Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 32

The compound’s medical wing reeks of antiseptic and copper as doctors treat Mario’s shoulder wound. Through the observation window, I watch them work with clinical efficiency, the fluorescent lights turning everyone’s skin a sickly shade of blue white. My hands still feel the phantom weight of the sniper rifle—the cold metal, the precise mechanics, the shocking recoil when I pulled the trigger.

I’ve never fired a weapon like that before tonight. Target practice with my father was one thing—neat paper targets in controlled environments. But this? Watching the red bloom across Mario’s expensive suit through my scope, knowing I could have easily shifted two inches left and ended his life? The power of that choice sits heavy in my chest.

“You didn’t kill him,” Matteo says softly, appearing beside me. He’s shed his wet jacket, but rain still darkens his hair, making it curl slightly at his temples. Even after everything, the sight of him affects me—power and danger wrapped in elegant violence. “You could have.”

“He’s your brother.” I meet his eyes in the glass reflection, seeing the war of emotions he tries to hide. Through the window, Mario stirs on the hospital bed, already fighting the sedation. “And I wanted him to live with his failure. Death would be too easy.”

His arm slides around my waist, hand protective over our child. The warmth of him against my back steadies something in me that’s been shaking since I pulled that trigger. He smells of rain and gunpowder and something uniquely him that still makes my pulse race despite everything.

“You’re a better person than I am, piccola.” His breath stirs my hair, and I lean back into his strength.

“No.” I turn in his embrace, placing my hands on his chest where his heart thunders beneath Italian cotton. Even his shirt is still damp from the rain. “Just different. You would have killed him to protect us. I chose to wound him to protect you.”

Understanding floods his expression—that rare softness few ever see beneath his dangerous facade. Because he knows I’m right—killing Mario would have changed him, would have proved Giuseppe’s poisonous lessons about violence and worthiness. This way, the choice and the mercy come from me.

“The Irish won’t be happy,” Antonio reports, joining us at the window. His lined face reflects in the glass, lined with decades of loyalty and violence. “O’Connor’s already making threats about what happens to people who betray Irish hospitality.”

I turn back around in Matteo’s arms to face the window, watching Mario fight against the doctor’s ministrations. Even wounded, even sedated, he radiates that dangerous DeLuca charisma. His eyes find us through the glass, and something dark crosses his face as he takes in our embrace, Matteo’s hand curved protectively over where our child grows.

“He’s still dangerous,” I observe, noting how Mario’s fingers twitch toward phantom weapons even as nurses bind his shoulder. Every movement, every glance carries calculation. “Even wounded, even failed … he’ll try again.”

“Yes.” Matteo doesn’t sugarcoat it, his chest solid against my back. “But not here. Not now.”

“What will you do with him?” I ask.

Before Matteo can answer, Bianca appears in the corridor. She’s traded her tactical gear for leggings and an oversized sweater, looking every bit the teenager she is rather than the Mafia princess who helped coordinate tonight’s operation. But her spine is straight, her chin lifted in that distinctly DeLuca way that speaks of steel beneath silk.

“Send him back to Boston,” she says, joining our vigil at the window. In the harsh medical lighting, I see how much she looks like her father—that same intensity in her eyes, that same ability to mask emotion beneath control. “Let him live with the Irish he chose over family. But make it clear—if he ever comes near us again …”

“Then I won’t aim for the shoulder,” I finish quietly, the words tasting like copper in my mouth.

Mario’s laugh carries through the glass, harsh and knowing. He pushes himself up on his uninjured arm, ignoring the doctor’s protests. “Sweet family reunion,” he calls out. “But tell me, nephew or niece? What kind of child will the artist and the monster create?”

Matteo tenses against me, but I press my hand over his where it rests on my stomach. His heartbeat thunders against my back, rage barely contained. “He’s trying to provoke you. Don’t let him.”

“Listen to your wife, brother.” Mario’s smile is all teeth and old wounds. “She’s smarter than Sophia ever was. Though just as dangerous to love, I’d wager.”

“Enough.” Bianca’s voice cracks like a whip. “You lost the right to speak about our family the moment you put a gun to my head.”

“Your family?” Mario barks out another laugh, but there’s something calculating in his gaze as it lands on Bianca. “Such a DeLuca trait, isn’t it? The way we reshape truth to protect what’s ours. The way we build families on carefully constructed lies. Some things really do run in the blood, don’t they, brother?”

His words carry weight I don’t quite understand—some hidden meaning that makes Matteo go perfectly still against me. Like all of Mario’s taunts, they seem designed to cut deep beneath surface wounds.

“Blood doesn’t make family,” I say, meeting Mario’s gaze through the glass. His eyes—so like Matteo’s but somehow colder—lock onto mine with predatory interest. “The lengths we go to protect each other, the secrets we keep, the love we have, the choices we make—that’s what builds a family. Something you threw away the moment you decided revenge was more important than loyalty.”

“Love?” Mario snorts, his eyes fixed on where my hand covers Matteo’s over our child. “Love makes us blind in our world. Makes us ignore the signs, bury the truth. Just ask my brother about Sophia—about what a father will do to protect his secrets.”

“I’m not Sophia.” I’m so fucking tired of her ghost haunting every corner of our lives. “And Matteo hasn’t failed anyone. You did that all on your own.”

Something shifts in Mario’s expression—not quite respect, but recognition perhaps. Like a predator acknowledging another hunter’s skills. “You’re right about one thing, artist. You’re nothing like Sophia.” His smile turns cryptic, almost amused. “You’re much more interesting.”

The way he says it sends chills down my spine. Because it’s not a threat, not exactly. It’s something worse—interest. The kind that suggests this isn’t over, that he’s seen something in me worth studying. Worth using.

“Boston,” Matteo says, decision made. His voice holds that tone that brooks no argument. “Tonight. Antonio, make the arrangements.”

“Running me out of town again, brother?” Mario’s voice drips with mockery, but something vulnerable flashes beneath the bravado. For a moment, I see the younger brother Matteo must have once protected, before Giuseppe’s games turned them against each other.

“No.” Matteo’s voice is pure ice. “Giving you one last chance to live. Bella’s mercy, not mine. Remember that the next time you think about coming near my family.”

Mario’s laugh follows us as we leave the medical wing, Matteo’s men entering to secure him for transport. But it’s his last words that echo in my mind: “Family is such a fragile thing, isn’t it? So easily … broken.”

In the elevator, Matteo pulls me close. His clothes are still damp from the rain, but his body radiates heat against mine. “He’s trying to get in your head. Don’t let him.”

“I know.” I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The steady rhythm grounds me, reminds me what we’re fighting for. “But he’s right about one thing—family is fragile. Precious.”

“Which is why we protect it.” He kisses my temple, his lips warm against my skin. “Together.”

The elevator opens to reveal Elena waiting in the foyer. She starts toward me but freezes as commotion erupts behind us—Mario being escorted out, flanked by guards. Despite his bound shoulder and disheveled appearance, he moves with that lethal DeLuca grace.

Recognition flashes across Elena’s face as she realizes this is the charming stranger who’d stopped her outside her office building last week. His eyes meet hers, and a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face—the kind of smile that has probably charmed countless women to their doom.

“What the hell?” Elena’s voice shakes as she looks between us. “How do you know him? Why is he here?” Her eyes fix on Mario’s bound shoulder, the blood staining his expensive suit.

“Surprised to see me?” Mario’s voice carries that dangerous charm that clearly had made her stop and talk to him that day, despite her better judgment. “I suppose I should have introduced myself properly outside your office. Mario DeLuca, at your service.” His smile widens as understanding dawns in her expression. “But then, the DeLuca name tends to complicate simple conversations.”

The color drains from Elena’s face as she looks between the brothers. “DeLuca? You’re …” Her voice trails off as she finally sees what I’ve been noticing all night—the similar profiles, the shared mannerisms, the way they unconsciously mirror each other’s stance.

“My brother,” Matteo says flatly, and something in his tone makes Elena take a step back. But there’s something else in her expression that makes my blood run cold—not just fear, but fascination. She’s always been drawn to power, to danger—it’s what makes her so good at navigating our world. But this? This pull toward Mario? It could destroy everything.

“Beauty and danger,” Mario continues, his gaze caressing her like a physical touch. “A DeLuca weakness, wouldn’t you say, brother?”

Matteo’s eyes are cold. “Get him out of here.”

As Matteo’s men lead Mario away, he pauses at the threshold. Both brothers’ gazes are drawn to the same spot—where Giuseppe DeLuca’s portrait once hung, now conspicuously empty. In the glass reflection of the frame, I catch how similar their profiles are, how they unconsciously mirror each other’s stance. That same proud lift of the chin, that same coiled tension ready to explode into violence. Bianca stands just in front of Matteo, and the resemblance between all three of them makes something click in my mind—some puzzle piece I can’t quite place.

“Some things never change,” Mario says softly, his voice carrying decades of pain beneath its smooth surface. “The chosen son, the cast-off son. Though I suppose some choices were made long before either of us understood what they meant.”

“We make our own choices now,” Matteo responds, his hand protective on Bianca’s shoulder.

“Do we?” Mario’s smile is knowing, almost pitying. “Or are we still playing the roles he assigned us? Still protecting secrets that aren’t even ours to keep?”

Mario is shoved out into the rain, but his words linger like smoke in the air. Once he’s gone, Elena lets out a breath. “I don’t understand. He seemed so … when he stopped me outside my office, he was …” Her voice carries a note of wonder that makes Matteo’s head snap toward her with lethal precision.

“He seemed charming? Trustworthy?” Matteo’s voice could cut glass. The sudden shift from protective husband to dangerous don makes Elena step back. “That’s how he works. How he destroys people. First Sophia. Then using my twelve-year-old daughter as bait. Now trying to draw you in?” His eyes go cold in a way I’ve rarely seen directed at family. “Let me be very clear. Mario DeLuca is more dangerous than Johnny Calabrese ever dreamed of being. If I see you within fifty feet of him again, you’ll be on the first plane out of New York. Permanently. Are we clear?”

The dismissal in his tone makes Elena flinch. I catch the flash of hurt in her eyes, quickly replaced by something harder—almost defiant. But before she can respond, Matteo dismisses her and Bianca with a curt nod that brooks no argument.

His hand finds my lower back as he guides me toward our rooms, but I can’t shake the image of Elena’s expression. Or the way Mario looked at her—like a man who’d just found another piece to play in his game.

Matteo’s hand steady at my lower back as we climb the stairs towards our room. The familiar scent of our bedroom—sandalwood and leather and us—helps ease some of the tension from my shoulders, but I can’t stop thinking about Elena’s face. About how quickly fascination can turn to obsession in our world. About how Mario seemed to recognize that weakness instantly.

The adrenaline finally starts to fade, leaving me shaky. I can still feel the rifle’s weight in my hands, still see Mario’s blood blooming across his suit through my scope. Still hear the calculation in his voice when he spoke about family secrets. When he looked at Elena like she was a gift he hadn’t expected.

Matteo’s arms circle me before the spiral can pull me deeper. I fall into his embrace, my body sagging against his solid frame. His lips find mine, the kiss frantic, demanding, all teeth and tongue and the unspoken need to remind each other that we’re alive, that we’re here, that we’re together.

“I could have killed him,” I whisper against his mouth, the words trembling between us. “If I’d moved the scope two inches left …”

“But you didn’t.” His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn’t realize I was shedding. “You chose mercy. Chose to protect this family without becoming like him. Like Giuseppe.”

I nod, but the words don’t settle the ache in my chest. Matteo must see it in my eyes because his expression softens, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheek. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost pleading.

I nod again, and he kisses me once more, slower this time, but no less intense. His hands slip under my blouse, his fingers grazing the bare skin of my waist. The touch sends a shiver through me, and I gasp against his mouth. Matteo takes his time, peeling away my blouse and then my bra, exposing me to the light spilling through the windows.

He steps back, his gaze sweeping over me. “Beautiful,” he breathes, his voice rough.

Before I can respond, he lowers himself, his lips finding the hollow of my throat, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses down to my collarbone. His hands slide over my hips, deftly unfastening my pants and tugging them down along with my underwear. I step out of them, the cool air brushing over my bare skin as he stands and looks at me like I’m something sacred.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his hands skimming up my sides before settling on my waist.

He guides me to the bed, sitting me down before he kneels between my thighs. My breath catches as his hands part my legs, his fingers trailing along the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. His eyes flick up to meet mine, holding my gaze as he presses a soft kiss just above my knee.

“Matteo …” I whisper, my voice trembling with anticipation.

“Trust me, piccola,” he says, his voice dark and commanding.

He doesn’t wait for a reply. His lips blaze a trail up my thigh, each kiss growing closer to where I ache for him. When his mouth finally finds me, a strangled cry escapes my lips. The first touch of his tongue is electric, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through me.

Matteo takes his time, his mouth exploring me with an intensity that leaves me trembling. His hands hold my thighs apart, his grip firm but gentle as he devours me. He alternates between long, languid strokes of his tongue and gentle, focused pressure, drawing soft moans and gasps from me with every movement.

My hands find their way to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as my hips lift instinctively to meet him. “Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter inside me.

He hums against me, the vibration sending another wave of heat through my body. “Let go for me, Bella,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough and full of promise.

It’s all I need. My release crashes over me like a tidal wave, my back arching off the bed as a cry tears from my throat. Matteo doesn’t stop, his mouth and hands guiding me through every pulse of pleasure until I’m trembling and breathless beneath him.

When I finally come down, he presses one last kiss to my inner thigh before rising. His lips are swollen, his eyes dark with desire as he leans over me. I pull him down, kissing him deeply, tasting myself on his lips. My hands work quickly, stripping him of his clothes until he’s bare above me.

He presses himself against me, the heat of his body reigniting the fire that had barely begun to fade. “I need you,” he whispers, his voice raw.

“You have me,” I reply, my voice a breathless promise, my legs wrapping around his waist to draw him closer.

Matteo’s gaze locks with mine as he aligns himself, the intensity in his eyes sending a shiver through me. When he finally pushes into me, it’s slow and deliberate, every inch a careful, measured claim. The sensation is overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness—sending a ripple of pleasure through me that makes my breath hitch. A soft gasp escapes my lips as my body adjusts to him, the deep, perfect fit a testament to how we belong together.

He stills, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath warm and unsteady against my lips. For a moment, we stay like that, our bodies connected, our breathing synchronized as we absorb the depth of the moment. I can feel the rapid beat of his heart against my chest, mirroring my own, and it grounds me, filling the space between us with something raw and unspoken.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough, and possessive, but there’s a tenderness in the way his lips brush over mine as he speaks, as though he’s asking for something deeper.

“Always,” I whisper back, my voice trembling with the weight of the truth in that word. My hands grip his shoulders, feeling the taut strength beneath my fingertips as he begins to move.

The first thrust is slow, deliberate, sending a wave of sensation through me that pulls a soft moan from my lips. He sets a steady rhythm, each motion unhurried but intense, his hips rolling into mine with a precision that leaves no space between us. Heat coils low in my belly, spreading outward as the friction builds, each movement lighting me up from the inside out.

I feel every inch of him, the warmth of his skin pressed against mine, the powerful muscles of his back shifting beneath my hands as he moves. His hands roam my body with purpose—gripping my hips to pull me closer, sliding up my sides to cup my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheeks with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.

The way he looks at me steals the air from my lungs. His eyes burn with an intensity that lays me bare, making me feel seen, cherished, and utterly his. My body responds instinctively, arching into him, meeting each thrust with a hunger that matches his.

The pleasure builds with a relentless intensity, every nerve ending alive with the sensation of him—his heat, his strength, the way his body molds to mine as though we were made for this. The coil in my belly tightens, my breath coming in shallow gasps as the pressure becomes almost too much to bear.

“Matteo,” I gasp, his name a plea, a prayer, as my hands slide up to tangle in his hair, holding him close.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, his lips brushing against my ear. His movements quicken, his thrusts deeper, the angle sending sparks of pleasure through me that push me closer to the edge.

When my release finally crashes over me, it’s like an unrelenting wave, pulling me under and leaving me trembling in its wake. My back arches, my body clenching around him as a broken cry of his name spills from my lips. The pleasure is overwhelming, consuming, and I cling to him as though he’s the only thing keeping me from unraveling completely.

The sight of me coming undone pushes him over the edge. His movements grow erratic, his hips pressing hard against mine as he groans against my neck, his body shuddering with the force of his release. I feel the heat of him spill into me, his breath ragged and uneven as he collapses against me, his weight grounding me in the aftermath of everything.

For a moment, the world fades away, leaving only the sound of our breathing and the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my chest. He doesn’t pull away; instead, he wraps me in his arms, holding me close as though afraid to let go. His hand rests protectively over our growing child.

But Mario’s words echo in my head—about choices and secrets, about the roles we play. About things that run in blood.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Matteo murmurs, pulling me closer.

But I can’t shake the feeling that some secrets run deeper than blood, some choices echo through generations. And this—Mario, Elena, the web of lies and family bonds we’re all tangled in—is just the beginning.