrese family. Especially Anthony.” His interest in Elena takes on new significance now. One more thread in this web of alliances and betrayals we’re all tangled in.

“You think they’re connected?” Surprise colors Antonio’s tone.

“I think nothing in our world happens by coincidence.” Mario’s words echo in my head—about Bella being “more interesting” than Sophia. The comparison makes something dark curl in my gut. Sophia was a pawn, a means to an end. But Bella? She’s a queen on this chessboard, powerful in her own right. If Mario sees similar potential in Elena… “And I think my brother’s already planning his next move.”

A soft knock interrupts us. Bianca enters, already dressed in leggings and an oversized NYU sweatshirt that makes her look more college student than high school student. I hate it.

But there’s tension in her shoulders, worry in her eyes that makes my pulse spike.

“Dad? Bella’s asking for you. She’s…” My daughter hesitates, and that small pause sends ice through my veins. Bianca never hesitates. Not unless something’s truly wrong. “She’s not feeling well.”

I’m moving before she finishes speaking, taking the stairs two at a time. Every worst-case scenario plays through my mind—complications from the pregnancy, delayed reaction to last night’s stress, Mario’s final act of revenge. My security training catalogs the minutes until my private doctor can arrive, the distance to the nearest hospital, the safest routes through morning traffic.

Each step feels too slow, memories of other losses threatening to overwhelm me. Not again. I can’t lose the woman I love. Can’t watch another family shatter like glass.

I find Bella in our bathroom, huddled over the toilet. Her dark hair spills around her shoulders, and her skin has taken on a sickly pallor that makes my heart clench. One of my shirts drowns her small frame.

“I’m fine,” she manages between waves of nausea, but I see the shadows under her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands. Yesterday took more from her than she’ll admit—the weight of the sniper rifle, the burden of choice, the constant strain of protecting our family. Our child.

“Come here,piccola.” I sit on the bathroom floor, pulling her between my legs so her back rests against my chest as relief pours through me. The marble is cold beneath us, but her body burns hot against mine. One hand splays protectively over her stomach while the other holds back her hair. Every breath shetakes helps calm my racing heart. She’s here. She’s safe. They both are.

“Some donna I am,” she mutters, leaning back into me. Her body trembles slightly, though whether from sickness or exhaustion, I’m not sure. “Can’t even keep breakfast down.”

“You’re exactly the donna I need.” I press my lips to her temple, tasting salt on her skin. My heart still hasn’t quite settled from the panic of moments ago. The fear of losing her—of losing them both—sits like ice in my chest. “Strong enough to wound my brother, wise enough not to kill him, brave enough to carry our child in this dangerous world.”

---