Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 24

“Absolutely not.” Matteo’s voice fills his study like a thundercloud, dark and threatening. He’s been arguing against this for the past hour and a half, ever since I declared my intention to rescue Elena. The protest would carry more weight if he weren’t still pale from blood loss, his shoulder heavily bandaged beneath his perfectly tailored shirt.

I check my gun—my own now, not Romano’s. The weight of it feels different, like it was made for my hand. Is this how my father felt before going into battle? Did he too find strange comfort in the cold steel, in knowing he had the means to protect what’s his?

“I’m not going alone.” I tuck the weapon into my shoulder holster, the movement already feeling natural. Another change this week has brought—artist’s hands now equally comfortable with brushes or bullets. “Antonio’s team will be in position. But I need to be the one to make contact.”

“Because you’re bait.” His good hand clenches on his desk, knuckles going white. I see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the telltale sign of barely contained emotion. “He wants to use you to hurt me.”

“No.” I move to him, resting my hands on his chest. The steady thud of his heart beneath my palms grounds me, reminds me what I’m fighting for. I almost smile at his protectiveness—this dangerous man who makes hardened killers tremble, reduced to worry by one small artist. “He wants to use Elena to hurt me. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t see one.” The words come out like gravel, rough with fear he’d never admit to feeling.

“The difference,” I say softly, smoothing the lapels of his jacket, “is that he doesn’t know what I’m capable of. He still sees Giovanni Russo’s sheltered daughter. The artist playing at being a Mafia wife.”

Understanding dawns in his steel-blue eyes, turning them to storm clouds. He sees it now—the advantage of being underestimated, of letting Johnny think I’m still that scared girl who walked into this office a week ago.

“But that’s not who you are anymore.”

“It’s not who I’ve been since the moment I said yes in your office.” I rise on my toes to kiss him briefly, tasting scotch and worry on his lips. “You taught me that. You and Bianca both—showing me that we choose who we become, regardless of blood or background.”

“Let me come with you.” His free hand cups my face, and the near pleading in his voice tells me exactly how much this costs him. Matteo DeLuca doesn’t beg. Ever. “Please, piccola.”

“You can barely lift your arm.” I turn to kiss his palm, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. Gun oil and sandalwood and something uniquely him that still makes my pulse race. “Besides, I need you here. Keeping Bianca safe in case this is another distraction.”

“I hate that you’re right.” The words come out like they’re being dragged from him.

“I know.” I step back, checking my appearance in the study’s gilt-framed mirror. My mother would be proud—gone are the paint-stained jeans and messy hair of a week ago. In their place stands a donna in a black Armani suit that costs more than my old apartment’s monthly rent.

The jacket’s cut is precise enough to hide my shoulder holster while highlighting every curve. My hair falls in careful waves past my shoulders, and subtle makeup makes my hazel eyes look huge in my pale face. Even the Louboutins are deadly—four-inch stilettos that could double as weapons in a pinch.

“How do I look?”

“Like a donna.” Pride and fear war in his expression as he drinks me in. “Like my wife.”

A knock interrupts whatever else he might have said. Bianca enters, carrying something wrapped in black silk. My stepdaughter moves with that innate DeLuca grace, but there’s tension in her shoulders that wasn’t there before the monastery.

“I want you to take this,” she tells me, unwrapping the package to reveal an ornate dagger. The blade gleams wickedly in the afternoon light, its handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl and what look like actual emeralds. The craftsmanship is exquisite—this is no mere weapon, but a work of art designed for killing.

“It was my mother’s. Dad gave it to her for protection, but …” She swallows hard. “She never used it. Maybe you’ll be braver than she was.”

The gift carries weight beyond the physical—it’s acceptance, acknowledgment, family. I take it carefully, securing the sheath at my ankle beneath my tailored pants. The blade settles against my skin like a promise.

“I’ll bring it back,” I promise.

“Bring yourself back,” Bianca corrects, surprising us both with a fierce hug. Her arms are strong around me despite the lingering effects of Romano’s drugs. “I just got used to having a stepmom. I’m not breaking in a new one.”

I hug her back, meeting Matteo’s eyes over his daughter’s shoulder. The love I see there nearly steals my breath. How did we get here? A week ago, I was just a college student trying to escape this world.

Now I’m walking willingly into danger, armed with his and my father’s training and his daughter’s trust.

“Time to go,” Antonio says from the doorway. “Elena’s neighbor reported movement in her apartment.”

One final kiss for Matteo, one last hug for Bianca, and I follow Antonio out. The Mercedes glides through Manhattan traffic like a shark through dark water. I review the plan as we drive, noting how the city I’ve lived in my whole life looks different now. Every shadow could hide a threat, every glittering window could conceal a sniper’s scope.

Is this how my father saw the world? How Matteo sees it?

Elena’s building rises before us, a gleaming tower of steel and glass that has always represented safety to me. How many nights have I spent in her apartment, drinking wine and dreaming of gallery openings? Now only one window shows light on the tenth floor, a beacon or a trap, I’m not sure which.

“Remember,” Antonio says as we take position, “the Boss’s orders are to extract Elena and get out. No unnecessary risks.”

I check my weapons one last time—gun at my shoulder, knife at my ankle, backup piece strapped to my thigh. “Define unnecessary.”

His laugh is grim. “Just try to come back in one piece. He’s impossible when you’re in danger.”

“Speaking from experience?” I tease.

“Speaking as someone who’s never seen him like this.” Antonio’s voice softens. “Not even with Sophia.”

The comparison should bother me, but it doesn’t. Because I understand now—Sophia was his past, his lesson in trust and betrayal. But me? I’m his future. The one he chose, just as I chose him.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. The video attachment makes my blood run cold—Elena tied to one of her designer dining chairs, mascara streaking her face. Her bottom lip is split, a bruise darkening her left cheek. But her eyes … her eyes are fierce despite her fear.

Come alone, the message reads. Or she dies like your mother.

My hands don’t shake as I respond: Coming up. Touch her and I’ll show you exactly what I learned from Matteo DeLuca.

“Ready?” Antonio asks as I step out of the car.

I think of Matteo’s lessons in strategy, of Bianca’s fierce acceptance, of my father’s voice teaching me to shoot. Of Elena, who’s only in danger because she loved me enough to stay when she learned the truth about my world. “Ready.”

The lobby is eerily silent—no doorman at his usual post, no residents coming and going. My heels click against marble floors that have been polished to mirror shine, the sound echoing off walls that usually buzz with Manhattan’s elite. The emptiness raises the hair on my neck. How many of Johnny’s men are watching? How many guns are trained on me right now?

The elevator ride gives me time to center myself, to become who I need to be. Not the artist, not the scared girl forced into marriage. But Matteo’s wife. A donna in her own right.

I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls—black suit, perfect makeup, eyes that have seen too much in too little time.

My mother would be proud of how I look.

My father would be proud of why I’m here.

Elena’s door stands slightly open when I reach it. The scent of her signature perfume—Chanel No. 5—mingles with something metallic that makes my stomach turn. Blood. Taking a deep breath, I step into the apartment that’s been my second home for years.

The space has been transformed into something from my nightmares. Elena’s carefully curated furniture has been shoved aside to create sight lines to every entrance. Her collection of fashion photographs—all originals, all signed—hang crookedly on walls now marred by bullet holes. And in the center of it all, Johnny Calabrese lounges in her favorite armchair, gun trained lazily on my best friend’s head.

He’s not as polished as he was at my wedding. The tunnel collapse left its mark—a nasty cut above his eye, the way he favors his left side. But his smile is still razor-sharp, still promising beautiful violence.

“Bella,” Elena manages through split lips. Even bound and bleeding, she maintains that society poise. “I’m sorry. He said he just wanted to talk, and I⁠—”

“Shut up.” Johnny presses the gun harder against her temple. “Well, well. The artist becomes the warrior. Love the suit, by the way. Very donna.”

“Let her go, Johnny.” I keep my voice even, the way I’ve heard Matteo do countless times. Like I’m discussing the weather rather than life and death. “She’s not part of this.”

“Oh, but she is.” His smile widens, showing too many teeth. “See, I’ve learned something about you, Bella DeLuca. You’re not like Sophia—weak, easily manipulated. No, you’re much more interesting.” He circles Elena’s chair like a shark scenting blood. “You actually love him.”

“This isn’t about Matteo.”

“It’s always about Matteo.” Johnny moves behind Elena’s chair, using her as a shield. Smart. He knows I won’t risk hitting her. “He took everything from me. My family’s territory, my chance at true power, even Sophia. Now? Now I take everything from him. Starting with you.”

“You already tried that.” I take a careful step forward, cataloging details with an artist’s eye and a killer’s intent. The distance to Elena’s chair. The angle of Johnny’s gun. The way his injuries affect his balance. “How’s that tunnel collapse treating you?”

His handsome face darkens with rage. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple despite the apartment’s perfect temperature. Withdrawal, maybe. The Calabrese family’s cocaine habit is no secret. “Brave little artist. But you made one mistake.” The gun shifts from Elena to me, and I see his hand trembling slightly. “You came alone.”

I meet Elena’s eye. She nods subtly.

“Did I?” I ask.

The words are barely out before I move. Sophia’s knife slides into my hand like it was made for me, the emeralds catching light as it flies. Johnny’s eyes widen a fraction of a second before the blade buries itself in his shoulder—not a killing blow, but enough to make him stumble back, cursing.

“Now!” I scream, and everything happens at once.

Elena throws herself sideways—exactly as we’d planned when I caught her eye—just as Matteo’s men burst through windows and doors. The sound of shattering glass rains down like lethal music, but I’m already moving.

Johnny’s men materialize from doorways and behind furniture, their automatic weapons filling Elena’s pristine apartment with deafening thunder. I dive behind her overturned marble dining table just as bullets chip away at its edge. The Italian stone that she was so proud of now becomes my shield.

“Kill them all!” Johnny’s voice rises above the gunfire, tight with pain and rage. “But leave DeLuca’s bitch for me!”

I risk a glance around the table’s edge. Through gun smoke and flying debris, I count positions—two men by the kitchen, another near the bathroom, Johnny himself using Elena’s designer bookcase for cover. My father’s voice echoes in my head: “See the whole battlefield, bella mia. Find their weaknesses.”

A man appears to my left, thinking he has the drop on me. But I was taught better than that. I roll as he fires, my Louboutins finding purchase on Elena’s blood-spattered marble floor. My gun seems to lift itself, muscle memory taking over. Two shots—one to the knee, one to the shoulder. Nonlethal, but effective. Just like Papa taught me.

“Bella, down!” Antonio’s voice carries over the chaos.

I drop instantly as one of Johnny’s men sprays bullets where my head had been. A vase that probably cost more than my old car explodes above me, raining crystal and roses. The scent of Elena’s favorite flowers mingles with cordite and blood.

“The girl!” Johnny shouts, and I see two of his men moving toward Elena where she’s still bound to the overturned chair.

“Not happening.” I come up firing, catching one in the thigh. The other drops as Antonio’s shot takes him in the chest. But the distraction costs me—Johnny uses the moment to close the distance.

His fist catches my jaw, sending me stumbling back. The gun flies from my hand, skittering under Elena’s imported Swedish couch. But my father didn’t just teach me to shoot—he taught me to fight. I turn the stumble into momentum, using Johnny’s own weight against him. My elbow finds his throat as I spin, driving the air from his lungs.

“Not bad, little artist,” he wheezes, blood from his shoulder wound staining his custom suit. “But not good enough.”

He comes at me again, but his injuries slow him. I see him favor his left side—damage from the tunnel collapse that didn’t properly heal. My next kick finds that weakness, making him double over. But Johnny Calabrese hasn’t survived this long by being easy to kill. His hand locks around my ankle, pulling me off balance.

We go down together, rolling across Elena’s ruined floor as Matteo’s men engage the last of Johnny’s backup. My head cracks against something hard—probably the same marble table that saved my life earlier. Stars explode behind my eyes as Johnny’s hands find my throat.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he snarls, his handsome face twisted with hate. “Making him watch as the life drains from your pretty eyes. Just like Sophia⁠—”

The name of Matteo’s dead wife becomes a gurgle. Because Johnny made the same mistake so many others have—he underestimated me. The backup gun strapped to my thigh slides into my hand like it belongs there. The barrel presses under his chin as his eyes widen in surprise.

“I’m not Sophia,” I say clearly, making sure he hears every word. “I was never Sophia.”

The shot echoes through the suddenly quiet apartment. Johnny’s body slumps forward, but I’m already rolling away. My hands shake slightly as I push to my feet, taking in the carnage around us. Elena’s beautiful home looks like a war zone—bullet holes in imported wallpaper, blood on Swedish furniture, her carefully curated life turned to chaos.

But Elena herself is alive. That’s all that matters. I scramble towards her.

“I’ve got you,” I soothe as I work at her bonds, my fingers steady despite everything. The zip ties have cut into her wrists, leaving angry red marks that make rage burn hot in my chest. “You’re safe now, E. I’ve got you.”

“Boss wants confirmation,” Antonio says, his voice cutting through the silent aftermath. The gunfire has stopped, leaving only the crystalline sound of broken glass settling and Elena’s quiet sobs. The acrid scent of cordite hangs heavy in the air, mixing with spilled perfume from Elena’s shattered collection and the copper tang of blood.

I look up at him from where I kneel beside Elena, my designer suit ruined with blood and gunpowder residue. Johnny’s body lies a few feet away, his handsome features forever frozen in that final moment of surprise. My hands should shake after taking a life, but they remain steady as I hold my best friend. “Tell my husband the threat’s been eliminated. Permanently.”

“And you?” A careful question.

I touch the graze on my arm where his last bullet found home. The wound stings, but the adrenaline still coursing through my system dulls the pain to background noise. “Tell him I’m bringing his wife and our friend home. Where we belong.”

Rising carefully, I take in the full scope of destruction around us as Antonio relays the message. Blood—some Johnny’s, some his men’s, some mine—stains the Swedish furniture and Italian marble. This was her sanctuary, her escape from our world, and now it’s just another casualty of the life I was born into. The life I finally stopped running from.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into her hair as I help her stand. My body aches from the fight, but I push the pain aside. “This is all my fault.”

She pulls back enough to look at me, and despite her split lip and mascara-stained cheeks, despite having watched me kill a man in her living room, I see resolve in her eyes. “Don’t you dare apologize. You came for me. You saved me.”

“Always.” My voice breaks slightly as I steady her on shaky legs. “That’s what family does.”

Because that’s what this was always about—belonging. Finding my place not just in Matteo’s world, but in myself. Becoming not who I was forced to be, but who I chose to be. Learning that sometimes the most beautiful art comes from destruction. Sometimes the most important choices are made in moments of violence.

Sirens wail in the distance as Antonio’s team begins cleanup. By the time the police arrive, they’ll find nothing but an unfortunate break-in, no suspects to be found. Elena will be safely hidden away at the compound until we’re sure no other threats remain. And I …

I choose this. This family, this life, this love. The weight of the gun at my shoulder, the knife retrieved from Johnny’s corpse, the wedding ring that means more now than it did a week ago.

I choose to be both artist and donna, creator and destroyer, wife and warrior.

For better or worse, till death do us part.

As we leave Elena’s ruined apartment, I send one text to my husband: Coming home. All of us.

His response is immediate: Hurry. Some of us are terrible at waiting.

I smile despite everything, because I hear what he’s not saying. He loves me. He trusts me. He’s proud of me.

And that’s worth every drop of blood, every hard choice, every step into this dangerous new life we’re building together.

One bullet at a time.