Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): EXTENDED EPILOGUE

Boston’s winter wind cuts across the harbor, but I don’t feel the cold. Pain is an old friend by now—like the constant ache in my shoulder where my sister-in-law’s bullet struck two months ago. My fingers trace the scar through Italian silk. Such precision in her aim. Such mercy. Such a fascinating combination of strength and weakness.

So like my brother, to find a woman who matches him in both power and foolish compassion.

The surveillance photos spread across my mahogany desk tell their own story, each one a piece in my growing collection: Here’s Bella at her art show, playing donna like she was born to it—but I see the paint still staining her fingers, the artist trying to become what Matteo needs. Another photo shows my brother’s hand possessive on her slight baby bump—always so protective, dear Matteo. Always so sure he can keep what’s his.

As if our father failed to teach us that nothing is truly ours forever.

Bianca stands tall beside them, and oh, if she only knew the truth about her parentage. The delicious irony of her DeLuca bearing, carrying secrets in her very blood that would destroy everything my brother has built.

But it’s the fourth figure that holds my attention. Elena Santiago—always slightly apart, always watching. Such hunger in her eyes, such barely contained rage. The photo captures her perfectly: designer suit armor-like in its precision, spine straight with suppressed defiance.

She reminds me of myself at that age, watching Matteo inherit everything while I got nothing. The perfect son. The worthy heir. If only they knew what that perfection cost.

“O’Connor’s getting impatient,” my lieutenant reports, shuffling like a nervous dog. The Irish—so predictable in their blunt ambitions. So limited in their vision. “He wants to know when we move on Brooklyn.”

“We don’t.” I keep my voice soft, the way our father taught us. The quieter the voice, the more dangerous the threat. Another lesson Matteo learned too well. “Not yet.”

“But the territory⁠—”

“Was never the point.” I pick up a particular photo—Elena watching them load me into the transport, something like recognition in her eyes. The same look I used to see in mirrors, watching Matteo play the perfect son. I recognize that hunger, that need to prove oneself more than what others see. “The point is family. Always has been.”

My phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number, though I’ve memorized it by now: Your brother increased my security. Again.

Worried about you, little planner? I text back, already knowing how she’ll respond. Elena is so wonderfully predictable in her defiance. So perfectly positioned to be both sword and shield in what’s to come.

Her response is immediate: Worried about what I know.

A smile curves my lips. Of course she’s been digging—into my past, into Sophia’s death, into all the carefully buried secrets the DeLuca family would rather forget. She’s smart, my brother’s wife’s best friend. Smart enough to be dangerous. Hungry enough to be useful.

Beautiful enough to be believable as just another society girl with more ambition than sense.

“The Irish want assurances,” my lieutenant pushes, like a child demanding attention. “About your commitment to⁠—”

“To what?” I cut him off, bored already with his limited vision. “To being their attack dog? Their tool for taking New York?” I stand, moving to the window overlooking the harbor. Gray waves match gray skies—a perfect canvas for the chaos to come. “I have my own plans.”

My phone buzzes again—another photo from my network in New York. This one shows Bella leaving her doctor’s appointment, Matteo hovering like an anxious shadow. Always protecting, always controlling. Just like with Bianca, just like with Sophia. My brother never learned that the tighter you hold something, the more likely it is to shatter.

The next shot makes my blood sing: Elena trailing them at a distance, watching, learning. Such a good student, this one. So eager to prove herself more than just the event planner, the best friend, the girl on the sidelines. She moves through their world like a ghost, seeing everything while being seen as nothing. Perfect.

Careful, little planner, I text her. Curiosity can be dangerous.

So can underestimating me, comes her reply.

I laugh softly, the sound echoing in my empty office. She’s right, of course. Everyone underestimates Elena Santiago—just like they underestimated me. The spare son, the exile, the brother who wasn’t good enough. Matteo’s greatest weakness has always been his arrogance, his certainty that he knows best. That he can control everything and everyone around him. He sees Elena as just another potential threat to neutralize, never considering she might be the weapon that finally brings him down.

“Sir?” My lieutenant shifts uncomfortably, reminding me of his presence. “O’Connor’s calling a meeting. He wants to discuss the Brooklyn situation.”

“Tell him I’ll be there.” I don’t look away from the harbor, from the city that was almost mine. Will be mine. “And get me everything on the Santiago family. All of it.”

“The event planner? But she’s not⁠—”

“She’s more important than any of them realize.” I pick up the photo of Elena again, studying how she watched me that day. Such recognition in her eyes, such hunger. “She’s the key to everything.”

My phone lights up with another message: Your brother talks about you sometimes. About who you were before. Who you could have been.

I trace my fingers over her words, imagining her typing them in secret, probably from some dark corner of the DeLuca compound. Like a viper in their garden, beautiful and deadly. My response is careful, measured: And what do you think, Elena? About who I could be?

Her answer makes something dark unfurl in my chest: I think you’re exactly who you’re meant to be. The question is … am I?

I save the message, adding the photos to my growing collection. Each one a piece in the game Matteo doesn’t even know he’s playing yet.

Elena’s right—we’re both becoming exactly who we’re meant to be. She’ll be my sword, just as Sophia was once my shield. But where Sophia was weak, Elena burns with that same fire that consumes me. That need to prove ourselves more than what others see.

Looking out over the harbor toward New York, I allow myself to imagine it: Elena by my side, as sharp and dangerous as I am. The way she’ll slip past Matteo’s defenses, turn their trust into weakness. The look on Matteo’s face when he realizes his closest allies have become his greatest threats. The way everything he loves will crumble, piece by carefully orchestrated piece.

“Family first,” I murmur to the darkness, touching the scar Bella’s bullet left. A reminder of mercy that will prove to be their greatest mistake. “Isn’t that right, brother?”

My phone buzzes one last time. Elena again: They’re celebrating tonight. The baby, the art show, their perfect little family. Wish you could see it.

My smile turns cruel as I respond: Oh, little planner. I see everything. And soon, so will you.

Because that’s the thing about family—it’s not about blood or loyalty or choice. It’s about power. About who’s willing to take it, to wield it, to burn everything down to claim it.

And I’ve always been very, very good at playing with fire.

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