Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 4

The predawn hours find me in my private gym, punishing a heavy bag with precise, brutal strikes. Each hit echoes through the empty space, matching the rhythm of accusations in my head. Monster. Predator. Betrayer.

Sweat drips down my bare chest as I work through the rage that’s been building since Isabella left my office. Her whispered “yes” haunts me, along with the look of defeat in her eyes—like I’d personally extinguished some vital light within her.

The bag absorbs another series of combinations. Left hook. Right cross. Uppercut. Each impact sends shockwaves through my wrapped hands, but the pain does nothing to quiet my mind. I’ve spent years protecting her from afar, watching her bloom into an artist, keeping the darkness of our world from touching her innocent soul.

Now I’ve become the very thing she needs protection from.

The irony would be amusing if it wasn’t so fucking tragic.

Blood seeps through the wraps—I’ve split my knuckles again. Good. Physical pain is easier to handle than the memory of Isabella’s face when I told her about the marriage. The way she’d looked at me, like I was something monstrous.

She wasn’t wrong.

The gym door opens, and Antonio enters, tablet in hand. At fifty-five, my consigliere moves with the same deadly grace he had when I took over the family fifteen years ago. His silver hair and grandfatherly appearance mask one of the sharpest tactical minds in New York. “Boss, we’ve got updates.”

I deliver one final punch that sends the bag swinging violently on its chain. “Report,” I order, unwrapping my hands. The white gauze is stained crimson—a fitting metaphor for what I’m about to do to Isabella’s life.

“The Calabrese family isn’t happy about the engagement announcement. Johnny’s already making threats.” Antonio swipes through his tablet. “We’ve increased security around Miss Russo’s apartment and studio. Father Romano has been arranged for both ceremonies—funeral and wedding. And …” He hesitates.

“What?”

“Miss Russo’s mother is at the front gate. She’s … quite insistent about seeing you.”

“This fucking early?” I curse in Italian. Of course Cher would show up now, probably to negotiate her cut of this arrangement. “Send her to my office. I’ll shower first.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed in one of my signature black suits, my hair still damp as I enter my office to find Cher Russo pacing the floor in designer heels. At forty-five, she’s still stunning—all sleek blonde hair and elegant bones.

But where Isabella’s beauty is natural, unconscious, her mother’s is a weapon, carefully honed and deployed. They share the same pale skin and delicate features, but there’s a hardness to Cher that Isabella hasn’t developed. Yet.

“How dare you?” she hisses, whirling to face me, her face the perfect mask of motherly rage. “My husband isn’t even cold in his grave, and you’re forcing my daughter into marriage?”

“Sit down, Cher,” I say coldly, already sick of her shit. “We both know you’re not here out of maternal concern.”

The mask immediately drops as she takes a seat, crossing her legs elegantly. Even in mourning, she’s perfectly coiffed, not a platinum hair out of place. Her black Chanel dress probably cost more than most people make in a month. “Fine. Let’s discuss numbers.”

“Your monthly allowance will continue. Isabella’s trust fund remains untouched.” I sit behind my desk, already tired of this conversation. “That’s nonnegotiable.”

“And my position in society?”

What a piece of fucking work she is. Instead of being concerned about her daughter’s well-being, she’s more focused on whether she will be invited to the next society ball.

“Will be secured by your daughter’s marriage to me.” My tone turns dangerous. “But understand this, Cher—if you do anything to upset Isabella during this transition, both your allowance and your social standing will disappear. Permanently.”

The threat isn’t lost on her. She stands, smoothing her designer dress. Her eyes drift to the turned photo on my desk, and her lips curve into a knowing smile.

“Your father Giuseppe always knew how to handle delicate situations,” she says with calculated casualness. “Especially involving young girls.”

Something dark flashes across my face before I can hide it. “My father isn’t relevant to this conversation.”

“No?” Cher’s smile widens. “He was so … invested in your marriage to Sophia.” A pause. “Just remember, Matteo—she’s not Sophia. Your first wife, may she rest in peace, was such a perfect DeLuca donna. Such a tragic loss.”

The name hits me like a physical blow. My hand tightens on the desk, the wood creaking under my grip. “Get out.”

Once she’s gone, I remain at my desk, my hands shaking with the effort not to destroy something. Sophia. Even after ten years, the name is a blade between my ribs. Cher knows exactly what she’s doing, invoking her memory now. Trying to provoke me, to make me doubt myself. To make me remember what happens to the women I try to protect.

I force myself to breathe, to push back the memories of blood-stained emeralds and broken promises. Isabella isn’t Sophia. She’s stronger, fiercer, more alive. But the fear claws at my gut anyway—fear that history will repeat itself, that I’ll fail her just as catastrophically.

Needing reassurance, I pull up the security feed on my laptop. Isabella’s in her studio, probably seeking refuge in her art. She looks small surrounded by her canvases, but there’s determination in every brush stroke as she works on what appears to be a new piece. The colors are darker than her usual palette—all blacks and deep blues, sharp edges where she usually favors soft lines. She’s working through her trauma the only way she knows how.

My chest tightens watching her. Even through the grainy security footage, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she attacks the canvas like it’s personally wronged her. She’s wearing one of her oversized painting shirts, dark hair piled messily on top of her head, completely unaware of how beautiful she is.

How vulnerable.

My phone buzzes with a message from Carmine.

Meeting tonight. The other families want assurances about the transition of power.

Another buzz, this one from my head of security.

Johnny Calabrese spotted near Miss Russo’s studio building.

Final buzz, from an unknown number.

You can’t protect her like you couldn’t protect Sophia.

The laptop screen cracks under my grip, spiderwebbing out from where my fingers press too hard. Rage and fear war in my chest, making it hard to breathe. They’re coming at us from all sides—the Calabrese family, the other dons, whoever sent that anonymous message.

And Isabella sits in her studio, painting her darkness, completely unaware of how many shadows are gathering around her.

I pick up my phone, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Antonio, send a car for Isabella. Bring her to the compound immediately.” A pause, remembering Johnny’s proximity to her studio. “And if Johnny Calabrese comes within fifty feet of her, kill him.”

My feet carry me to the private safe almost unconsciously. The combination is muscle memory—Sophia’s birthday, because I’m a masochist apparently.

Inside, beside stacks of cash and important documents, sits a small velvet box. Even after a decade, I still hesitate before touching it.

The ring had been my grandmother’s—a flawless emerald surrounded by diamonds. A symbol of DeLuca power, passed down through generations. I’d given it to Sophia once, watching her eyes light up as I slid it onto her finger. Those same eyes had been empty and lifeless when they found her body, her blood staining the stone a darker shade of green.

I’ve had it cleaned and reset, but sometimes I swear I can still see the stains. Still feel the sticky warmth of her blood as I cradled her broken body. The emerald gleams up at me now, innocent as a serpent in the garden.

Will it bring the same curse to Isabella’s finger?

My office door crashes open, interrupting my dark thoughts. Bianca storms in, my seventeen-year-old daughter radiating fury in designer jeans and a cropped leather jacket. She’s so much my daughter it hurts sometimes—the same black hair, the same blue-gray eyes, the same inability to hide her emotions.

“Tell me it’s not true,” she demands, her voice cracking. “Tell me you’re not marrying Bella Russo.”

“Bianca—”

“She’s barely older than me!” The hurt in her voice is like knives in my gut. “What is she—twenty-two? Are you serious right now? You bitched me out for talking to a college freshman at Juliana’s party, but you can marry one?”

“That’s different⁠—”

“How?” She paces the office like a caged animal. “How is it different? Because it’s about power? Because you need to control the Russo territory now that Giovanni’s dead?”

“Watch your tone.” My warning comes out sharper than intended as my temper frays. “You don’t understand the complexities of⁠—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.” Her laugh is bitter, cutting. “I understand that less than two days after her father dies, you’re forcing some girl nearly my age to marry you. Real classy, Dad. Really living up to the DeLuca name there.”

“This isn’t about⁠—”

“Does she know about Mom?” The question hits like a bullet and Bianca knows it. Her eyes gleam at the hit. “Does she know what happened to her? Or are you going to keep Bella in the dark like you keep everyone else?”

“Enough!” My voice thunders through the office, making even my fierce daughter step back. The guilt is immediate—I hate using my “don” voice on her. More quietly, I add, “What’s done is done. Isabella will be your stepmother, and you will treat her with respect.”

“My stepmother?” Now she’s shouting, all pretense of control gone. “She’s only five years older than me, Dad! We are literally part of the same generation! But sure, let’s pretend this is normal. Let’s pretend you’re not just using her like you use everyone else.”

“I said that’s enough.” My voice drops low, dangerous. Bianca is crossing the line and I will not tolerate it. “You have no idea what I’ve done to keep this family safe. What I’m still doing.”

“Family?” Her voice cracks on the word, her eyes flashing with hurt and fury. “Is that what we’re calling it? Because from where I’m standing, you’re just repeating history. Another young wife, another power play⁠—”

“Your mother made her choices,” I cut in, my control hanging by a thread. Speaking of Sophia still feels like swallowing glass, even after all these years. “Isabella’s situation is different.”

Bianca scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at me. “Right. Because this time you’re forcing her into it.” Her words drip with venom. “At least Mom loved you. I’m not stupid. Bella’s probably terrified of you. But I guess that doesn’t matter as long as you get your precious territory, right?”

The accusation hits like a physical blow. Because she’s right—Isabella is afraid of me. But fear might keep her alive when love couldn’t save Sophia.

“This discussion is over.” I move around the desk, trying to bridge the distance between us. “I know this is difficult⁠—”

“Difficult?” She backs away from my attempt to touch her shoulder. “You’re turning our lives upside down for some girl who has probably never been to our house. Who probably doesn’t even know I exist beyond being “Matteo’s daughter.” And now what—we’re supposed to play happy family while the whole city watches?”

“Everything I do is for this family. For you.”

“No.” Her eyes are pure ice now, so like her mother’s it hurts to look at them. “Everything you do is for power. For control. And Bella’s just your newest victim.”

She slams out of the office before I can respond, leaving me alone with the ring box and my demons. The truth in her accusations burns worse than any bullet wound. Because she’s right—I am using Isabella. The fact that it’s to protect her doesn’t make it any less of a manipulation.

Outside my window, storm clouds gather over Manhattan, transforming the morning sun into an apocalyptic gloom. Lightning flickers in the distance, promising violence. The city I’ve spent my life controlling looks alien now, threatening. Every shadow could hide an enemy. Every glittering window could conceal a sniper’s scope. In three days, I’ll bury my best friend and marry his daughter, and nothing will ever be the same.

The ring box feels heavy in my hand, weighted with history and blood. The emerald catches what little light remains, throwing green fire across my desk. Sophia wore this ring for years before she died. Now it will grace Isabella’s finger—marking her as both protected and condemned.

I think of how young she looked in her studio this morning, paint on her fingers, darkness flowing from her brush. So much talent. So much life. Everything Sophia was, and everything she wasn’t. Where Sophia was delicate, Isabella is steel beneath silk. Where Sophia accepted our world, Isabella fights it with every breath. And where Sophia once loved me, Isabella …

Christ. I have no right to think about Isabella that way. No right to notice how her eyes flash when she’s angry, how her hands move when she talks about art, how she fills a room with light just by existing. She’s Gio’s daughter. A responsibility.

But she’s also the woman who’s haunted my dreams for longer than I care to admit.

Thunder cracks overhead, making the windows rattle in their frames. The storm is almost here. Just like the threats gathering around us—Johnny Calabrese’s sadistic interest, Carmine’s barely concealed ambition, the other families watching for any sign of weakness. They’ll all be at the funeral, paying respects with one hand while holding daggers in the other. Then they’ll attend the wedding, watching Isabella walk down the aisle to me, evaluating every detail for signs of coercion or resistance.

The emerald gleams up at me from its velvet nest, and for a moment, I swear I see Sophia’s blood staining the stones again. My hands shake as I snap the box closed. I couldn’t protect her. Couldn’t save her from the consequences of this world, our choices.

Now Isabella will wear the same ring, face the same dangers. Different circumstances, same curse.

“I’ll do better this time,” I whisper into the growing darkness. The words could be meant for Gio, for Sophia, for Isabella herself. Or maybe they’re just another lie I tell myself, like pretending this marriage is purely about protection. Like pretending I don’t feel anything when Isabella looks at me with those artist’s eyes that see too much.

The rain finally breaks, lashing against the windows like accusations. Three days. Three days until I make Isabella mine in every way that matters. Three days until I bind her to my darkness forever, all in the name of keeping her safe.

God help us both.

I tuck the ring box into my suit pocket, its weight a constant reminder of what’s at stake. Out there, the storm rages, and somewhere in my city, my enemies are moving pieces into place.

But let them come. Let them test my resolve, my protection, my claim.

I’ve already lost one wife to their games. They’ll have to kill me before they take another.

My phone buzzes—another message about the funeral arrangements, the wedding preparations, the thousand details that go into binding one life to another. I ignore it, watching lightning split the sky. In the brief illumination, my reflection stares back at me from the window—a man balancing on the knife’s edge between duty and desire, protection and possession.

The monster Isabella fears, and the man who would burn the world to keep her safe.