Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 25

I pace my study like a caged predator, each step sending fresh waves of pain through my injured shoulder. The security feed shows three black SUVs approaching the mansion’s gates, but I won’t breathe properly until I see her. Until I can touch her, hold her, make sure she’s real and whole and alive.

“She did it,” Bianca says from her perch on my desk, watching the feed with forced casualness. But I see how her fingers grip the edge, betraying her own tension. “Of course she did it.”

“Of course,” I echo, but my hands clench as memories assault me—Sophia’s broken body, Giovanni’s closed casket, Cher Russo’s crime scene photos. I’ve lost too much, buried too many, to trust in certainty. The thought of Bella facing Johnny alone, even with Antonio’s team in position, makes something primal rage in my chest.

The study door opens and suddenly she’s there, alive and fierce and mine. But the sight of her makes my blood boil—her elegant suit is spattered with blood and gunpowder residue, her jaw darkening with what will become an impressive bruise. A cut above her eyebrow still seeps blood, and the way she holds herself speaks of other injuries she’s trying to hide.

She’s helped Elena to the mansion’s medical suite, briefed security, handled the cleanup—every inch a donna. But when her eyes meet mine, she’s simply my wife, my salvation, my heart walking around outside my body.

“Johnny?” I ask, though Antonio’s already reported. I need to hear it from her.

“Dead.” She moves to me, and I pull her close with my good arm, breathing in her scent beneath the gunpowder and blood. Jasmine and paint and life. “He won’t threaten our family again.”

Our family. The words still send something warm through my chest, especially when Bianca slides off my desk to join our embrace. My daughter, who once hated the idea of this marriage, now fits perfectly into our unlikely circle.

“Elena’s resting,” Bella continues, one arm around each of us. Her voice is steady, but I feel fine tremors running through her body—adrenaline crash setting in. “The doctor says she’ll be fine—mostly bruises and shock. She wants to help with the other Families, prove her loyalty.”

“She already did,” Bianca points out, and I hear admiration in my daughter’s voice. “By surviving. By not breaking under Johnny’s torture.”

I feel Bella tense at the word “torture,” but she merely nods. “She’ll need protection. The Calabrese family won’t take Johnny’s death lightly.”

“Let them try something.” Bianca’s smile is pure DeLuca danger, and for a moment my chest tightens at how much she looks like me. “We protect our own.”

“Speaking of protection.” I guide Bella to my desk chair, ignoring her protests as I examine her injuries. Each mark on her perfect skin makes rage build in my chest. That anyone would dare touch her, hurt her … “You’re hurt.”

“Barely a scratch.” But she doesn’t stop me from gently touching her jaw, her temple where blood has matted in her hair. Her own hand comes up to my chest. “Your shoulder’s bleeding again.”

I glance down to find red seeping through my shirt. “Worth it.”

“Worth what?”

“Getting to hold you.” I cup her face with my good hand, careful of her bruises. My thumb traces her bottom lip, and I feel her breath catch. “Watching you come back to me.”

“Always,” she whispers, leaning into my touch. Her eyes hold mine, full of things we’re still learning to say. “I’ll always come back to you.”

Bianca makes an exaggerated gagging sound. “And that’s my cue to check on Elena. Try not to conceive any siblings while I’m gone.”

She slips out before either of us can respond, but her teasing carries no bite. If anything, there’s affection in it—acceptance of how much has changed in just a week.

Once we’re alone, I pull Bella to her feet, needing her closer. The sight of her injuries makes something primal rise in my chest. “You could have died today.”

“So could you, at the monastery.” Her fingers work at my shirt buttons with practiced grace, checking my wound with careful hands. The brush of her skin against mine sends electricity through my body despite my anger, despite my fear. “So could Bianca. It’s who we are, what this life is.”

“And you’re okay with that? This life you were forced into?”

“I wasn’t forced.” She meets my eyes steadily, and the conviction in her gaze steals my breath. “You gave me a choice that day in your office, remember? I chose this. Chose you.”

“Because of your father’s wishes⁠—”

“Because something in me recognized something in you.” Her fingers trace my chest above my heart, leaving fire in their wake. “The same something that made you watch over me, that made you choose Bianca over everything, that made you trust me today to handle Johnny myself.”

I catch her hand, pressing it more firmly against my chest so she can feel my heartbeat—the rhythm that exists only for her now. “When did you get so wise, piccola?”

“Somewhere between saying ‘I do’ and throwing your dead wife’s knife into Johnny Calabrese’s shoulder.” Her smile turns wicked, though it pulls at her split lip. “Speaking of which, your daughter gave me quite a wedding gift.”

“Our daughter,” I correct, watching pleasure flash across her face at the words. Despite her injuries, despite the blood still staining her clothes, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “And you’ve more than earned your place in this family.”

“Have I?” She rises on her toes, lips brushing mine with exquisite softness. “Maybe you should show me exactly what that place is.”

A growl escapes me as I pull her flush against me, ignoring the protest from my shoulder. Having her in my arms, alive and fierce and mine, makes every injury worth it. “Careful what you wish for, wife.”

“Why?” Her hands slide into my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp in a way that makes heat pool in my gut. “Afraid you can’t handle me?”

Instead of answering, I capture her mouth with mine. The kiss is different from our others—deep and thorough but achingly tender. She matches me emotion for emotion, her teeth catching my bottom lip in a way that makes me groan. The taste of her—tea and copper and something uniquely Bella—makes my head spin.

“We should check your shoulder,” she gasps when we break for air, but her hands continue mapping my chest.

“Later.” I’m already backing her toward the door that connects my study to our private rooms. Every step feels like coming home. “Right now, I need to show my wife exactly where she belongs.”

“And where’s that?”

I pause, studying her face—flushed with desire but still watching me with those artist’s eyes that see too much, understand too well. Even with her bruised jaw and blood-matted hair, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Here,” I say simply. “With me. With our family. For as long as you’ll have us.”

Her smile is radiant despite her split lip. “Till death do us part?”

“Even longer than that, piccola.” My voice is raw, the words roughened by all the feelings I can’t fully express. I kiss her again, pouring everything I can’t say into it. All the fear of almost losing her, all the pride in her strength, all the love I never thought I’d feel again. My thumb brushes the soft curve of her jaw, careful not to press too hard where her skin is bruised.

She kisses me back just as fiercely, her hands fisting the front of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. When we part, she leans her forehead against mine, her breath warm against my lips.

“Come on,” I murmur, slipping an arm around her waist to guide her to our bedroom. Step by step, we make our way inside, where the afternoon sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The golden light bathes everything in warmth, catching on the edges of her hair and skin, making her look like something divine. I want to worship every inch of her, but first …

“Let me clean these,” I murmur, retrieving the first aid kit we now keep in every room. Her eyes follow me as I tend to her wounds—the cut above her eyebrow, her split lip, the bruise darkening her jaw. Each mark makes rage build in my chest, but I keep my touch gentle.

Her eyes never leave me, watching every move I make with a mix of trust and quiet intensity. I work my way to her split lip, dabbing at it with a damp cloth. Her breath hitches when I touch the corner of her mouth, and I freeze, afraid I’ve hurt her.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, her voice hoarse but firm.

I nod, resuming my work, but each bruise and scrape I uncover sends a sharp pang of rage through my chest. When I reach the deep purple bruise darkening her jaw, I pause, my fingers trembling. She places her hand over mine, grounding me.

“It’s okay,” she says softly. “I’m here.”

“Your turn,” she says when I finish, helping me remove my shirt. Her fingers trace the edges of my bandage with an artist’s precision. “We’re quite a pair.”

“We are.” I catch her hand, pressing it against my heart. “My brave, beautiful, impossible wife.”

“Your wife,” she echoes, her voice thick with emotion, pulling me down for a kiss that steals my breath. “Show me.”

I don’t rush. My hands find the buttons of her jacket, undoing them one by one. The designer fabric is stained with blood, a grim reminder of everything we’ve endured. And as it falls away, I focus only on her—on the soft curves of her body, the golden glow of her skin in the sunlight. Her blouse follows, slipping off her shoulders to reveal more bruises, more signs of the fight she survived. Each injury is a reminder of how close I came to losing her, but each breath, each heartbeat proves she’s here, alive, mine. When she’s finally bare beneath me, I worship her with lips and hands and whispered devotion in Italian.

“Every mark,” I murmur, brushing my lips over the dark bruise blooming on her collarbone, “is proof of how strong you are.”

Her breath hitches, and her hands move to my belt, fingers deftly working the buckle. There’s no hesitation in her movements, only quiet determination as she tugs the leather free and sets it aside. When she looks up at me, her eyes are steady.

“Your turn,” she says again, this time with a hint of a challenge.

I let her push my pants down, the fabric pooling at my feet as she sits back to take me in. Her own hands aren’t idle, mapping my skin like she’s memorizing me for a painting. Each touch leaves fire in its wake, building something between us that’s both tender and devastating.

When she leans back against the pillows, I move to join her. My hands slide down her sides, fingers catching the waistband of her pants. I ease them down, piece by piece, until she’s bare beneath me. Her beauty steals my breath.

I trail kisses along her body, starting at her collarbone and working my way lower. My hands map every curve, every hollow, learning her anew. Her skin is soft under my palms, warm and alive, and I can’t stop murmuring soft words in Italian—praises, prayers, confessions of love.

“Ti amo,” I whisper against her throat, tasting her pulse. “Ti amo, tesoro mio.”

Her hands tangle in my hair, her nails grazing my scalp as she arches beneath me. Her body responds to every kiss, every touch, her breaths coming faster. When her voice breaks on a whisper, “Show me,” it’s all I can do to hold on to the last threads of control.

I slide back up her body, capturing her lips in a kiss that’s deep and unhurried. When I finally join our bodies, the connection feels like coming home. We move together slowly, savoring each sensation, each shared breath. It’s different from our other times—less desperate, more tender. A celebration of life and love and belonging. Her hands tangle in my hair as I worship her with lips and tongue, learning every sound she makes, every way she moves.

Her release builds slowly, beautifully, until she comes apart beneath me whispering my name like a prayer. The sight of her—flushed and perfect, trusting me with her pleasure—sends me over the edge after her. My forehead rests against hers as we both tremble through the aftershocks. For a moment, the world narrows to just us, just this, just love.

After, I hold her close as our heartbeats slow. The setting sun paints our room in shades of gold and crimson, but all I see is her—my salvation, my future, my heart.

A knock interrupts us—Antonio with updates about the Calabrese family’s reaction to Johnny’s death, about Elena’s statement, about a thousand things that need our attention.

But for now, I just hold my wife close, feeling her heartbeat against my chest. Because we have time now. Time to love, to heal, to build something stronger than blood or duty or arranged marriages.

We have forever.

And forever, I’m learning, is just the beginning.