Page 9 of Silent Vows

“This discussion is over.” I move around the desk, trying to bridge the distance between us. “I know this is difficult?—”

“Difficult?” She backs away from my attempt to touch her shoulder. “You’re turning our lives upside down for some girl who has probably never been to our house. Who probably doesn’t even know I exist beyond being “Matteo’s daughter.” And now what—we’re supposed to play happy family while the whole city watches?”

“Everything I do is for this family. For you.”

“No.” Her eyes are pure ice now, so like her mother’s it hurts to look at them. “Everythingyoudo is for power. For control. And Bella’s just your newest victim.”

She slams out of the office before I can respond, leaving me alone with the ring box and my demons. The truth in her accusations burns worse than any bullet wound. Because she’s right—I am using Isabella. The fact that it’s to protect her doesn’t make it any less of a manipulation.

Outside my window, storm clouds gather over Manhattan, transforming the morning sun into an apocalyptic gloom. Lightning flickers in the distance, promising violence. The city I’ve spent my life controlling looks alien now, threatening. Every shadow could hide an enemy. Every glittering window could conceal a sniper’s scope. In three days, I’ll bury my best friend and marry his daughter, and nothing will ever be the same.

The ring box feels heavy in my hand, weighted with history and blood. The emerald catches what little light remains, throwing green fire across my desk. Sophia wore this ring for years before she died. Now it will grace Isabella’s finger—marking her as both protected and condemned.

I think of how young she looked in her studio this morning, paint on her fingers, darkness flowing from her brush. So much talent. So much life. Everything Sophia was, and everything she wasn’t. Where Sophia was delicate, Isabella is steel beneath silk. Where Sophia accepted our world, Isabella fights it with every breath. And where Sophia once loved me, Isabella…

Christ. I have no right to think about Isabella that way. No right to notice how her eyes flash when she’s angry, how her hands move when she talks about art, how she fills a room with light just by existing. She’s Gio’s daughter. A responsibility.

But she’s also the woman who’s haunted my dreams for longer than I care to admit.

Thunder cracks overhead, making the windows rattle in their frames. The storm is almost here. Just like the threats gathering around us—Johnny Calabrese’s sadistic interest, Carmine’s barely concealed ambition, the other families watching for any sign of weakness. They’ll all be at the funeral, paying respects with one hand while holding daggers in the other. Then they’ll attend the wedding, watching Isabella walk down the aisle to me, evaluating every detail for signs of coercion or resistance.

The emerald gleams up at me from its velvet nest, and for a moment, I swear I see Sophia’s blood staining the stones again. My hands shake as I snap the box closed. I couldn’t protect her. Couldn’t save her from the consequences of this world, our choices.

Now Isabella will wear the same ring, face the same dangers. Different circumstances, same curse.

“I’ll do better this time,” I whisper into the growing darkness. The words could be meant for Gio, for Sophia, for Isabella herself. Or maybe they’re just another lie I tell myself, like pretending this marriage is purely about protection. Like pretending I don’t feel anything when Isabella looks at me with those artist’s eyes that see too much.

The rain finally breaks, lashing against the windows like accusations. Three days. Three days until I make Isabella mine in every way that matters. Three days until I bind her to my darkness forever, all in the name of keeping her safe.

God help us both.

I tuck the ring box into my suit pocket, its weight a constant reminder of what’s at stake. Out there, the storm rages, and somewhere in my city, my enemies are moving pieces into place.

But let them come. Let them test my resolve, my protection, my claim.

I’ve already lost one wife to their games. They’ll have to kill me before they take another.

My phone buzzes—another message about the funeral arrangements, the wedding preparations, the thousand details that go into binding one life to another. I ignore it, watching lightning split the sky. In the brief illumination, my reflection stares back at me from the window—a man balancing on the knife’s edge between duty and desire, protection and possession.

The monster Isabella fears, and the man who would burn the world to keep her safe.

5

BELLA

The canvas before me bleeds red and black, my brush strokes becoming more violent with each passing minute. Paint spatters across my oldest jeans and favorite oversized sweater, but I don’t care. I’ve been in my studio since dawn, trying to lose myself in my art, but even here—in my sanctuary of turpentine smells and natural light—I can’t escape reality.

My father’s funeral is tomorrow. My wedding—God, mywedding—is the day after that.

A wedding. The word makes my hand shake, sending a streak of crimson across the canvas like a wound. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. In my dreams, my father would walk me down the aisle of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, beaming with pride in his best suit. The pews would overflow with family and friends, sunlight streaming through stained glass to paint the marble floors in rainbow hues. My faceless groom would wait at the altar, love shining in his eyes as I approached in my perfect white dress.

Instead, I’ll walk alone. My father lies cold in his casket, and my groom…my groom will be Matteo DeLuca. The thought makes my stomach turn. He’ll stand there in one of his perfectlytailored black suits, those steel-blue eyes watching me with that mixture of guilt and possession that makes my skin prickle. There will be no love, no joy—just power and politics and protection I never asked for.

Tears blur my vision as memories of my father flood back. His proud smile when I got accepted to Columbia’s art program. The way he’d sit in my studio for hours, watching me paint, never once suggesting I should follow in his footsteps instead. “You’re an artist,bella mia,” he’d say, his voice warm with pride. “You create beauty in a world that desperately needs it.”

God, I loved him. Worshipped him, really. Even knowing what he was—what he did—I never stopped seeing him as my hero. He tried so hard to keep me away from his world, to give me the normal life he never had.

And now here I am, being dragged right into the heart of everything he tried to protect me from.

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