Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 26

Four weeks after Johnny’s death, I stand in my studio at the mansion, studying my latest piece. The canvas towers over me, six feet of emotion poured onto linen in oils. In the center, three figures emerge from a maelstrom of darkness and light—a man, a woman, and a girl, their features suggested rather than defined. I’ve used every shade of blue and black in my collection, building layers of shadow that seem to breathe. Gold leaf catches light where it breaks through the darkness, like hope emerging from chaos. The man’s protective stance, the woman’s outstretched hand, the girl’s lifted chin—family, protection, belonging, all the themes that have consumed me since that day in Matteo’s office.

The brush slips from my paint-stained fingers as a wave of dizziness hits. I’ve been working too long without eating, lost in the flow of creation. I steady myself against my worktable, breathing deeply. The familiar scent of turpentine and oils that usually comforts me now seems overwhelming.

“It’s different from your other work.”

I turn to find Elena in the doorway, looking better though still carrying shadows in her eyes. The bruises on her face have faded to yellowed memory, but I catch how she still flinches at sudden movements. Her designer dress is perfect as always—black Chanel that makes her look even more willowy than usual—but she holds herself differently now. More carefully. More aware.

Like a survivor rather than a victim.

“Good different or bad different?” I ask, wiping paint from my hands with a stained rag. Some habits are too hard to break, even as a donna.

“Powerful different.” She moves closer, studying the painting with a curator’s eye. Her hand traces the air near the canvas, following the sweeping lines of gold through darkness. “Less hiding, more truth. Like you.”

I smile, remembering our conversation just weeks ago about running away from this life. Now here we both are—deeper in than ever. Elena has taken over all event planning for the Families, her near-death experience earning her respect among even the most traditional dons. Her talent for managing egos and arranging seating charts that won’t start blood feuds has proven invaluable.

“Mrs. DeLuca?” Maria appears in the doorway, her silver hair neatly coiled at her nape, her crisp uniform a sharp contrast to my paint-splattered appearance. The housekeeper’s warm eyes hold a mixture of affection and concern as she takes in my disheveled state. “Mr. DeLuca needs you in his study. The Calabrese family’s representatives have arrived.”

I exchange a look with Elena. This meeting will determine whether Johnny’s death leads to war or peace. Whether his family accepts the evidence of his crimes or seeks revenge.

“I should change,” I say, looking down at my clothes. Paint stains my favorite jeans and oversized sweater—Matteo’s actually, stolen from his closet this morning.

“No.” Elena’s voice carries an edge I’ve never heard before. “Let them see you exactly as you are. The artist who became a donna. The woman who killed their heir to protect her family.”

Understanding flows between us as I nod. Following Maria through the mansion’s corridors, I breathe in the familiar scents—leather and wood polish, fresh flowers from the conservatory, the lingering traces of Matteo’s cologne. His study door stands open, and my heart still skips when I see him behind his desk.

My husband looks every inch the don today in a charcoal Brioni suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders. His hair is perfectly styled despite the hand he occasionally runs through it when stressed, and the silver at his temples catches the afternoon light. He’s finally stopped favoring his injured shoulder, though I know it still pains him more than he admits.

Bianca stands at his right hand, every inch his daughter despite what blood might say. She’s traded her usual casual style for a navy sheath dress that makes her look older than her seventeen years. Her dark hair is swept up elegantly, highlighting cheekbones that mirror her father’s. The past four weeks have changed her too—she stands straighter, more confident in her place in our family.

They both look up as I enter, twin expressions of pride crossing their faces at my appearance. Because Elena’s right—there’s power in this, in being exactly who I am. Let the Calabrese family see the paint under my nails, the creativity that makes me different from their polished society wives.

“Don Calabrese,” Matteo greets the elderly man seated across from him. “You remember my wife.”

The don’s eyes narrow at my paint-stained appearance, but he rises with proper respect. He’s elegantly dressed in an Italian suit that probably costs more than most cars, his silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the humidity. But there’s something predatory in his dark eyes that reminds me too much of Johnny.

“Mrs. DeLuca.” His voice carries decades of power and threat wrapped in courtesy. “My condolences on your mother’s loss.”

“And mine on your son’s,” I return smoothly, moving to stand at Matteo’s left. My eyes catch movement behind the don—Anthony Calabrese, Johnny’s nephew, stands quietly observing. He’s younger than I expected, maybe twenty-five, with clean-cut good looks and an air of sophistication his uncle lacked. “Though we both know Johnny’s actions left no other choice.”

“Did they not?” The don’s smile is cold, reptilian. “A son dead, a family heir lost … some might say that demands response.” The threat hangs in the air like smoke, making the familiar scent of Matteo’s study—leather and sandalwood and power—feel suddenly oppressive.

“Some might,” Matteo agrees, his tone carrying that deadly calm that makes smarter men tremble. “Others might consider the evidence we gathered at the monastery. The medical records showing your son’s … proclivities with his previous wives. The video footage of his attack on an innocent event planner.”

I feel Bianca tense beside me as Elena enters quietly, taking her place near the door. The don’s eyes track her movement like a snake watching prey, noting the fading bruises on her face. But it’s Anthony’s reaction that catches my eye—the slight softening of his expression, the way his hands clench at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for her.

“Johnny was … troubled,” Don Calabrese admits finally. His manicured fingers tap a rhythm on the arm of his chair. “But he was my blood.”

“Blood isn’t everything,” Bianca speaks up, chin lifted in that defiant way she gets from Matteo. “Family is who we choose. Who chooses us.”

Something shifts in the don’s expression as he studies us—this unlikely family unit forged in fire and choice rather than genetics. His gaze lingers on Bianca, and I know he’s heard the confirmation about her parentage. The sunlight streaming through Matteo’s windows catches on his signet ring as he strokes his chin thoughtfully.

“Perhaps,” he says slowly, “it’s time for new alliances. My grandson, Anthony, will take Johnny’s place as heir. He’s a bit older than your daughter, but in a few years …”

“No.” Matteo’s voice brooks no argument. The muscle in his jaw jumps—the only sign of how close he is to violence. “Bianca will choose her own path. Her own family.”

The don inclines his head, but I catch the calculation in his eyes. They remind me of a shark’s—cold, ancient, patient. “Of course. Then perhaps we can discuss other arrangements. Territory agreements, business partnerships …”

The negotiations continue, subtle threats wrapped in politeness as expensive as their suits. I observe it all—the power plays, the careful words, the way Matteo manages to secure peace while giving up nothing of real value. Every movement in this room is choreographed, a deadly dance where one misstep could start a war.

A movement near the door catches my attention. Elena slips out, but not before I see her exchange a look with Anthony Calabrese. The heat in that glance, the barely concealed longing, makes my stomach clench with familiar worry. How many times will history try to repeat itself?

“We have an understanding then,” Don Calabrese says, rising with that predatory grace that makes my skin crawl. His eyes sweep our family unit one last time, lingering just a moment too long on Bianca. “Though remember, the Calabrese family has a long memory. And even longer reach.”

“As do we,” Matteo responds, his voice carrying that lethal softness that makes even hardened killers pause. “I trust you’ll remember that when considering future … arrangements.”

The threat hangs in the air between them like smoke. Anthony steps forward, offering his hand to his grandfather. In that moment, the family resemblance is striking—the same aristocratic features, the same calculated charm. But where Johnny’s eyes held cruelty, Anthony’s hold something else.

“Tell me, Mrs. DeLuca,” the don says suddenly, his smile cold. “Do you still paint? I heard you were quite … talented. It would be a shame if anything happened to interfere with such a … delicate pursuit.”

The words send ice through my veins. He’s reminding us that they’ve been watching, gathering intelligence, learning our routines and vulnerabilities. Matteo’s hand finds mine, squeezing once as Antonio escorts our guests out.

Once they’re gone, the tension bleeds from the room like a physical thing. Bianca collapses onto the leather sofa, kicking off her heels. “Well, that was suitably terrifying.”

“You did well,” Matteo tells her, pride evident in his voice as he moves to the bar cart. The crystal decanter catches late afternoon light as he pours three fingers of scotch. “Standing your ground about choosing your own path.”

“Yes, well.” She shoots me a look that’s half grateful, half mischievous. “I learned from the best. Knowing Bella killed Johnny rather than be forced into anything tends to clarify one’s priorities.”

I move to Matteo’s desk, needing the familiar comfort of this space. The room still carries traces of his cologne, mixed with leather and aged wood. That turned-away photo frame catches my eye again—young Matteo with his father’s hand on his shoulder, a gesture that had always struck me as wrong somehow.

Now I understand why he keeps it faced away, why Giuseppe’s shadow still darkens even our brightest moments.

“They’re watching us,” I say, perching on the desk’s edge. “Have been for a while, judging by his comment about my painting.”

“Let them watch.” Bianca’s voice carries that DeLuca steel. “We protect our own now.”

“Speaking of protection.” Matteo hands me a glass of water instead of scotch—he’s noticed I haven’t been drinking lately. The gesture makes my heart flutter. “That look between Elena and Anthony …”

“Elena’s stronger than Mom was,” Bianca points out, twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger—a gesture so like her father it makes my chest ache. “And Anthony seems … different from Johnny.”

“Still.” Matteo’s jaw clenches. “We watch. We wait. We protect.”

“Always.” Bianca stands, smoothing her dress. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a FaceTime date with Sophie Martinez.” At our raised eyebrows, she adds, “What? A girl needs normal friends too. Even Mafia princesses.”

She kisses both our cheeks before leaving, her designer heels clicking against hardwood floors. The sound fades, leaving us alone in the gathering dusk.

The setting sun paints his study in shades of gold and crimson, turning the space into something from a Renaissance painting. The light catches on his signet ring as he moves to stand behind his desk, every inch the powerful don—except for how his eyes soften when they meet mine.

“You saw it too?” he asks, pulling me into his lap. His cologne wraps around me, and for a moment I have to fight a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with stress.

“Elena and Anthony?” I trace the scar on his shoulder through his shirt, remembering how close I came to losing him. “Yes. History repeating?”

“No.” He catches my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm that sends electricity through my body. “Because this time we know better. This time we protect our own.”

“Speaking of our own …” I take a deep breath, gathering my courage as I place his hand on my still-flat stomach. “We might need to clear out that room next to Bianca’s.”

I feel him go absolutely still beneath me. “Bella?” He barely breathes.

“I’m late.” I meet his eyes, seeing my own mix of fear and hope reflected there. “And the doctor confirmed it this morning. Six weeks.”

“Since our wedding night,” he breathes, hand spreading possessively across my stomach. For a moment, something dark crosses his face—old fears, old wounds—I’m only beginning to understand. I see him glance at that turned-away photo of his father, then back to me. His hand trembles slightly when it rests against me.

“Talk to me,” I whisper, cupping his face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking …” His voice is rough with emotion. “I’m thinking about how terrified I am of becoming him. Of failing this child like he failed me.”

“You won’t.” I press my forehead to his. “You’re nothing like Giuseppe. Look at how you are with Bianca—how you protect her, support her, let her choose her own path.”

“A baby,” he whispers against my lips, wonder breaking through the fear. “Our baby.” His other hand slides into my hair, cradling my head like I’m something precious. “You’re sure?”

I nod, watching joy finally overtake the shadows in his eyes. “I know it’s fast, and with everything that’s happened⁠—”

He cuts me off with a kiss that steals my breath. When we break apart, I see everything in his face—the lingering fear of his father’s legacy, the fierce protective instinct already building, and underneath it all, a deep, staggering love that makes my heart ache.

“You know what this means?” he murmurs, both hands now cradling my stomach. “No more rushing into gunfights. No more facing down killers alone.”

I laugh despite the tears gathering in my eyes. “I wasn’t planning on making that a habit anyway.”

“Good.” He kisses me again, softer this time. “Because I need you both safe. Need you all safe.”

“You’re happy?” My stomach flips but it has nothing to do with morning sickness.

“Terrified,” he corrects, holding me closer. “But yes, piccola. So damn happy.”

We stay like that for a long moment, his hand protective over our child, my head tucked under his chin. Outside, the sun sets over our empire—an empire built on blood and sacrifice, but sustained by choice and love.

“We should tell Bianca first,” I say finally. “Before anyone else knows.”

“Together?”

I smile, remembering all the times that word has saved us. All the times it’s meant the difference between survival and destruction. Between fear and hope. Between duty and love.

“Together.”

Because that’s what we are now—this unlikely family built from violence but bound by choice. Artist and don, daughter and heir, mother and father. Creators and destroyers, lovers and fighters, protectors and protected.

Together. Always together.

And in eight months, our family will grow by one more choice, one more love, one more chance to prove that blood isn’t what makes a family.

Love is.