Page 80 of Silent Vows

“The Families are gathering tonight,” he says, changing the subject though tension still ripples beneath his controlled tone. “Time to present your work,piccola.”

“Time to show them the new face of our world,” Bianca adds with pride, but her eyes never leave Elena. Bianca’s seen too much, lost too much, to trust easily anymore.

I look at my paintings—at the family I’ve depicted emerging from darkness into light. At the strength I’ve captured in every brushstroke, every layer of meaning. “Not new,” I correct, understanding settling into my bones. “Just finally seen clearly.”

As we prepare to leave, Elena holds me back for a moment. Something in her expression sets off warning bells—that same look she had when watching Mario leave. “They say Mario asks about you. About the baby.”

My blood turns cold at her casual mention of him. At the implication that she’s hearing things she shouldn’t be hearing. “And how would you know what Mario says?” My voice carries an edge that makes her flinch slightly.

Elena’s perfect composure slips for just a second—long enough for me to catch a flash of defiance. Of resentment. “People talk, B. Especially when Matteo gives orders like he did that night.”

The reference to how Matteo dismissed her makes my spine stiffen. This is my husband she’s criticizing—the father of my child, the man who’s protected us all. “He was right to say what he said. Mario is dangerous, E. More dangerous than Johnny ever was.”

“Of course,” she says smoothly, but something in her tone suggests she doesn’t agree. That perhaps she sees Matteo as the dangerous one. “Family first, right? Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to believe?”

“No.” I step back, creating distance between us for the first time in our friendship. “Love first. Truth first. Loyalty first.”Not betrayal, I think but don’t say.Not secrets and whispered conversations about Mario.

We join Matteo and Bianca and prepare to face the Families, show our unity. My hand finds my husband’s. He’s right to be wary of Elena’s fascination. Right to protect us from Mario’s influence.

My hand drifts to where our child grows. Still too small to make its presence known, but already changing everything. Already teaching me what really matters.

Family. Choice. Love.

Everything else is just details.

EXTENDED EPILOGUE

Mario

Boston’s winter wind cuts across the harbor, but I don’t feel the cold. Pain is an old friend by now—like the constant ache in my shoulder where my sister-in-law’s bullet struck two months ago. My fingers trace the scar through Italian silk. Such precision in her aim. Such mercy. Such a fascinating combination of strength and weakness.

So like my brother, to find a woman who matches him in both power and foolish compassion.

The surveillance photos spread across my mahogany desk tell their own story, each one a piece in my growing collection: Here’s Bella at her art show, playing donna like she was born to it—but I see the paint still staining her fingers, the artist trying to become what Matteo needs. Another photo shows my brother’s hand possessive on her slight baby bump—always so protective, dear Matteo. Always so sure he can keep what’s his.

As if our father failed to teach us that nothing is truly ours forever.

Bianca stands tall beside them, and oh, if she only knew the truth about her parentage. The delicious irony of her DeLuca bearing, carrying secrets in her very blood that would destroy everything my brother has built.

But it’s the fourth figure that holds my attention. Elena Santiago—always slightly apart, always watching. Such hunger in her eyes, such barely contained rage. The photo captures her perfectly: designer suit armor-like in its precision, spine straight with suppressed defiance.

She reminds me of myself at that age, watching Matteo inherit everything while I got nothing. The perfect son. The worthy heir. If only they knew what that perfection cost.

“O’Connor’s getting impatient,” my lieutenant reports, shuffling like a nervous dog. The Irish—so predictable in their blunt ambitions. So limited in their vision. “He wants to know when we move on Brooklyn.”

“We don’t.” I keep my voice soft, the way our father taught us. The quieter the voice, the more dangerous the threat. Another lesson Matteo learned too well. “Not yet.”

“But the territory?—”

“Was never the point.” I pick up a particular photo—Elena watching them load me into the transport, something like recognition in her eyes. The same look I used to see in mirrors, watching Matteo play the perfect son. I recognize that hunger, that need to prove oneself more than what others see. “The point is family. Always has been.”

My phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number, though I’ve memorized it by now:Your brother increased my security. Again.

Worried about you, little planner?I text back, already knowing how she’ll respond. Elena is so wonderfully predictable in her defiance. So perfectly positioned to be both sword and shield in what’s to come.

Her response is immediate:Worried about what I know.

A smile curves my lips. Of course she’s been digging—into my past, into Sophia’s death, into all the carefully buried secrets the DeLuca family would rather forget. She’s smart, my brother’s wife’s best friend. Smart enough to be dangerous. Hungry enough to be useful.

---