Page 14 of Silent Vows

“Boss, we have a situation. Johnny Calabrese left a message…at Miss Russo’s apartment.”

My blood runs cold, desire instantly replaced by rage. “What kind of message?”

“The walls…they painted them red.” Antonio’s voice is careful, measured. He glances at Bella, then back to me. “And they left this.”

He holds out an envelope. I snatch it, already knowing I’m going to hate whatever’s inside. The paper tears under my fingers, and suddenly I’m staring at my past—at everything I’ve tried to forget, everything I’ve tried to protect Bella from.

Sophia on our wedding day, radiant in ivory lace and DeLuca emeralds. Her dark hair swept up, blue eyes bright with love and hope. She was beautiful, delicate as a butterfly in my world of violence. That’s why they chose her, why they broke her. Because they knew it would break me too.

Written in red across the image:History repeats.

The photograph crumples in my grip. I’m vaguely aware of Bella moving closer, of her sharp intake of breath as she sees the image. But all I can focus on is the rage building in my chest, the need to hurt someone—preferably Johnny Calabrese.

“That’s her?” Bella’s voice is soft. “Sophia?”

I force my fingers to relax, smoothing the photograph. “Yes. Our wedding day. She wore my grandmother’s emeralds.” The same emeralds sitting in my safe, waiting for another bride. Another potential victim.

“She was beautiful.” There’s something in Bella’s tone I can’t quite read. When I look at her, she’s staring at the photograph, cataloging details. “She looks…happy.”

“She was. For a while.” Until my world destroyed her. Like it might destroy the woman standing before me now, paint-stained and fierce and so goddamn young.

“Boss,” Antonio interrupts gently. “There’s more. The paint they used on the walls…it matches Miss Russo’s style. They’ve been watching her studio, studying her work.”

Bella makes a small sound, like someone punched her in the gut. Without thinking, I reach for her, but she steps back. Her eyes are huge in her pale face, that damned sweater slipping off her shoulder again like an invitation I can’t accept.

“I need to make some calls,” I say roughly, turning away before I do something stupid like pull her into my arms. “Antonio, take Miss Russo to Maria. She’ll help her get settled.”

“Matteo.” Her voice stops me halfway to my desk. It’s the first time she’s used my first name, and it sounds like sin on her lips. “What aren’t you telling me? About Sophia, about what they really want?”

I look back at her, this woman who makes me feel things I have no right to feel. Who stands in my study with paint in her hair and defiance in her eyes, demanding truths I can’t give her.

“Get some rest, Bella. Tomorrow we bury your father. The day after, you become my wife.” I let my voice soften slightly. “Some ghosts are better left undisturbed.”

She leaves with Antonio, but her scent lingers—jasmine and turpentine and something uniquely her. I throw back another scotch, staring at the photograph still crimped from my grip. Sophia smiles up at me, forever frozen in that moment of joy before everything went to hell.

“I’ll do better this time,” I promise her ghost, though we both know it’s a lie. Because Bella isn’t Sophia—she’s stronger, fiercer, more alive. And that makes her infinitely more dangerous.

To the Calabrese family. To my control. To my heart.

The storm that’s been threatening all morning finally breaks, rain lashing against the bulletproof glass. Somewhere in my city, Johnny Calabrese is plotting his next move. Somewhere in myhouse, Bella is probably planning her escape. And here I stand, caught between duty and desire, protection and possession, the ghost of my past and the woman who threatens to become my future.

God help us all.

7

BELLA

The bedroom—ourbedroom, I guess—is larger than my entire apartment. The late afternoon light filters through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the illuminated gardens, casting long shadows across the herringbone hardwood floors. A massive four-poster bed dominates the space, its dark mahogany frame holding what looks like a small fortune in Italian linens. The sheets alone probably cost more than a semester’s worth of art supplies.

Everything speaks of old money and masculine taste—from the leather chaise by the fireplace to the abstract paintings that I suspect are original Rothkos. The air itself feels expensive, carrying notes of sandalwood and leather from the candles burning on marble side tables. This is Matteo’s domain, his sanctuary, and soon it will be mine too.

The thought makes my stomach flip.

I stand in the center of it all, wrapped in nothing but a towel after my shower, staring at the meager belongings Matteo’s men managed to salvage from my vandalized apartment. My throat tightens at the sight. My paintings, my art supplies, most of my clothes—all ruined with red paint. They didn’t just destroy mythings; they violated my art. Used my own bloodred acrylics to write their message across my canvases:Welcome to the family.

The memory of seeing the photos of my studio like that makes bile rise in my throat. Each ruined canvas represented hours of work, pieces of my soul poured onto the surface. My upcoming thesis exhibition pieces, the cityscapes I’d been developing for months, the portrait of my father I’d been working on in secret—all destroyed.

They didn’t just take my possessions; they took my voice.

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