Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 11

The Bentley winds through darkening streets, each turn making me more disoriented. I try to track our path through Manhattan, into what must be Westchester, but the route seems deliberately circuitous. My wedding dress rustles with every movement, the sound impossibly loud in the tense silence, like the whisper of secrets about to be revealed.

Matteo sits beside me, one hand still holding mine while the other types rapid messages on his phone. His rough fingers stroke the back of my knuckles absently, each touch sending electricity up my arm. It’s surreal to think that I’m married to him now—my father’s best friend, the man whose dangerous reputation kept me awake at night as a teenager.

The man who now makes me lose sleep for entirely different reasons.

The city lights paint shadows across his sharp features, and my artist’s eye can’t help but analyze the chiaroscuro effect. He’s all stark planes and dangerous angles, like something carved from marble by an angry god. The silver at his temples catches the passing lights, and my fingers itch for a pencil to capture the way shadow pools in the hollow of his throat where he’s loosened his tie.

I’d paint him in oils, I decide. Dark colors for his power, but with unexpected warmth underneath—burnt umber and deep crimson rather than pure black. Something to capture both the danger and the passion I’ve glimpsed beneath his control.

“My mother will be furious we left the reception,” I say finally, needing to break the silence before I do something stupid like tell him how beautiful he is.

“Your mother,” he says, not looking up from his phone, “is currently dealing with a convenient plumbing emergency at the venue. The reception will end early, with our absence blamed on the chaos.”

“You arranged a plumbing emergency at my wedding reception?” The words come out strangled. Just when I think I understand how his mind works, he does something like this. Plans within plans, every detail controlled.

He looks at me then, and my heart stammers in my chest. The slight smirk playing at his lips shouldn’t be attractive—nothing about him should be attractive, given what he is, what he does. But God help me, in the dim car light he’s devastating. The perfectly tailored tuxedo, the barely contained power in his frame, the intensity in his steel-blue eyes … it’s almost too much.

“Would you prefer to still be there,” he asks, “listening to Johnny Calabrese make thinly veiled threats while Bianca drinks herself into another scene?”

“I’d prefer the truth.” I pull my hand from his, immediately missing his warmth but needing the distance to think clearly. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “Starting with where we’re going.”

The smirk fades, and something darker crosses his face. “The lake house. It’s secure, private, and …” He pauses, choosing his words with obvious care. “It’s where everything started. With Sophia.”

My pulse jumps at her name. All evening I’ve been demanding answers, insisting on truth, but now that it’s coming, fear slides cold fingers down my spine. “Why do I feel like I’m being driven to my execution rather than my honeymoon?” I ask weakly.

“Because you’re smart.” His voice roughens, becoming something dark and honeyed that makes heat pool low in my belly despite my fear. “And because you know that after tonight, nothing between us will ever be the same.”

The car turns onto a private road, trees crowding close on either side like sentinels. Through the branches, I catch glimpses of water, black and mysterious in the gathering dusk. When we finally pull up to the house, my eyes widen in shock.

The lake house is a modernist dream of glass and steel, a structure that looks like it was born from the landscape rather than built upon it. Cantilevered sections stretch out over the water, their clean lines softened by the organic curve of the lake behind them. In the fading light, the glass walls reflect purple-tinged clouds, making the building seem to float between water and sky.

“This is … not what I expected,” I admit as Matteo helps me from the car. His hand is warm at my elbow, and I try not to think about how natural his touch feels. How right. “I thought all Mafia safe houses were stone fortresses.”

“That’s next door,” he says dryly, nodding toward a more traditional mansion visible through the trees. A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and his answering smile makes my breath catch. Then he adds, “This was my personal project. Sophia hated it.”

Just hearing her name sends ice through my veins. Everything always comes back to her—his dead wife, her emeralds I refused to wear, her ghost haunting every moment between us.

Inside, the house comes alive around us, sensors detecting our presence. If the exterior was impressive, the interior steals my breath. I drink in every detail—the way rich walnut paneling softens the industrial elements, how carefully placed lighting creates pools of warmth in the modernist space. One entire wall is windows, offering a stunning view of the lake that makes my fingers itch for paint and canvas.

I can already imagine how it would look in different seasons—autumn leaves creating a fiery frame for the glass, snow transforming the view into a monochromatic study, spring bringing new greens to soften the stark lines. Even at Christmas, the clean architecture would make a perfect backdrop for traditional decorations, the contrast making both more striking.

“Your dress,” Matteo says suddenly, his voice cutting through my artistic musings. “There’s a closet upstairs with clothes. More appropriate clothes.”

“You just happen to have women’s clothes here?” The question comes out sharper than intended, a spike of jealousy I have no right to feel. These better not be Sophia’s things, preserved like some shrine to his dead wife.

“I had them brought this morning.” He moves to a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of scotch. The movement makes his tuxedo stretch across his shoulders, and my mouth goes dry at the play of muscles beneath the fine wool. I shouldn’t notice these things, not when he’s about to tell me God knows what about his first wife’s death. But my body seems to have its own agenda where Matteo is concerned.

Traitor.

“For what?” Even as I ask, heat floods my cheeks. This isn’t just about revelations. This is our wedding night, regardless of what truths come between now and then. The thought makes my pulse race, desire and anxiety warring in my stomach.

“Change first,” he says, not answering my question and not looking at me. “Then we’ll talk.”

Upstairs, I find a closet that would make most boutiques jealous. Racks of designer casual wear in exactly my size fill the space—soft sweaters in neutral tones, perfectly cut jeans, silk blouses and cashmere loungewear. Everything is new, tags still attached, and absolutely my style. The attention to detail, to my preferences, makes something warm unfurl in my chest even as it unnerves me.

I choose soft black leggings and an oversized cream sweater that slips off one shoulder, a far cry from the wedding dress I’m wearing. It takes fifteen minutes to extract myself from the layers of silk and lace, another ten to wash away the elaborate makeup. In the bathroom mirror, I look more like myself—except for the massive diamond glinting on my left hand. The ring catches the light like a warning, a reminder that whatever comes next, I’m bound to this man forever.

When I return downstairs, soft jazz plays from hidden speakers, and my breath catches at the sight of Matteo. He’s shed his tuxedo jacket and tie, his shirt sleeves rolled to reveal powerful forearms corded with muscle. He stands at the windows, backlit by the last rays of sunset on the lake, looking like something from a Renaissance painting—all power and barely contained violence wrapped in elegant clothing.

“Better?” he asks without turning.

“Depends on what comes next.” I move to stand beside him, close enough to smell his cologne—spice and sandalwood and something uniquely him that makes my head spin. Part of me wants to reach out, to trace the strong line of his jaw, to feel if his stubble is as rough as it looks. Instead, I force myself to focus. “You promised me the truth, Matteo. All of it.”

The silence stretches so long I think he might have changed his mind. Then, “Sophia wasn’t killed by the Calabrese family.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath catches, heart stuttering. “But you said⁠—”

“I killed her.” His voice is flat, emotionless, but I see how his hands clench at his sides. “Right here in this house. Because she was working with Johnny Calabrese to destroy everything I’d built.”

I take an instinctive step back, but Matteo moves faster. His hand catches my wrist, not hurting but restraining. The heat of his skin against mine makes it hard to think straight, even as fear and something darker course through me.

“You wanted the truth, piccola. Now you’ll hear all of it.”

“Let go of me.” The words come out breathy rather than firm. I should be terrified—I am terrified. I’ve just married a confirmed murderer.

But beneath the fear is something else, something I’m afraid to examine too closely.

“No.” His eyes bore into mine, and I see anguish beneath the steel. “Because you need to understand. Sophia wasn’t innocent. She wasn’t a victim. She was working with Johnny, plotting to destroy everything. But that’s not why I killed her.”

“Then why?” I hate how my voice shakes, hate how I’m leaning into his touch even as my mind screams to run.

His laugh is harsh. “She found something. Something that would destroy not just me, but Bianca’s future in our world. She was going to use it to force me to step down, to hand everything to Johnny.”

“What did she find?” The artist in me can’t help but note how beautiful he is in his pain—all sharp angles and raw emotion, like a Caravaggio painting brought to life.

“Documents that could destroy everything I’ve built to protect my daughter.” His voice roughens, and his thumb starts tracing circles on my inner wrist, raising goosebumps. “Some secrets have to stay buried, Bella. For everyone’s sake.”

“So you killed her to protect those secrets?” God help me, I understand. Family above all—isn’t that what my father always taught me?

“No.” His grip on my wrist loosens, becomes almost a caress. “I confronted her. Gave her a chance to explain, to choose me instead. She laughed in my face, told me I was a fool to think anyone could love a monster like me. Then she pulled a gun.”

“Self-defense.” The realization hits me with surprising clarity. The monster isn’t the man before me—it was the woman who tried to destroy him, who’d have shot him to get what she wanted.

“She got off two shots before I reached her.” He gestures to a spot near the windows, and I can almost see it playing out. “One grazed my shoulder. The other …” His free hand moves to his side, and I remember the scar I glimpsed in his study, silvered with age but still angry looking. The memory of his bare chest under my hands makes heat flood my cheeks.

“And Johnny played along? Why?” I step closer without meaning to, drawn by the raw honesty in his voice.

“Because the truth would have exposed him too.” His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “Better to let everyone think he’d ordered her death than admit she’d chosen him in the end.” His thumb hasn’t stopped its maddening circles on my wrist, each stroke sending sparks through my body. “That’s who you’ve married, Bella. A man who killed his own wife and lied about it for a decade. Still want to stay?”

I should run. Everything I’ve ever believed about right and wrong tells me to run. But looking at him now—this dangerous, complicated man who had my painting turned into a pendant rather than force his dead wife’s emeralds on me—I can’t make myself want to.

“You’re not a monster,” I say softly, watching emotion flicker across his face. “Monsters don’t make their wives pendants from their art. They don’t protect daughters who hate them. They don’t …” My voice catches as heat pools low in my belly. “They don’t kiss like you kissed me last night.”

“Don’t.” But his voice is strained, and his eyes drop to my mouth.

“Don’t what? Tell the truth?” I turn my wrist in his grip until our fingers intertwine. His sharp intake of breath emboldens me. “You’re not the only one who’s been keeping secrets, Matteo.”

“Meaning?” The word comes out rough, almost a growl.

“Meaning I’ve wanted you since that day in your office.” The admission makes my cheeks burn, but I force myself to continue. “Even knowing what you are, what you’ve done …” I step closer, tilting my face up to his. “I still want you.”

His control snaps like a bowstring. One moment he’s staring at me with those intense steel-blue eyes, the next his mouth crashes down on mine with devastating force. This isn’t like our careful wedding kiss or even the interrupted passion in his study. This is brutal, demanding, a claiming.

I meet his intensity with my own, pouring all my confusion and desire and understanding into it. His hands tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss until I’m gasping against his mouth.

He tastes like scotch and danger and something uniquely him that makes me dizzy. When his tongue sweeps into my mouth, demanding and possessive, a moan tears from deep in my chest.

His answering growl vibrates through both our bodies. One hand slides down my back to pull me flush against him, and I gasp at the feeling of hard muscle against my softer curves. Heat pools low in my belly as his other hand finds the bare skin of my shoulder where my sweater has slipped. His fingers trail fire everywhere they touch, and I arch into him helplessly.

“Christ, the sounds you make,” he groans against my throat, his stubble scraping deliciously as he trails open-mouthed kisses down my neck. Each brush of his lips sends electricity shooting through my body, making me clutch at his shoulders for support.

His teeth graze my pulse point and my head falls back, giving him better access. The hand in my hair tightens, holding me exactly where he wants me as he finds the sensitive spot behind my ear. When he bites gently, then soothes the sting with his tongue, my entire body shudders.

“Last chance to run,” he warns, his voice rough against my skin. But his hands grip me tighter, like he can’t bear the thought of letting me go.

I answer by sliding my trembling fingers to his shirt buttons. The first one slips free, revealing more of that tanned skin I’ve been dreaming about since his study. His chest rises and falls rapidly under my touch, and I feel powerful knowing I affect him as much as he affects me.

“Bella.” My name comes out like a prayer and a curse as I work on the next button. “If you start this …”

“I want this,” I breathe, pressing my lips to his thundering pulse. “I want you.”

He lets out a sound like I’ve wounded him, then his mouth is on mine again. This kiss is different—deeper, hungrier, full of dark promises that make heat spiral through me. His tongue strokes against mine in a rhythm that makes me think of other things, makes me ache in places I didn’t know could ache.

My hands flatten against his now-bare chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under my palms. His skin burns hot, all hard muscle and surprising smoothness except for the raised line of that scar. When my fingers trace it, his whole body shudders.

Whatever comes next, whatever secrets still lie between us, this is my choice. My truth. My monster who’s not really a monster at all.

Just a man who would burn the world to protect what’s his.

And now, for better or worse, I’m his too.