Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 18

The safe house is actually a luxury penthouse in downtown Montreal, taking up the top two floors of a building I own through shell corporations. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate every wall, casting long shadows across Italian marble floors. The sight triggers unwanted memories of my childhood home, where Giuseppe’s shadow seemed to stretch endlessly, touching everything, poisoning everyone. I force the memories away, focusing instead on Bella as she takes in the space.

The penthouse is a study in power and luxury—all clean lines and sophisticated minimalism. A floating staircase of glass and steel curves up to the second level, while the main floor opens into a great room dominated by modernist furniture in shades of cream and charcoal. Custom lighting highlights carefully curated art pieces—most of them originals acquired through less than legal means. A Kandinsky here, a small Picasso there. The kind of collection that would make museum curators weep.

But it’s Bella’s reaction that captivates me. Even soaking wet and shivering, she moves through the space like she belongs here, her artist’s eye catching details I’ve long since stopped seeing. She pauses before the Kandinsky, head tilting in that way that means she’s analyzing composition and color. Water drips steadily from her clothes onto the marble floors, each drop echoing in the vast space, but she seems oblivious to her discomfort.

The whole scene feels surreal—my bride of less than forty-eight hours, studying priceless art while we’re running for our lives. While my daughter is being held God knows where, drugged and scared. The thought of Bianca makes my chest tighten painfully. I’ve failed her, just like I failed Sophia.

“The bathroom’s through there,” I tell her, shrugging off my sodden jacket with a wince. Every movement pulls at my injury, a constant reminder of our narrow escape. “Everything you need should be in the closet.”

The master bath is a marvel of marble and chrome, with a freestanding tub that could fit four people and a shower system that cost more than most cars. I had it designed as another show of wealth and power, like everything else in this place. But now, watching Bella nod while water pools at her feet, it feels hollow. Like all the luxury in the world can’t make up for the fact that my daughter is missing.

“You’re bleeding again.” Her voice pulls me from dark thoughts. Those artist’s eyes miss nothing—including the fresh blood seeping through my makeshift bandage.

“It’s fine.” The lie comes automatically. My father’s voice echoes in my head: “DeLuca men don’t show weakness.”

“It’s not.” She steps closer, reaching for my injured arm with gentle hands that belie the strength I’ve seen her display today. “Let me help.”

“Bella—”

“Please.” Something vulnerable flashes across her face, something that makes my chest ache. “I need … I need to do something useful.”

I understand then—she needs control over something, anything, in this chaos our lives have become. Just like I need to feel in control when everything’s spinning apart. When my daughter is in danger and all my carefully buried secrets are threatening to surface.

“First aid kit’s in the kitchen,” I concede, watching her move through the space like she’s memorizing it. The kitchen is state of the art, all stainless steel and black granite, with views of Mont-Royal through more floor-to-ceiling windows. Like everything else here, it’s meant to impress. To intimidate.

She returns with supplies, directing me to sit on one of the Italian leather sofas. The piece probably costs more than most cars, but all I can focus on is her touch as she removes the wet bandage. Her fingers are gentle but sure, artist’s hands now turned to healing. The irony isn’t lost on me—how many times have these hands tended wounds caused by my world?

“This needs stitches,” she observes, cleaning the wound with a steadiness that surprises me.

“You know how?” I study her face in the soft lighting from the recessed fixtures above. Water still drips from her hair, curling around her face in a way that makes me want to reach out and touch. To make sure she’s real.

“My father made sure I could handle emergency medical care.” Her voice catches slightly on “father,” and I hate that I’m the reason she has to say that word in past tense. “Said an art studio could be as dangerous as a gunfight if you weren’t careful.”

I watch her work, trying to focus on anything except thoughts of Bianca. Of what they might be doing to her.

I’ll kill them all.

Bella’s fingers move with precision as she stitches the wound, each one neat and even. The lamplight catches the diamond on her finger—not Sophia’s ring, never Sophia’s—and for a moment, the domesticity of the scene threatens to undo me. My wife, tending my wounds in our safe house, while my daughter …

“Why did you really create that distraction on the beach?” I ask finally, needing to focus on something besides the gnawing fear about Bianca. The question has been burning in my mind since she stepped out from behind that boulder. Such goddamn bravery. Such fucking recklessness.

Her hands pause for a moment before resuming their work. In the soft light from the Murano glass fixtures, I can see every emotion that crosses her face. She’s still learning to hide her feelings—something that both worries and captivates me.

“I told you—for Bianca.”

“The truth, Bella.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. Too many emotions fighting for control—fear for my daughter, worry for my wife, rage at those who would hurt them.

She secures the last stitch before meeting my eyes. The directness of her gaze reminds me of the girl who first walked into my office, all defiance and hidden strength. “Because I saw your face when Carmine mentioned her being sedated. Because I knew you were about to do something reckless and probably get yourself killed.” She swallows hard, and I watch the movement of her throat. “Because I’m not ready to be a widow yet.”

That last sentence is said in an almost whisper.

The admission hangs between us, heavy with everything unsaid. With all the secrets I’m still keeping. Secrets about Giuseppe, about what really happened, about why Father Romano’s involvement terrifies me more than anything else. I reach up, tucking a damp curl behind her ear. Her skin is still cool from the lake water, but she leans into my touch like she’s seeking warmth.

“I thought you hated this marriage.” My voice is low.

“I did. I do. I …” She leans into my touch despite herself, a conflict I understand too well. “I don’t know anymore. Everything’s happening so fast, and I can’t tell which feelings are real and which are just adrenaline and survival instinct.”

“And what does your instinct tell you now?” Can she hear how loud my heart is pounding?

Instead of answering, she kisses me. It’s different from our previous kisses—less desperate, more questioning. My good arm slides around her waist, pulling her closer until she’s straddling my lap. She tastes like lake water and gunpowder and something uniquely Bella, and for a moment I let myself forget everything else. Forget about Bianca being drugged. Forget about the Families gathering to vote on my leadership. Forget about all the sins Father Romano knows, all the secrets that could destroy everything.

Her hands find the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and I can’t stop the groan that escapes me as her body presses tighter against mine.

I kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the warmth of her lips, the softness of her skin beneath my hands. I let my fingers slide up her back, brushing over the wet fabric of her shirt before peeling it away from her, tracing the curve of her spine. Bella arches into me, a soft moan escaping her lips, and it sends a jolt of heat straight through me.

I want to give her everything, to show her how much she means to me, how much I need her.

I pull back slightly, my lips brushing against hers as I speak. “Are you sure?”

Her eyes meet mine, and there’s no hesitation in her answer. “Yes, Matteo. I’m sure.”

That’s all I need to hear. I kiss her again, deep and tender, before shifting her gently onto her back, her body stretching out beneath me on the couch. She looks up at me, her lips swollen from our kisses, her cheeks flushed with desire, and she’s never looked more beautiful.

My hands move slowly, reverently, as I undress her. I take my time, savoring each new inch of exposed skin, pressing soft kisses to her collarbone, her shoulders, her stomach. Bella shivers beneath my touch, her fingers threading through my hair, guiding me as I kiss my way down her body.

When she’s finally bare beneath me, I pause for a moment, just taking her in. The way her chest rises and falls with each breath, the soft curve of her hips, the way her eyes darken with desire.

She’s perfect—more perfect than I ever could have imagined.

“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion.

Bella’s eyes flutter shut, a soft smile playing at her lips. “So are you,” she murmurs, and it sends another wave of warmth crashing through me.

I lean down, pressing a kiss to her lips, her neck, her breasts, until I’m completely lost in the feel of her. My hands explore every part of her, my lips following the same path, and Bella’s soft moans fill the room, encouraging me, pushing me further.

When I finally slide inside her, it’s slow, deliberate, every movement filled with tenderness. Bella gasps, her hands gripping my shoulders, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper into her. I can feel her heartbeat against mine, the warmth of her body surrounding me, and it’s overwhelming in the best way.

We move together, slowly at first, savoring every touch, every kiss. There’s no rush, no need for anything other than this moment, just the two of us, wrapped up in each other. Her nails dig into my back as I thrust deeper, her breathy moans spurring me on.

I bury my face in her neck, inhaling her scent, the softness of her skin beneath my lips. “Bella,” I groan, my voice thick with need. “You feel so good.”

“So do you,” she whispers back, her voice breathless, full of desire. She tightens her legs around me, pulling me impossibly closer, and I can feel the way her body clenches around me, the way she’s teetering on the edge.

I move faster, my hand sliding down to where we’re joined, my thumb brushing over her clit, and Bella cries out, her body arching off the couch as she comes, her muscles tightening around me, pulling me over the edge with her.

I come with her, burying myself deep inside her, my body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. I collapse against her, my chest pressed to hers, our bodies still joined as we catch our breath.

For a moment, we just lie there, tangled together. I can feel her fingers tracing lazy circles on my back, her breath warm against my neck before she gently presses a kiss to my cheek. “We should get dressed,” she whispers, “before someone comes in.”

I hate that she’s right.

We dress in silence and Bella slips my shirt over her head. Something possessive roars in my chest at the sight. Her skin still glows from sex, and despite everything falling apart around us, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“You’re thinking too hard,” she says softly, catching my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Montreal skyline creates a dramatic backdrop behind us, lights twinkling like stars against the darkening sky.

“Force of habit.” I move behind her, drawn like gravity. In the glass, we look like something from one of her paintings—light and shadow, softness and steel, artist and killer bound together. My hands find her waist as I breathe her in, memorizing this moment before reality crashes back.

She turns in my arms, reaching up to trace the scar above my eyebrow. “We’re going to find her, Matteo. Bianca. We’re going to bring her home.”

The simple faith in her voice nearly undoes me. After everything she’s learned about me, everything she’s lost because of me, she still believes in me. Still trusts me.

A throat clearing from the doorway breaks the moment. Antonio stands there, tablet in hand, professional enough not to react to our obviously intimate situation. The massive great room suddenly feels smaller, more confining, despite its twenty-foot ceilings and walls of glass. My body tenses instantly at his expression—he wouldn’t interrupt unless it was critical.

“We have a lead on Miss Bianca,” he says as Bella steps away from me, smoothing her hair. “Security cameras caught Father Romano’s car heading toward Mont-Tremblant.”

Ice slides down my spine at the confirmation. “The monastery.” The word tastes like ash in my mouth. How many times did I watch my father disappear behind those heavy wooden doors, only to emerge hours later with that look in his eyes? The same look he’d get before the darkness took over, before the lessons about what it meant to be a DeLuca man.

“What monastery?” Bella asks, somehow making my rumpled shirt look elegant.

“Saint Benedict’s. It’s been tied to the Calabrese family for generations.” My mind races through implications, possibilities, threats. “Remote, defensible …” I reach for my phone, already calculating. “How many men can we have there in an hour?”

“That’s the problem, Boss.” Antonio’s expression tightens in a way I’ve rarely seen in fifteen years of service. “We just got word—the Families are meeting tonight. They’re voting on whether to recognize your leadership after the video release.”

“Let them vote,” I growl, rage building in my chest. The Families can go to fucking hell. My daughter is being held in that place, in the same monastery where my father’s sins were supposedly forgiven but really just stored away like ammunition. “My daughter⁠—”

“Will die if we move too quickly.” Bella’s voice cuts through my rage like a blade, sharp and precise. She moves to the windows, her reflection overlaying the city lights. “Think, Matteo. This is exactly what they want—to force you to choose between Bianca and your power base.”

“She’s right,” Antonio agrees, and something in his tone makes me look closer at him. He’s worried—not just about Bianca, but about something else. “We go in guns blazing, the other Families will see it as proof you’ve lost control. They’ll back Carmine’s play for leadership.”

My hands clench into fists. They’re right, I know they’re right, but the thought of Bianca drugged and alone in that place … Images flash through my mind—Giuseppe emerging from confession with that cruel smile, Father Romano’s knowing looks, the weight of secrets that could destroy everything I’ve built.

Cool fingers link with mine, and I look down to find Bella watching me with those eyes that see too much. Sometimes I wonder if she can read every dark thought, every buried sin, just by looking at me.

“What if we split up?” she suggests, and something in her voice makes my blood run cold.

“What do you mean?” I ask, though I already know. Already hate where this is going.

“You go to the meeting, maintain control of the Families.” Her thumb traces patterns on my palm, somehow both soothing and unsettling. “I’ll go to the monastery with Antonio, do reconnaissance only. No engagement without your order.”

“Absolutely not.” The words come out harsher than intended, but the thought of her anywhere near that place—where Giuseppe’s darkness still lingers, where Romano keeps his poisonous secrets—makes something primal rise in my chest.

“It makes sense.” She squeezes my hand, and I see Giovanni’s tactical mind in her eyes. “They’ll expect you to send your best men to find Bianca. They won’t expect you to send your wife.”

“Which is exactly why it’s too dangerous.” The windows reflect our image back at us—her still in my shirt, me bare-chested with fresh bandages. We look vulnerable. Human. Everything I can’t afford to be right now.

“More dangerous than letting them take everything you’ve built? Everything you’ve sacrificed to protect?” She steps closer, her voice dropping to that tone that somehow bypasses all my defenses. “Trust me to do this, Matteo. Trust me to help save our family.”

Our family. The words hit me like a truck. This slip of a girl who was forced to marry me less than forty-eight hours ago, who’s lost everything because of me, now claims my broken family as her own. Claims Bianca, despite everything. Despite all the secrets still between us.

“Boss,” Antonio interrupts quietly, “we need to decide. The meeting’s in three hours.”

I study my wife’s face in the soft lighting—the determination in her hazel eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw. She’s not the same girl who walked into my office a week ago. She’s become something more, something dangerous and beautiful and mine.

But sending her to that monastery … The place where Giuseppe’s darkness took root, where Romano keeps decades of DeLuca secrets …

“Two conditions,” I say finally, each word feeling like surrender. “First, you take our best team. No arguments.”

She nods, relief flooding her features. “And second?”

I cup her face in my hands, uncaring of Antonio’s presence. Her skin is warm now, flushed from our earlier activities, alive in a way that makes my chest ache. “Come back to me. No matter what you find there, no matter what secrets come to light. Promise me you’ll come back.”

Something soft crosses her expression—understanding, maybe, of all the things I’m not saying. Of how much I’ve already lost in that place, how much more I stand to lose. “I promise.”

I kiss her then, hard and quick, pouring everything I can’t say into it. My fear for Bianca. My terror of losing her. The weight of secrets that could destroy us all. When we break apart, her eyes are wide with compassion.

“Go,” she whispers, smoothing my shoulders with artist’s hands that now know how to shoot, how to heal, how to love a monster like me. “Show them why you’re the most feared man in New York.”

“And you?” My thumb traces her full bottom lip, memorizing the feel of her in case it’s the last time. In case Romano’s secrets prove too devastating, in case my father’s offenses finally come due.

A dangerous smile curves her mouth—one that would make the old Bella unrecognizable. “I’ll show them why I’m your wife.”

As I watch her leave with Antonio, I try not to think about the last person I sent to that monastery. Try not to remember my father’s words about family and sacrifice and the price of power. Try not to imagine what secrets Romano might whisper in my wife’s ear.

Because some sins can never be forgiven, no matter how many confessions you make.