Page 1 of Silent Vows

1

BELLA

Istep back from my canvas, tilting my head to study the interplay of shadow and light. The late afternoon sun streams through the tall industrial windows of Columbia’s art studio, catching the paint flecks on my hands and turning them into constellations against my skin. My thesis exhibition piece is finally starting to speak—a moody interpretation of the New York skyline that Professor Martinez says shows promise, but needs more emotion, more raw truth beneath the surface.

Paint-splattered easels crowd the space around me, their wooden frames worn smooth by generations of aspiring artists. The scent of linseed oil and turpentine hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of clay from the sculpture studio next door.

This is my sanctuary, the one place where I can truly be myself—or at least, the self I want to be.

I study my canvas critically. The skyline emerges from a background of deep blues and purples, the buildings more suggestion than reality. There’s something missing, though. Some truth I’m not quite brave enough to paint. The shadows need to be darker, more threatening.

Like the ones that have always lurked at the edges of my world, no matter how hard I try to paint them away.

“You need to push harder,” Professor Martinez had said during our last critique. “Find the emotion you’re afraid to show.”

I almost laughed. How do you explain that your father is one of New York’s most feared Mafia dons? That the careful, controlled life I’ve built—art student by day, dutiful daughter by night—is just another kind of canvas, one where I paint myself normal? That maybe the reason I’m drawn to cityscapes is because they let me control the chaos, decide which shadows to highlight and which to hide?

My phone buzzes again—the third time in ten minutes. I ignore it, focusing instead on mixing the perfect shade of midnight blue. The color reminds me of my father’s study late at night, when the deals are made that we never talk about over breakfast.

The phone starts ringing again. The sound echoes through the empty studio, making me jump. A drop of blue paint splatters onto my white sneaker as I glance at the screen. My mother’s name flashes urgently, and something in my gut twists. She never calls this many times unless…

“Bella?” Her voice is shrill, stripped of its usual affected sophistication. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for?—”

“I’m working on my thesis piece,” I cut in, already annoyed. God, Mom knows how to get under my skin so easily. “You know how important?—”

“It’s your father.” The words slice through my irritation. “There’s been…there’s been an accident. You need to come to Mount Sinai right now.”

The paintbrush slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor. “What kind of accident?”

“Just come. Quickly.” She hangs up before I can ask more questions.

My hands shake as I shove supplies into my bag, not bothering to clean up properly. Paint water spills across the table, turquoise blue bleeding into crimson red. I should clean it up—good materials aren’t cheap on a student budget—but I can’t bring myself to care.

All I can think about is my father—Giovanni Russo, the man who’s always been invincible in my eyes, even though I know what he does for a living.

What our whole family is involved in.

The taxi ride to the hospital is twenty minutes of pure torture. Every red light feels like an eternity as my mind spins through possibilities. I’ve spent my life pretending the whispered conversations and late-night meetings were normal business dealings, but I know better. Maybe it was a rival family. Maybe someone finally decided to make a move. Maybe?—

I throw money at the driver and practically run through the emergency room doors. The antiseptic smell hits me first, then the fluorescent lights that make everything look sickly and unreal. The waiting room is a patchwork of misery—worried families huddled in uncomfortable chairs, nurses rushing past with purposeful strides, the quiet beeping of machines that means someone somewhere is still alive.

I spot them immediately—my uncle Carmine, speaking in hushed tones with Matteo DeLuca, my father’s best friend and one of the most dangerous men in New York. Carmine looks out of place in his expensive Italian suit, his balding head shining under the harsh lights. But it’s Matteo who commands attention.

At thirty-eight, he cuts an imposing figure in his perfectly tailored black suit, his broad shoulders tense as he nods at whatever Carmine is saying. Silver threads at his temples only add to his authority. When he turns and sees me, his steel-blueeyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. I’ve always felt like prey when he looks at me like that, even though he’s supposedly on our side.

“Isabella,”he says, my full name rolling off his tongue like a prayer or a curse—I’m never quite sure which with him. There’s something in his eyes, something heavy and significant that makes my heart stutter.

Before he can say more, my mother appears, mascara streaking down her carefully made-up face. At forty-five, Cher Russo is still stunning, all sleek blonde hair and elegant bones. But now her perfect facade is cracking, her designer dress wrinkled as if she’s been hugging herself.

“He’s gone,bella mia.” She pulls me into an embrace that smells of Chanel No. 5 and despair. “Your father…he didn’t make it.”

The world tilts sideways. I feel strong hands steady me—Matteo’s—but I jerk away from his touch. Through the roaring in my ears, I catch fragments of conversation: “shooting”…“rival family”…“protection needed.” My mother is wailing now, a perfect performance of grief that seems more practiced than genuine. Uncle Carmine’s eyes gleam with something that looks disturbingly like opportunity.

“We need to discuss arrangements,” Carmine is saying, but Matteo cuts him off with a sharp gesture.

“Not now,” he growls, and for a moment, I see why men fear him. His gaze returns to me, softer but no less intense. “Go say goodbye to your father, Isabella. I’ll handle everything else.”

As I walk numbly toward the hospital room where my father’s body lies, I catch snippets of a heated conversation behind me. Matteo’s deep voice rumbles, “I made a promise to Giovanni…”

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