Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 31

Rain pounds against the bulletproof glass of my SUV, each drop a staccato reminder of another night like this five years ago. The rhythmic sound mingles with the low rumble of the V8 engine and the squelch of tires on wet asphalt, creating a symphony of tension that sets my teeth on edge. Even the familiar scent of leather and gun oil can’t calm my racing thoughts.

Phase one of our plan is in motion. The media—those vultures who’ve been circling our family since Johnny’s death—have been carefully fed stories about Bella and Bianca’s departure to a “safe location.” Page Six couldn’t resist the scandal: “DeLuca Women Flee New York—Trouble in Criminal Paradise?” While the Daily News went with “Mafia Princess and New Bride Seek Italian Sanctuary.” The kind of headlines that would make Mario think his psychological warfare is working.

In reality, both of my women are secure in the panic room beneath the compound, surrounded by guards I’ve known since childhood. The thought of Bella there, probably driving the security team crazy with her tactical suggestions while protecting our unborn child, almost makes me smile.

Almost.

“Mario’s people took the bait,” Antonio reports from the passenger seat, his weathered face illuminated by the glow of his tablet. “They’re tracking the decoy convoy heading to the airport.”

I nod, my knuckles white on the steering wheel as we approach the warehouse district. The industrial wasteland rises around us like a graveyard of broken dreams—abandoned buildings with shattered windows, graffiti-covered walls that hold too many secrets. Five years of memories flood back, turning the rain-slicked streets into a battlefield of ghosts.

Every shadow, every corner of this district holds echoes of that night. Finding Bianca tied to a chair, her school uniform torn and bloody, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her face. The way she’d whimpered “Daddy” when I cut her free, how light she felt in my arms—my stubborn daughter reduced to something small and broken by a man who shared my blood.

“You never told me what really happened that night,” Antonio says quietly, his voice barely audible over the rain. “Why you let him live.”

“Because killing him would have proved him right.” My jaw clenches as memories assault me—Mario’s voice on the phone, taunting me about choices and worthiness. Giuseppe’s lessons about family and power playing out in real time through his sons. “That I was exactly what our father always said—ruthless, unfeeling, incapable of mercy.”

“And now?”

“Now he’s threatening my wife. My children.” Ice coats my words as my phone buzzes with a message from Bella: Security feed shows movement at the warehouse. He’s there.

Of course he is. Mario always did have a flair for dramatic symbolism. The warehouse where he lost everything—where he forced a choice that was never really a choice at all—would be the perfect stage for his revenge.

Another text follows quickly: Be careful. Come back to us.

I allow myself a moment to picture her, safe in the panic room with Bianca. My beautiful artist, probably pacing like a caged tiger, one hand protective over our child while the other gestures as she argues strategy with the security team. The image brings both comfort and fear—everything I have to protect, everything Mario threatens to destroy.

“Boss.” Antonio’s voice draws my attention to the warehouse looming ahead of us like some Gothic monster in the rain. The old brick structure seems to absorb the darkness, its broken windows like hungry eyes watching our approach. Water cascades down its walls in sheets, creating a curtain that seems designed to hide secrets.

Three black SUVs emerge from the shadows, boxing us in with practiced precision. Even their driving style screams Irish training—aggressive but controlled, leaving no room for escape. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I watch a familiar figure step out of the center vehicle.

Mario.

Five years haven’t changed his core essence, though new scars mark his face—one particularly nasty one bisecting his left eyebrow, another along his jaw. He moves with that same predatory grace we both inherited from Giuseppe, but there’s something wilder about him now. Where I learned to contain my darkness, to channel it into protection, his burns openly in eyes that mirror my own.

“Brother,” he calls, his voice carrying that distinctive DeLuca timbre despite the rain. He’s dressed like me—black suit, tactical gear underneath—but where mine is precisely tailored, his has a deliberate dishevelment. A calculated display of chaos. “Expecting me?”

“Considering you practically sent an engraved invitation?” I keep my tone casual despite the dozen guns trained on me from his Irish backup. I count eight men, all with that hard-eyed look of O’Connor’s personal guard. “Subtle was never your strong suit.”

We face each other in the rain, neither mentioning how we’ve unconsciously taken the same stance—shoulders squared, chin lifted, hands relaxed at our sides ready to reach for weapons. Giuseppe’s stance, though acknowledging that would give Mario too much power. Water drips from his dark hair, plastering it to his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, more like the brother I failed to protect from our father’s games.

His laugh holds no humor, just decades of bitterness crystallized into sound. “Says the man who sent his pregnant wife to Italy. Tell me, how does it feel? Knowing you have to choose again? Family or power, brother. It always comes down to that.”

“You still don’t understand.” I study him, truly seeing how the years of exile have carved new lines around his eyes, hardened the set of his jaw. The boy I once protected, who would crawl into my bed during thunderstorms, is gone. This man, this creature of vengeance wearing my brother’s face, is someone else entirely. “There is no choice. Family is power.”

“Family?” He spits the word like poison, but I catch the flash of raw pain in his eyes—that same wounded look he’d get when Giuseppe would compare us, always finding him wanting. “You’ve become just like him, choosing who’s worthy of the DeLuca name. Who deserves to be called family.”

“I chose an innocent child over a man who would hurt her to prove a point.” My voice hardens, though something in me flinches at his comparison to our father. Because isn’t that what I fear most? Becoming the monster who raised us? “Just like I’ll choose my wife, my children, every time.”

“Your children?” Mario’s smile turns cruel, rain dripping from his jaw like tears—or blood. “Bianca isn’t even yours. And this new baby … well, accidents happen. Especially to women in our world. Just ask Sophia. Though I suppose protecting daughters isn’t a DeLuca strong suit, is it, brother?”

The words hit like a physical blow, carrying weight beyond their surface meaning. We both know what he’s really saying—about fathers and daughters and sins that echo through generations. About Giuseppe’s legacy of pain that we can never quite escape.

“Always the golden son,” he sneers, taking a step closer. His men tense, fingers tightening on triggers. The rain seems to fall harder, turning the space between us into a curtain of silver needles. “The worthy heir.”

Something flashes through me—an old pain I usually keep buried beneath layers of control. The memory of Giuseppe’s hand heavy on my shoulder in that photograph I keep turned away, his voice a constant whisper of expectations and threats. I mask it quickly, but Mario sees. He always could read me better than anyone.

“No?” His bitter laugh carries over the storm. “Tell me, brother, do you still keep his photo turned away? Or have you finally made peace with what we came from?”

I ignore that particular knife thrust, though the question burrows deep. Truth is, I’m not sure why I keep that photo out at all. Maybe as a reminder of what not to become. Maybe as penance.

“Five years,” I say instead, watching him for tells, for weakness. “Five years with the Irish, building connections, planning your revenge. And for what? To recreate a moment you already lost?”

“To take everything you love.” Mario steps closer, and his men shift like shadows in the rain, following their choreographed dance of death. Water streams down his face, but his eyes burn with a fever that makes him look almost possessed. “To make you feel what I felt when you cast me out. When you chose that little bitch over your own brother. Just like he taught us, didn’t he? Always choosing who’s worthy of the DeLuca name?”

Lightning flashes, illuminating the warehouse behind him. For a moment, I see Bianca’s small form tied to that chair, hear her crying for me. The memory feeds something dark in my chest, something that wants to tear my brother apart with bare hands.

“You don’t get to use his methods against me.” Steel enters my voice as thunder rolls overhead. “I protect what’s mine. Blood or not, Bianca is my daughter. Just like Bella is my wife. Just like this family is my legacy—not his.”

“Legacy?” Mario’s laugh sounds like breaking glass. Rain plasters his expensive suit to his frame, highlighting how exile has hardened him, turned him lean and dangerous as a street dog. “Look at you, standing in judgment like he used to. Deciding who belongs and who doesn’t. For now.”

He raises his gun with that fluid grace we both learned too young. The barrel looks black as night against the rain. “But after tonight? After I finish what I started five years ago? Everything you love will be gone. And you’ll finally understand what it feels like to lose everything that matters.”

I allow myself a small smile, watching understanding slowly dawn in my brother’s eyes. Because he’s so focused on recreating Giuseppe’s patterns, on forcing those same impossible choices, that he’s missed the most important detail. He’s still playing our father’s game while I’ve learned to write new rules.

“You’re right about one thing,” I say softly, my voice carrying under the storm’s fury. “Family is everything. But we choose what that means now. Not him. Not anymore. Which is why you’ve already lost.”

Before Mario can process my meaning, shots ring out from the warehouse roof. His men drop one by one—precision shots from Antonio’s team, already in position. Because while Mario was watching the convoy to Italy, watching me, he forgot about the most dangerous player in this game.

Bella’s voice comes through my earpiece, cold and clear: “Target acquired. End this, husband.”

My brilliant, dangerous wife. The memory of our argument about her participation floods back—her standing in our bedroom this morning, eyes blazing as she loaded her rifle. “I was Giovanni Russo’s daughter before I was your wife,” she’d said, chambering a round with practiced ease. “I know how to protect what’s mine too.”

Now she’s perched on a neighboring roof with that same rifle, having refused to stay in the panic room despite my protests. Like her father, she understands that some battles require personal involvement. Bianca monitors the security feeds from below, coordinating our teams with a precision that makes pride war with fear in my chest.

Together, just as we promised.

Mario’s eyes widen as he realizes his mistake. As he finally understands that this time, this choice, was never his to make. Rain streams down his face, mixing with sweat as he watches his carefully orchestrated plan crumble. His Irish backup lies still in growing puddles, their blood turning the rainwater pink.

“You really think she’ll pull the trigger?” he sneers, but I hear the tremor beneath his bravado. His gun hasn’t wavered from my chest, but his other hand shakes slightly—that same tell he had as a child when he knew he’d miscalculated. “Your artist wife? The mother of your child? She’s soft, brother. Like you’ve become soft. Like⁠—”

“Yes.” I don’t flinch, don’t move. Through my earpiece, I hear Bella’s steady breathing, so like her father’s when he lined up a shot. “Because she understands what you never did. Real family protects its own.”

The shot echoes through the rain like thunder. Mario falls, clutching his shoulder where blood blooms across his expensive suit—not a kill shot, but precise. Deliberate. Just like everything else about my wife.

I approach my fallen brother slowly, my own gun raised. Water pools around his body, but his eyes—my eyes, Giuseppe’s eyes—still burn with defiance. With decades of pain and rejection neither of us has ever fully escaped.

“Last chance, Mario.” My voice carries over the storm. “Surrender, leave New York, never contact us again. Or⁠—”

“Or what?” Blood stains his teeth as he grins up at me, and for a moment I see that little boy again, always trying to prove himself worthy of the DeLuca name. “You’ll kill me? Prove Father right about what kind of man you really are?”

“No.” My voice softens, remembering other rainy nights, other choices that shaped us both. “I’ll let my wife decide your fate. After all …” I smile coldly as another crack of thunder punctuates my words. “Family is everything.”