Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 3

The words echo in my head like a death knell: “Your father arranged our marriage before his death.”

I stare at Matteo across his massive desk, waiting for the punchline, for any sign that this is some twisted joke. The Manhattan skyline behind him blurs as tears threaten to fall, but I refuse to cry. Not here. Not in front of him. Not in this office that screams old money and violence, with its dark woods and subtle hints of weapons displayed as art.

My stomach churns. Less than forty-eight hours ago, I was in my studio mixing colors for my thesis piece. Now I’m here, being told I have to marry my father’s best friend. Matteo DeLuca. The boogeyman of New York’s underworld.

“That’s impossible,” I manage, proud that my voice doesn’t shake. “My father would never⁠—”

“Your father,” Matteo interrupts, his deep voice gentle but firm, “knew exactly what would happen if he died. The vultures are already circling, Isabella. Without protection, you’ll be forced to marry someone far worse than me.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. Memories flash through my mind—Matteo at family dinners when I was young, his presence always making the room feel darker, more dangerous. The way other men would go quiet when he entered a room. The whispers about what he did to the last family that crossed him.

“Worse than you?” The words come out sharp as broken glass. “You’re my father’s best friend. You’re sixteen years older than me. You’re—” I cut myself off, but we both know what I was about to say.

You’re a killer.

My fingers twitch for a paintbrush, for the comfort of canvas and color. Art has always been my escape from this world—the violence, the power plays, the constant undercurrent of threat. In my studio, I could pretend to be normal. Could paint beauty instead of darkness.

Now even that’s being taken from me.

Matteo rises from his chair, and I fight the urge to step back. Even in my heels, he towers over me. He moves around the desk with a predator’s grace, stopping close enough that I can smell his expensive cologne mixed with the lingering scent of scotch. My heart pounds traitorously. I’ve always been aware of him, even when I didn’t want to be. Even when I was painting, I would sometimes catch myself thinking about the way he moved, the intensity in his eyes, the⁠—

No. I shut that thought down hard. This is insane. This is wrong.

“I’m also the only one who can keep you alive,” he says quietly. “Johnny Calabrese has already put in a bid for your hand. Do you know what he does to his wives, Isabella?”

The blood drains from my face. Everyone in this world knows about Johnny Calabrese’s last wife, who “accidentally” fell down a flight of stairs. And the one before that, who “tragically” overdosed. I’ve seen him at family functions, the way he looks at women like they’re toys to be broken.

“This is insane,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I’m supposed to be preparing for my thesis exhibition. I’m supposed to be graduating in the spring. I’m supposed to⁠—”

“You’re supposed to be alive,” Matteo cuts in, his voice hardening. “Everything else is secondary.”

A knock at the door makes me jump. Carmine enters without waiting for permission, his oily smile making my skin crawl. My uncle has always watched me with calculating eyes, waiting for his chance. I see it clearly now—with my father dead and me married off, who else could take over the Russo family but him?

“Ah, good. You must be telling her about the arrangements.”

“Get out,” Matteo growls, and something in his tone makes even Carmine take a step back.

“Of course, of course. But remember, we need an answer tonight. The Calabrese family won’t wait forever.” The door clicks shut behind him.

I want to scream. Carmine has always resented me, I realize. The artist daughter who should have been a son. Who should have wanted to take over the family business. He can have it all—the territory, the power, the blood money. I never wanted any of it. I wanted galleries and paint-stained fingers and a normal life where I didn’t have to watch every shadow.

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the office. My entire world is imploding, again, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. Matteo watches me with those intense eyes that have always seen too much. Even when I was younger, trying so hard to avoid this world, I was aware of his gaze.

The way he would watch me at functions, how he always seemed to know where I was, what I was doing.

I used to think it was just him being a friend to my father. But there were moments, especially in the last few years, when I caught him looking at me differently. Like now, with that mix of guilt and hunger that makes my stomach flip.

“When?” I manage to ask, hating how breathless I sound.

“Three days,” Matteo answers. “After the funeral. It needs to be done quickly to ensure your safety and maintain control of the territory.”

“Territory?” My voice rises. “Is that all this is about? Real estate and power?”

Something flashes in his eyes—pain, maybe, or guilt—but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. I’ve spent years studying his expressions, though I’d never admit it. The slight tightening around his eyes when he’s angry, the barely perceptible softening of his mouth when he’s pleased.

“This is about keeping a promise to your father,” he corrects. “About protecting you.”

“By forcing me to marry you?” The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over. “Some protection.”

Matteo reaches out, his hand hovering near my face as if to wipe away my tears, but I jerk back. The gesture is too intimate, too close to the dreams I’ve guiltily pushed away. Dreams where those hands, capable of such violence, touch me with surprising gentleness. Dreams I hate myself for having.

He lets his hand fall, and for a moment, I see something like regret cross his features. “The choice is yours, Isabella,” he says quietly. “But understand this—if you refuse, I won’t be able to stop what comes next. Johnny Calabrese will claim you, and your father’s empire will fall into the hands of the man who ordered his death.”

The accusation hangs in the air between us. My legs give out, and I sink into the leather chair behind me. “The Calabrese family … they killed my father?”

Matteo’s silence is answer enough. I close my eyes, remembering my father’s laugh, his proud smile when he visited my art studio last month, his promise to be at my graduation. All of it gone, because of this world I’ve tried so hard to escape.

And now here I am, being offered a choice that’s not really a choice at all. Marry Matteo DeLuca—the man who both terrifies and fascinates me, who I’ve spent years trying not to think about, trying not to notice how he fills a room with his presence. The man who makes me feel like prey and protected all at once. The man who’s sixteen years my senior and was my father’s best friend.

Or marry Johnny Calabrese and end up another tragic accident.

My artist’s mind betrays me, sketching out the contrasts. Matteo’s controlled power versus Johnny’s sadistic impulses. The way Matteo’s eyes follow me with that mixture of guilt and want, versus the way Johnny looks at women like they’re toys to be broken. The memories of Matteo always being there, a shadow of protection in my peripheral vision, versus the stories of Johnny’s wives and their “accidents.”

When I open my eyes again, they’re dry. “I want conditions,” I say, my voice stronger than I feel. This may be a cage, but I’ll be damned if I don’t set some of the terms of my imprisonment.

Matteo’s dark eyebrow rises slightly, surprise and something like respect flickering across his face. “Name them.”

“I finish my degree. I keep my art studio. I maintain my own bank account.” I take a deep breath. “And this marriage is in name only. We may have to live together, but we won’t … we won’t …”

“Share a bed?” His voice is low, dangerous. He leans down, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair, caging me in. “Don’t make conditions you don’t fully understand, little girl. This marriage will be real in every way. Anything less would raise suspicions.”

My body betrays me immediately. Heat floods my cheeks and spreads lower, my heart hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. This close, his cologne wraps around me—something expensive and masculine that makes my head spin. I can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow. My artist’s eye catalogs these details against my will, already knowing how I would paint him—in oils, all dark colors and sharp edges, danger barely contained by the expensive suit.

Share his bed. The words echo in my mind, bringing unwanted images with them.

No. I feel sick at my own thoughts, disgusted by the way my body responds to his proximity. He’s my father’s best friend. A killer. The very embodiment of the world I’ve tried to escape.

And now I’ll be his wife. The thought hits me like a physical blow. Everything I’ve worked for, every dream I’ve had of a normal life—gone. Instead of gallery openings and art shows, my life will be endless charity galas and family functions. I’ll be expected to smile prettily on his arm, to play the perfect Mafia wife like my mother does. The thought of becoming like her—empty eyes behind designer clothes, drowning her misery in pills and cocktails—makes bile rise in my throat.

Will I be forced to give up my art entirely? Will my studio become just another room in his mansion, my paints gathering dust while I learn to navigate the politics of our world? And children … God, he’ll expect children. Heirs to his empire. The idea of bringing innocent lives into this makes me want to scream.

“Do we have a deal?” he asks softly, his breath warm against my face.

I think of my father, of Johnny Calabrese, of the life I wanted versus the life I’m being forced to take. Of my mother, who traded her soul for security and designer dresses. Of Carmine, who will use my marriage to consolidate his power. Of Matteo, who has always been both protection and darkness, safety and danger.

I’ll be trapped in a gilded cage, expected to be the perfect wife to one of the most dangerous men in New York. No more late nights in my studio, no more freedom to come and go as I please. Everything will be controlled, monitored, arranged. My entire existence reduced to being an ornament on Matteo DeLuca’s arm.

And at night … at night I’ll have to share his bed. My skin prickles with goosebumps at the thought, and I hate myself for the shiver that runs through me. It’s not entirely fear, and that terrifies me more than anything. How can my body react this way to someone who represents everything I’ve tried to run from?

Finally, I meet his gaze squarely.

“Yes,” I whisper, and with that single word, seal my fate.