Page 29 of Silent Vows

“My father believed in harsh lessons,” is all I say, but my body goes rigid beneath her touch. I notice I do what I always do—call him “my father,” never Papa or Father. Always formal, always distant. Like proper words can keep the memories at bay.

She seems to sense my tension because she shifts, pressing a gentle kiss over my heart instead. “What happens now?”

“Now we sleep.” I kiss her temple, breathing in the scent of jasmine and sex and us. “Tomorrow we face Johnny and whatever else comes.”

“Together?” The word holds so much hope, so much trust.

I tighten my arms around her. “Together.”

But even as she drifts off against my chest, I stare at the ceiling, remembering Johnny’s words at the reception. Because there’s one truth I still haven’t told her—the real reason Sophia had to die. And when that truth comes out, I might lose this newfound peace forever.

For now though, I have this—my bride in my arms, trusting and warm and mine. Whatever comes tomorrow, tonight I’ll hold her close and pretend I deserve the way she looks at me. Pretend I’m the man she believes I am, rather than the monster I know myself to be.

“Sleep,il mio cuore,” I whisper into her hair. My heart. My salvation. My potential destruction.

God help us both when she learns the rest.

13

BELLA

Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the lake in morning gold. For a moment, I forget where I am—then every sensation floods back at once. The delicious ache between my thighs, the slight burn of stubble rash on my neck, the memory of Matteo’s hands and mouth mapping every inch of my body. Heat floods my cheeks as I remember how I responded to him, how I begged for more, how he made me fall apart again and again until I couldn’t remember my own name.

I stretch languidly, feeling muscles I didn’t even know I had protest. The sheets beside me are cold—Matteo must have been up for hours. Typical. Even after sharing something so intimate, he maintains his distance. The thought brings an unexpected ache to my chest.

His dress shirt from last night lies discarded near the bed, a casualty of our passion. I slip it on, inhaling his lingering scent as I button it—spice and sandalwood and something uniquely him that makes my pulse quicken even now. The silk lining still holds his warmth, and memories flash through my mind: how gentle he was at first, then how desperate; the Italian endearments hewhispered against my skin; the way he watched me with those intense eyes as he claimed me completely.

In the mirror, I hardly recognize myself. Gone is the scared artist hiding from her family’s world. The woman staring back at me looks…transformed. Dark marks dot my neck and collarbone—Matteo’s way of marking his territory, I suppose. My lips are still swollen from his kisses, and my hair is a riot of waves that no amount of brushing will tame. The massive diamond on my finger catches the morning light, a constant reminder of my new reality.

But something nags at me as I study my reflection. Last night, Matteo finally told me the truth about Sophia—or at least, his version of it. Self-defense, he claimed. She pulled a gun.

But why does something about the story feel off? Maybe it’s the artist in me, always looking for the shadows beneath the surface, the places where light and dark meet to create something deeper.

Voices drift up from downstairs—Matteo’s deep rumble that still makes my body respond even after everything he gave me last night and another I don’t recognize. The second voice is sharp, angry, nothing like Matteo’s controlled tones. Something about the tension in their exchange makes me creep to the top of the stairs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.

“—doesn’t change anything,” Matteo is saying, his voice carrying that edge of danger I’m learning to recognize. “The deal stands.”

“The deal,” the other voice spits back with barely contained fury, “was based on lies. You think Johnny won’t use this? Won’t tell her everything?”

My heart stutters at the mention of Johnny. Even here, in what should be the safety of the morning after my wedding night, danger creeps in.

“Let him try, Alessandro.” Matteo’s tone drops lower, deadlier. “She’s mine now. Protected.”

That possessive statement should anger me—I’m no one’s property—but something in the way he says it makes heat pool in my belly. Until the stranger’s next words turn that heat to ice.

“Like Sophia was protected?” A harsh laugh follows. “Face it, Matteo. You’re repeating history, and we both know how that ended.”

My foot lands on a creaky board, and the conversation cuts off abruptly. By the time I descend the stairs on shaking legs, Matteo is alone in the kitchen, making coffee as if nothing happened. He’s shirtless, wearing only black pants that ride low on his hips, and despite my growing unease, my body responds to the sight of all that muscled skin marked by my nails last night. His hair is damp from a shower, and water droplets still cling to his shoulders. He looks devastating, dangerous, and entirely too beautiful for my peace of mind.

“Good morning,piccola.” His eyes darken appreciatively as they rake over me in his shirt. “Sleep well?”

The tenderness in his voice makes this harder. How can he be so many things at once—gentle lover, dangerous don, keeper of secrets that might destroy us both?

“Who were you talking to?” I try to keep my voice steady, but fear makes it waver. Everything feels fragile this morning—my newfound trust in him, my understanding of our situation, even my own heart that’s treacherously falling for a man who keeps too many secrets.

He doesn’t insult me by denying it, which I appreciate even as dread pools in my stomach. “Business. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“I’m your wife now,” I remind him, the word still strange on my tongue as I move to the coffee maker. Last night he claimedevery inch of my body, yet this morning he’s already shutting me out. “Your secrets are supposed to be my secrets.”

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