Page 78 of Silent Vows

She relaxes slightly against me, her body molding to mine like she was made to fit there. The persistent shaking begins to ease as I run my hand up and down her arm. But even through her exhaustion, her mind never stops working. Never stops protecting.

“Speaking of dangerous…I can’t stop thinking about Elena’s face when she watched Mario leave. The way she looked at him…”

“I know.” My arms tighten around her instinctively. The memory of Elena’s fascinated expression, so like Sophia’s once was, makes something cold settle in my chest. How many times will I watch this pattern repeat? How many women will my brother destroy before he’s satisfied? “Antonio’s handling it.”

“Like you handled me?” There’s a smile in her voice despite her discomfort. “Watching from afar, protecting without revealing yourself?”

“That was different.” How can she compare us?

“Was it?” She turns in my embrace, and even pale and shaking, she takes my breath away. Those artist’s eyes see too much, understand too well. “Or did you recognize something in me that you needed? Like Elena might see something in Mario?”

The parallel makes my blood run cold. Because she’s right—I’d watched her for years, drawn to her strength and artistry, her ability to straddle both worlds even as she tried her best to reject this world. If Mario sees similar qualities in Elena…

“He’s dangerous,” I say finally, the words tasting like ash. “More dangerous than I ever was.”

“Because he has nothing left to lose?” Her fingers trace my jaw with an artist’s precision. “Or because he finally sees something worth fighting for?”

Before I can respond, her body jerks as another wave of nausea hits. She pushes away from me, turning back to the toilet. I hold her through it, murmuring soft Italian endearments against her hair. Each heave feels like a knife in my chest—this fierce woman reduced to vulnerability because she carries our child.

When it passes, she says quietly, “We can’t control who they choose to love. Elena or Bianca or this little one.” Her hand covers mine over our child. “We can only be there when they need us. Like my father was for me.”

“Your father led you straight to me,” I remind her with a slight smile.

“No.” She kisses me softly, and I taste the truth in her words. “He just made sure I was strong enough to choose my own path. And it led me here anyway.”

The bathroom door creaks open to reveal Bianca with a cup of peppermint tea. The sharp, clean scent cuts through the sour air of sickness. She takes in our position on the floor without comment, simply sliding down to sit beside us. In this moment, she looks so much like me it hurts—that same protective instinct, that same ability to mask emotion.

“The Families are demanding a meeting,” Bianca reports, handing Bella the tea. Steam curls up between them, fragrant and soothing. “They want to know what happens next.”

I study my unlikely family—my daughter who carries my heart, my brave wife growing our child beneath her heart, both of them stronger than anyone could have predicted. Both of them worth everything I’ve sacrificed, everything I’ll still have to sacrifice.

“What happens next,” I say softly, “is we protect what matters. Everything else is just details.”

Bella’s hand finds mine as Bianca leans against us both. The weight of both my girls grounds me, reminds me what I’m fighting for. Outside, the city awakens to a new reality—one where the DeLuca family is stronger than ever, bound by choice rather than blood.

But in the back of my mind, Mario’s words echo like a warning:“Family is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? So easily…broken.”The way he looked at Elena, the secrets still buried in our past, the baby growing beneath my hand—so many vulnerabilities, so many ways this happiness could shatter.

The Irish will move against us eventually. Elena’s fascination with Mario could lead to complications. And somewhere in Boston, my brother plans his next move, patient as a snake waiting to strike.

I press a kiss to Bella’s temple, breathing in her jasmine scent beneath the lingering traces of sickness. “You should rest today. Both of you.” My hand spreads wider over where our child grows, still amazed that something so precious could come from my darkness.

“We’re fine,” Bella insists, rolling her eyes, but she doesn’t resist when I help her stand. “Just normal pregnancy stuff.”

“Nothing about this pregnancy will be normal,” Bianca says, her voice carrying that DeLuca steel. “Not with the Irish making threats, Elena asking dangerous questions, and Mario…” She trails off, but we all hear the unspoken concerns.

“Which is why we adapt,” I say, guiding Bella back to our bed. “We strengthen our defenses, watch our vulnerabilities, protect what matters most.”

“And Elena?” Bella asks as I tuck her under the covers. “She won’t just let this go, Matteo. I know her.”

“Then we make sure she understands the stakes.” But even as I say it, I remember how fascination can override self-preservation. How love—or what we think is love—can blind us to danger. “Like I said, Antonio’s increasing her security. Beyond that…”

“Beyond that, she makes her own choices,” Bella finishes. “Like I did.”

“And look how well that turned out,” Bianca quips, but there’s real affection in her voice now when she looks at her stepmother.

A different kind of family, built from broken pieces and careful choices. Not what Giuseppe would have wanted, but stronger for it. Better.

Let the Irish plot. Let Elena chase dangerous fascinations. Let the Families demand their answers.

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