Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 28

Morning sickness, I decide, is cruelly misnamed.

It should be called all-day-and-night-endless-torture sickness. I rinse my mouth in the marble sink of our en suite bathroom, trying to steady myself before the meeting with Matteo’s captains. Six weeks of pregnancy have turned my body into a battlefield—every smell is an assault, every movement a potential trigger. Even the scent of my favorite perfume now makes my stomach roll.

“Here.” Bianca appears in the doorway, offering a cup of peppermint tea. She’s already dressed for the day in a navy blazer and silk blouse, looking every inch the Mafia princess. The concern in her eyes—so like her father’s—makes my heart squeeze. “Maria says it helps.”

“You told Maria?” I accept the tea gratefully, letting the warmth seep into my trembling hands.

“Please,” Bianca snorts. “She knew before any of us.” She perches on the counter, one leg swinging casually. “She says she can always tell. Something about the way expectant mothers glow.”

“I’m not glowing. I’m green.” But I manage a small smile, touched by my stepdaughter’s concern. We’ve gone from barely tolerating each other to this fierce protectiveness that catches me off guard. Like now, as she hovers anxiously, so like her father in her need to fix things.

“Dad’s waiting in his office. The captains are arriving.” Bianca slides off the counter, her Louboutins clicking against marble tile. A shadow crosses her face. “Something about trouble in Brooklyn.”

My stomach clenches, and not from morning sickness. Brooklyn means Mario DeLuca’s old territory—the territory he lost when Matteo exiled him five years ago. My husband rarely speaks of his half brother. In fact, everything I know about Mario DeLuca comes from overheard conversations between my father and his captains. Stories that always ended with lowered voices and worried glances.

“I’ll be right there.” I straighten, examining my reflection. The woman in the mirror looks pale despite careful makeup, dark circles visible beneath my eyes that even Laura Mercier can’t fully conceal. The black Altuzarra dress I’ve chosen skims my figure, hiding any hint of my condition—we’re not ready to announce it beyond family yet. Not with so many threats still lurking.

I find Matteo in his study, seven captains arranged around the massive mahogany table that dominates one end. The scent of expensive coffee mingles with leather and gun oil, an oddly comforting mixture that thankfully doesn’t turn my stomach. Each captain brings their own energy to the room—Salvatore with his battle-scarred face and suspicious eyes, Alberto whose youth belies his tactical genius, Vicente who served under Giuseppe and still carries that old-world menace.

The men’s quiet conversations cease when I enter, respect and wariness mingling in their expressions. They’ve learned to fear the donna who took down Johnny Calabrese. But there’s something else in their faces today—a tension that speaks of past loyalties and divided hearts.

My husband stands at the head of the table, every inch the powerful don in his perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit. But I see what others might miss—the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusts his cuffs, the muscle jumping in his jaw, the way his eyes keep drifting to the turned-away photo on his desk.

Whatever this is about Mario, it’s bad.

“Problem?” I ask, taking my place at Matteo’s right hand. Bianca stands just behind us, absorbing everything as she always does. I notice how the older captains avoid looking at her directly. Whatever happened five years ago with Mario clearly involved more than just an exile.

“Mario’s been spotted in the old territories in Brooklyn. Particularly around the properties Giuseppe left him.” Antonio pulls up surveillance photos on his tablet, broadcasting them onto the study’s screens. The images make my artist’s eye immediately start cataloging details.

Mario DeLuca shares his brother’s height and build, but there’s a rougher edge to him, like an expensive painting left out in harsh weather. His dark hair falls messily across his forehead, and scars mark his jaw and left eyebrow—badges of violence worn like honors. But it’s his eyes that catch my attention. Dark where Matteo’s are blue gray, intense in a way that speaks of barely contained chaos.

“Meeting with some of the old guard who were loyal to him before the exile.” Antonio’s weathered face betrays concern as he swipes through more photos. I notice how Vicente and two other older captains exchange glances, their loyalty to Matteo warring with old allegiances.

“Left him to manage, you mean,” Matteo corrects, an edge to his voice that makes even Salvatore flinch. Something passes between them—some shared knowledge that makes the air feel suddenly heavy. “Nothing was ever truly given.”

The next image makes my blood freeze in my veins. Mario stands outside Elena’s office building, leaning against her car with calculated casualness. He’s smiling—that devastating DeLuca smile that seems genetic—and though Elena’s expression is wary, I can see her guard lowering slightly as she listens. Unlike Matteo’s controlled intensity, Mario radiates a wild charm that draws people in despite themselves.

The sight terrifies me more than any interaction with Johnny Calabrese.

“When was this taken?” I fight to keep my voice steady despite my racing heart. Elena’s been through enough with Johnny. The last thing she needs is another DeLuca complication.

“Yesterday.” Antonio swipes to another image that makes several captains mutter darkly. Mario exits a café with Anthony Calabrese, both men in sharp suits that probably cost more than most people make in a month. They’re laughing about something, heads bent close in conspiracy. The casual camaraderie sends chills down my spine—this is no chance meeting.

“He’s building alliances,” Salvatore growls, his scarred hand clenching on the table. “First Carmine’s betrayal, then Johnny’s death … he sees weakness in the family structure.”

“Mario always did know how to exploit chaos,” Vicente adds, his accent thickening with emotion. “Like a shark smelling blood in the water.”

“There is no weakness,” Matteo says quietly, but his hand finds mine under the table. The gentle pressure grounds me even as fear claws at my throat. “My brother made his choice five years ago. He chose wrong.”

“What did he do?” The words slip out before I can stop them. The reaction in the room is immediate and visceral. Alberto actually crosses himself, while Vicente’s face drains of color. Even Antonio, usually unflappable, looks unsettled. “Why was he exiled?”

Silence falls like a blade. Even the usual city sounds beyond the windows seem muted, as if nature itself holds its breath. Finally, Matteo squeezes my hand once before releasing it.

“He broke our most sacred rule,” he says, and his voice—that deadly soft tone that usually precedes violence—makes several captains shift in their chairs. One actually loosens his collar. “Family first. Always family first.”

“He tried to kill Dad,” Bianca says from behind us, and when I turn, the look on her face steals my breath. Gone is my confident stepdaughter, replaced by the child who lived through whatever horror Mario inflicted. Her hands tremble as she continues, “Used me as bait when I was twelve. Would have succeeded if …” She trails off, but the implications are clear.

If Matteo hadn’t chosen his daughter over his brother.

“And now he’s back.” I look at the photos again, seeing them with new understanding. Mario with Elena, with Anthony—not just building a network, but choosing his targets carefully. People we care about. People we have fraught relationships with. “Using our people against us again.”

“Not this time.” Matteo rises, authority radiating from him like heat. Even the oldest captains straighten instinctively. His voice carries that tone that brooks no argument, that reminds everyone why he’s the most feared man in New York. “Antonio, increase security on all family members. I want Elena brought to the compound until we assess the threat. And get me everything on my brother’s movements since he left New York.”

The captains snap into action, each with their assigned tasks. Soon only the four of us remain—Matteo, Bianca, Antonio, and me. The sudden quiet feels oppressive, like the air before a storm.

“The villa in Tuscany,” Matteo says softly, and something in his tone makes my heart stutter. “It’s not just a vacation. It’s a secure location, off Mario’s radar. Somewhere they’d never think to look.”

“You want us to run?” Bianca’s voice cracks with hurt. She sounds young again, vulnerable in a way that makes my maternal instincts flare despite myself.

“I want you safe.” He turns to his daughter, cupping her face in that gentle way that always makes my chest ache. “Both of you. All of you.” His eyes flick meaningfully to my stomach, where our child grows beneath Italian silk. Three lives to protect now. Three potential targets.

“We’re stronger together,” I argue, moving closer to them both. The morning sickness seems distant now, replaced by a clarity born of fear. “The moment we separate, we give him opportunities.”

“She’s right,” Antonio adds, ignoring the thunderous look Matteo shoots him. “Mario will expect you to send them away. He’ll be watching the airports, the usual routes. And if he has people inside our organization already …” He lets the implication hang heavy in the air.

Matteo’s jaw clenches, but before he can respond, Maria appears in the doorway. The housekeeper’s usual calm demeanor seems shaken, her hands trembling slightly. “Sir? There’s a delivery for Mrs. DeLuca.”

She holds out a small box wrapped in black silk paper, tied with a bloodred ribbon. No card, no marking to indicate its sender. The elegance of it makes my skin crawl—like a beautiful snake coiled to strike.

I reach for it instinctively, but Matteo moves faster. “Don’t,” he orders, taking the package himself. His voice carries that edge of command that usually makes everyone obey without question. “Antonio …”

But it’s too late. A high-pitched whine fills the air, mechanical and wrong, like the sound death might make if it had a voice. Matteo’s eyes meet mine for one frozen moment—fear and love and rage all warring in those steel-blue depths. Then he’s moving, hurling the box through the study’s windows.

The explosion rocks the room, shattering glass and spewing flames. Matteo tackles both Bianca and me behind his desk as security swarms in. The chaos is deafening—shouted orders, breaking glass, the wail of distant sirens. The acrid smell of smoke mingles with gunpowder and fear.

Then all our phones chime simultaneously.

The message that appears makes my blood turn to ice:

Welcome to the family, little artist. Time to play a game.