Page 79 of Silent Vows

Right now, I almost believe we’re invincible. That love really can conquer blood feuds and old wounds. That choice matters more than genetics.

But Mario’s last words echo in my mind, a shadow across the morning light:“Family is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? So easily…broken.”

EPILOGUE: BELLA

One month after Mario’s exile, I stand in my studio examining my latest piece—a triptych commissioned by the Families as a show of support for Matteo’s leadership. Early morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on still-wet oils and making the gold leaf glimmer like fire. Three panels depicting power, protection, and family, rendered in my signature style but with new depth. The shadows are darker now, the lights brighter—every brushstroke reflecting the complexity of the world I’ve chosen.

In the first panel, a don stands before his empire, face turned away but power radiating from every line. Matteo’s stance, though I’ve obscured his features. The second shows a mother shielding her child, the gesture both protective and fierce. The third, and most complex, depicts a family emerging from darkness into light. Three figures that could be us—father, mother, daughter—but could also represent any family choosing love over blood.

My hand drifts to my slight baby bump as I study the work. At ten weeks, it’s barely visible to others, but I feel the changesin how I move, how I see, how I create. Every piece I paint now carries the weight of legacy.

“It’s not like your thesis work at all.”

I turn to find Elena studying the paintings, dressed impeccably in a Chanel suit. There’s something different about her—not just the designer clothes or the perfect makeup, but a new edge to her presence. A hardness that wasn’t there before Mario.

Her heels click against the hardwood as she moves closer, each step precise and measured. She’s thrown herself into work since that night, taking on even more responsibility within the Family structure. Getting deeper into the life she once helped me try to escape.

But now I wonder if she’s getting deeper into it for the wrong reasons.

“Everything’s different now,” I respond, watching how the morning light plays across the still-wet paint. I watch how she studies the central figure. Her gaze lingers too long on the shadows I’ve painted around him, like she’s searching for something. Or someone.

The slight swell of my stomach beneath my paint-stained smock reminds me just how much has changed in such a short time. “We’re different.”

“Are we?” Elena moves closer, her perfectly manicured finger tracing the air near the panel. Her designer perfume—Clive Christian this time, replacing her usual Chanel—mingles with the scent of oils and turpentine. There’s something almost accusatory in her tone when she adds, “Or are we just finally becoming who we were always meant to be? Who we’re allowed to be?”

The slight emphasis on “allowed” makes my skin prickle. As does the way she’s been studying my paintings—not withher usual appreciation for art, but with calculation. Like she’s looking for hidden meanings. Messages.

The question holds weight beyond the obvious. I study my best friend’s face, remembering how she looked watching Mario leave. That dangerous pull toward power that seems to run in DeLuca blood. “And who are you meant to be, E?”

“I don’t know yet.” Elena’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, though her lipstick is perfect MAC Russian Red. The same shade she wore at my wedding, now stained with new meaning. “But I’m tired of being the scared little event planner everyone underestimates.”

“Being underestimated can be useful.” I set down my brush, the silver ring Matteo gave me catching the light. Not Sophia’s emeralds—never those—but something new, something ours. “It’s how I got close enough to shoot Mario.”

“About that…” Elena hesitates, her fingers playing with her Cartier bracelet—a nervous tell I’ve known since college. “People are talking. About why you didn’t kill him.”

“Let them talk.” I turn back to my painting, adding another layer of shadow to the central figure. Every brushstroke feels weighted with meaning now.

“They say it was weakness. Mercy where there should have been justice.” Elena’s voice carries an edge I’ve never heard before—something almost like disappointment.

“No.” Matteo’s voice carries from the doorway, making us both turn. He stands there like something from a Renaissance painting, power and danger wrapped in an expertly tailored Tom Ford suit. Bianca’s at his side, looking more like him than ever in her dark blazer and confident stance. “They say it was strength. The kind of strength our world rarely sees.”

He moves to me with that lethal grace that still makes my heart skip, his hand automatically finding my stomach. The warmth of his palm through my smock grounds me, reminds mewhat we’re fighting for. What we’ve built from broken pieces and careful choices.

“The Families have accepted your leadership completely,” Elena reports, all business now though her eyes linger on my paintings. “The show of mercy, followed by absolute control of Mario’s territory…it sent the right message.”

“And what message is that?” Bianca asks, studying Elena with those steel-blue eyes that mirror her father’s. She’s positioned herself slightly between Elena and us—protective even now, even here.

“That the DeLuca family is stronger than blood. That choice and loyalty matter more than genetics or tradition.” Elena’s voice carries something like longing that makes my stomach clench. “That love doesn’t make you weak.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. We all hear what she’s not saying—how closely she’s been following Mario’s movements in Boston, how many questions she’s asked about his exile. How hunger for power can disguise itself as love.

“Speaking of messages,” Bianca interjects, moving to examine the central panel. Morning light catches her profile, highlighting how much she looks like Matteo when she’s analyzing a threat. “Anthony Calabrese has been asking about you.”

Elena’s expression shutters faster than a camera flash. “He’s not my type.”

“No,” I say quietly. “He’s not dangerous enough, is he?”

Her sharp look confirms everything. Matteo’s hand tightens on my waist—he sees it too. The fascination brewing, the potential for history to repeat itself in the worst possible way. The same pattern of beauty drawn to danger, of power masquerading as love.

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