Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 5

The canvas before me bleeds red and black, my brush strokes becoming more violent with each passing minute. Paint spatters across my oldest jeans and favorite oversized sweater, but I don’t care. I’ve been in my studio since dawn, trying to lose myself in my art, but even here—in my sanctuary of turpentine smells and natural light—I can’t escape reality.

My father’s funeral is tomorrow. My wedding—God, my wedding—is the day after that.

A wedding. The word makes my hand shake, sending a streak of crimson across the canvas like a wound. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. In my dreams, my father would walk me down the aisle of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, beaming with pride in his best suit. The pews would overflow with family and friends, sunlight streaming through stained glass to paint the marble floors in rainbow hues. My faceless groom would wait at the altar, love shining in his eyes as I approached in my perfect white dress.

Instead, I’ll walk alone. My father lies cold in his casket, and my groom … my groom will be Matteo DeLuca. The thought makes my stomach turn. He’ll stand there in one of his perfectly tailored black suits, those steel-blue eyes watching me with that mixture of guilt and possession that makes my skin prickle. There will be no love, no joy—just power and politics and protection I never asked for.

Tears blur my vision as memories of my father flood back. His proud smile when I got accepted to Columbia’s art program. The way he’d sit in my studio for hours, watching me paint, never once suggesting I should follow in his footsteps instead. “You’re an artist, bella mia,” he’d say, his voice warm with pride. “You create beauty in a world that desperately needs it.”

God, I loved him. Worshipped him, really. Even knowing what he was—what he did—I never stopped seeing him as my hero. He tried so hard to keep me away from his world, to give me the normal life he never had.

And now here I am, being dragged right into the heart of everything he tried to protect me from.

My phone chimes for the hundredth time. Elena, my best friend, has been texting nonstop since I told her about the arrangement. Just thinking about that conversation makes my chest tight. The shock on her face when I finally admitted what happened to my father … She’d gone pale but hadn’t run away. Instead, she grabbed my hands and started planning our escape.

You can’t marry him! her latest text reads. We can run. I have contacts, we can disappear.

My hand trembles as I respond. They’d find us. They always do.

Elena’s been my touchstone of normalcy since freshman year. The one person who just saw me as Bella, the art student who always had paint under her nails, not Isabella Russo, daughter of one of New York’s most powerful men. I tried so hard to keep my two worlds separate, to be just another college student. Now those worlds are colliding in the most violent way possible, and I’m terrified Elena will get caught in the crossfire.

I turn back to my painting, studying the dark twisted thing emerging on the canvas. Professor Martinez would be shocked. Gone are my usual cityscapes and subtle shadows, the careful studies of light and form. This piece screams of cage bars and broken wings, of deals made in blood, and promises that feel like chains. Maybe I’ll submit it for my thesis—Arranged Marriage in Oils. The thought brings a bitter laugh to my lips.

A knock at my studio door makes me jump, paintbrush clattering to the floor. “We’re closed,” I call out, even though the gallery hasn’t been open since my father’s death. The brief moment of dark humor evaporates, replaced by immediate tension.

“Miss Russo.” The voice belongs to one of Matteo’s men—I recognize him from the hospital. “Mr. DeLuca sent a car. You need to come with me now.”

“I’m working,” I say firmly, though my heart races. Who does Matteo think he is, sending his men to collect me like I’m some package to be delivered? Just because I agreed to this marriage doesn’t mean I’m his possession. Not yet, anyway. I bend down to pick up my paintbrush. “Tell Mr. DeLuca⁠—”

“Johnny Calabrese was spotted in the area.” The man’s voice drops. “Please, Miss. Don’t make this difficult.”

My blood runs cold at the name. The paintbrush I’d just retrieved slips from my suddenly numb fingers. Through the studio windows, I catch glimpses of black SUVs lining the street.

Matteo’s not taking chances with his investment.

“Let me pack my supplies,” I manage, proud that my voice remains steady as I quickly text Elena what’s happening. My hands shake as I gather my brushes, trying to focus on the familiar motions instead of the panic clawing at my chest.

My phone buzzes again—Elena.

Bella, no! Don’t go with them. I’m five minutes away.

My fingers hover over the keys. Sweet, fierce Elena, always ready to fight my battles. But there’s nothing normal about this situation, and I won’t drag her into danger. Not when I’ve seen the casual violence my father’s world is capable of.

Not when I know what men like Johnny Calabrese do to people who get in their way.

Stay away, I type back, hoping she’ll listen. It’s too dangerous, E. I’ll explain later. Just trust me.

I’m shoving brushes into my bag when movement outside catches my eye. A man stands across the street, watching my studio with predatory intent. He’s handsome in a cruel way—expensive suit, perfectly styled dark hair, the kind of face that belongs in boardrooms and charity galas. But his dark eyes … his eyes remind me of a documentary I once saw about great white sharks. Dead. Soulless. Hungry.

Even without ever having met him, I know it’s Johnny Calabrese. Our eyes meet through the window, and his smile makes my skin crawl. It’s the smile of a man who enjoys breaking beautiful things.

“Miss Russo.” Matteo’s man sounds urgent now. “We need to go.”

I grab my bag, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop it. The guard—a mountain of a man with close-cropped gray hair and scars on his knuckles—leads me through the back exit. More men in black suits materialize, surrounding me like a moving wall. The autumn air hits my face, carrying the scent of exhaust and rain and fear. Every car horn makes me flinch. Every shadow seems to hide a threat.

They hustle me into a waiting SUV, the leather seats cool against my paint-stained jeans. The interior smells new and expensive—leather and that distinct new car smell mixed with subtle hints of gunmetal that make my stomach turn. Just as the door closes, I hear shouting from the street.

“Drive,” the guard orders, and the car peels away from the curb.

Through the tinted windows, I see Johnny Calabrese watching our departure, phone pressed to his ear. The casual menace in his stance, the way he tracks our movement … bile rises in my throat. This is what I would have been condemned to if I hadn’t agreed to marry Matteo. This is what my father died trying to protect me from.

“Where are we going?” I ask, though I already know.

“The compound,” the guard answers. “Mr. DeLuca’s orders.”

Of course. The DeLuca compound—my gilded prison for the foreseeable future. I close my eyes, memories washing over me. I haven’t been there since I was twelve, back when I still thought my father’s world was normal. The sprawling estate had seemed magical then, with its manicured gardens and marble fountains. I’d spend hours sketching the classical statuary, fascinated by the way the Italian gardens created perfect lines of sight.

Now I wonder how many of those sight lines were designed for security rather than beauty.

The car winds through Manhattan traffic, taking a circuitous route that I recognize as a security measure. Past Madison Avenue’s gleaming storefronts, through the Upper East Side where old money hides behind historic facades, across the bridge where the city gives way to old estates and older money. Each mile takes me further from my life, from my dreams, from everything I’ve worked so hard to build.

My phone buzzes one final time before we leave the city proper. It’s my mother.

Really, darling? Matteo DeLuca? Well, I suppose you could do worse. At least he’s wealthy. We’ll need to get you properly dressed—that paint-splattered look won’t do for a donna.

Tears sting my eyes and I refuse to answer. My father’s not even buried, and she’s already planning my society debut as Matteo’s wife. But that’s Cher Russo for you—always focusing on appearances, on status, on how to climb higher in our world’s twisted social hierarchy.

She never understood why I preferred paint-stained jeans to designer dresses, why I chose art studios over charity committees. “You could be so beautiful,” she’d sigh, eyeing my messy hair and practical clothes with disappointment. “If you’d just try.”

As if beauty was the only currency that mattered. As if I could paint with perfectly manicured nails or create while constrained in Chanel.

I turn off my phone, watching the city fade away through the window. The skyline retreats behind us—my beloved New York with its endless inspiration, its constant pulse of life and creativity, its promise of freedom. In its place, the old money suburbs rise with their stone walls and security gates. Each property we pass is its own fortress, each mansion its own carefully guarded kingdom.

An hour later, the SUV pulls through imposing iron gates marked with the DeLuca family crest. The compound rises before us, and my breath catches despite myself. It’s even more impressive than I remembered—a sprawling Italian villa in pale stone, three stories of old-world elegance backed by thoroughly modern security. Roses climb the walls, their last autumn blooms adding splashes of bloodred to the cream-colored stone. Fountains dance in the circular drive, the water catching late afternoon light like scattered diamonds.

It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s my prison.

As we pull up to the front steps, I see Matteo waiting, his broad shoulders tense under his suit jacket. The sight of him makes my pulse jump traitorously. Even I can’t deny his presence—the way he commands attention simply by existing, the dangerous grace in his movements, the intensity in his steel-blue eyes that makes my skin feel too tight.

Behind him stands a girl who can only be his daughter. Bianca DeLuca is stunning in that particular way that comes from both genetics and expensive maintenance—all glossy dark hair, perfect makeup, and designer clothes that probably cost more than the average New Yorker’s annual salary. She has Matteo’s eyes, and right now they’re filled with pure hatred.

“Welcome home,” Matteo says as he opens my car door, offering his hand.

I ignore it, stepping out on my own. “This isn’t my home.”

“It is now.” His voice softens slightly, and something in his tone makes heat curl in my stomach. I hate my body’s reaction to him, hate that even now, even knowing what’s happening, I can’t help but respond to his presence. “Johnny made contact?”

“He was watching my studio.”

Something dangerous flashes in Matteo’s eyes. He turns to one of his men, giving rapid orders in Italian. The language rolls off his tongue like silk over steel, and I force myself to look away, to not notice how his jaw clenches with controlled rage.

When he looks back at me, his expression is unreadable. “We’ll get your things from your apartment tomorrow. For now, Maria will show you to your room.” He pauses, and my heart stumbles. “Our room.”

“I’d rather stay in a guest room,” I say quickly, heat flooding my cheeks.

“Not possible.” His tone brooks no argument. “Appearances matter, especially now. The other families will be watching for any sign of weakness.”

“Heaven forbid you appear weak,” Bianca cuts in, her voice dripping with disdain. “I’m sure Bella understands all about appearances. Don’t you, future stepmother?”

“Bianca.” Matteo’s warning is clear.

“What? I’m just welcoming my new mom. Should I call you Mama Bella?” Bianca’s smile is razor-sharp, cutting me to the bone. She’s everything I’m not—polished, perfect, bred for this world of power and violence. My mother will adore her. “Though you might not want to get too comfortable. Dad’s wives tend to have … unfortunate accidents.”

Wait, what? What is that supposed to mean?

“Enough!” Matteo’s roar echoes off the marble steps. “Bianca, go to your room. Now.”

The girl tosses her dark hair and stalks inside, leaving me with more questions than answers. Wives? Accidents?

What exactly had Matteo DeLuca done to earn his daughter’s hatred?

“Isabella.” Matteo’s voice draws my attention back. “We need to talk.”

Looking up at him—this man who will be my husband in less than forty-eight hours—I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the autumn air. His eyes hold secrets darker than anything I’ve painted, promises I’m not sure I want to understand.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I believe we do.”

A wind stirs the roses, sending their sweet scent mixing with Matteo’s cologne. Behind us, the iron gates close with a sound of finality. There’s no going back now. My old life, like my father, is dead. All that remains is to discover what kind of woman I’ll become in this new one—and whether I’ll survive the transformation.