Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 6

I watch Isabella take in my study with an artist’s eye, her gaze lingering on details most people miss. The late afternoon sun streaming through bulletproof windows catches the light in her hair, turning ordinary brown to burnished copper. She moves like a dream through my carefully curated space of dark walnut paneling and leather-bound books, touching nothing but seeing everything.

When she stops before the Rembrandt above the fireplace, something in my chest tightens. I acquired “The Storm on the Sea of Galilee” through less than legal means, though its official provenance is impeccable. The painting was stolen from the Gardner Museum decades ago, and it took considerable resources to track it down.

Worth every penny to see the way her eyes light up now, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to touch the canvas.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, and for a moment I forget she’s Giovanni’s daughter, forget she’s barely twenty-two, forget everything except how the sunlight loves her face. “The way he captured the light breaking through the storm clouds …”

I make a mental note to have Antonio research her favorite artists. I’ll fill this house with masterpieces if it helps ease her transition, helps make this cage feel more like home.

She’s still wearing paint-stained jeans and a loose sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, revealing a small tattoo I hadn’t known existed before the other day. It’s a delicate thing—what appears to be a compass rose with an artist’s paintbrush as the needle. The urge to trace it with my tongue is so strong I have to clench my fists. She looks entirely out of place among the old-world luxury, yet somehow she belongs here more than any of the polished society women who’ve tried to claim this space.

God knows they’ve tried. After Sophia, it seemed every family with an eligible daughter suddenly needed my “counsel.” They’d arrive in designer dresses and expensive perfume, these carefully crafted dolls with their practiced smiles and calculated moves. Some were subtle, some were obvious, all were ambitious. I sent them away with varying degrees of politeness, depending on how persistent they proved.

But Isabella … she’s different. Real in a way they never were, with paint under her nails and creativity burning in her eyes. She’s not trying to be anything except what she is, and that makes her more dangerous than all the society climbers combined.

“Drink?” I offer, moving to the bar cart before I do something stupid like kiss that tattoo.

“I don’t—” She stops herself, squaring those delicate shoulders. “Actually, yes. Make it strong.”

I pour two fingers of scotch for each of us, noting how her hands shake slightly as she takes the crystal tumbler. She chooses the leather armchair farthest from my desk, curling into it like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Paint smudges her cheekbone—green this time—and my fingers itch to wipe it away.

Control. I need to maintain control. But she makes it nearly impossible, perched in my chair like some wild creature accidentally brought indoors. Everything about her calls to something primitive in me—something that wants to claim, to possess, to mark. The same something I’ve been fighting since she turned eighteen and stopped being Gio’s little girl in my mind.

“Your daughter hates me,” she says finally, staring into her drink. The crystal catches the light, throwing amber shadows across her throat. I force my eyes away.

“Bianca hates everyone.” I settle behind my desk, needing the barrier between us. The mahogany expanse feels like my last line of defense against the urge to touch her. “She’s been … difficult since her mother died.”

“Died?” Her eyes snap to mine, and Christ, those eyes could bring empires to their knees. Hazel with flecks of gold, artist’s eyes that see too much. “Or had an ‘unfortunate accident’?”

The bitterness in her voice cuts deep. My grip tightens on my glass as memories surface—memories I’ve spent a decade trying to bury. “Sophia was murdered,” I say flatly. “Ten years ago. The Calabrese family sent her back to me in pieces.”

A lie. But Isabella doesn’t need to know that.

The color drains from Isabella’s face. She’s always been pale, even with her olive undertones, but now she goes almost translucent, the green paint smudge on her cheek standing out like a bruise. She downs her scotch in one go, barely wincing at the burn. I’m impressed despite myself—society girls usually sip their drinks, trying to appear delicate. But Isabella drinks like someone who’s been to her share of college parties, someone who knows how to handle her liquor.

The thought of her at parties, of other men’s eyes on her, makes something dark curl in my gut.

“Why?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Because I wouldn’t sell them territory in Brooklyn.” My knuckles whiten around my glass as the memories flood back. “Because they wanted to prove they could take what was mine. Because they’re sadistic bastards who—” I cut myself off, reining in the rage that still burns hot after a decade.

“And now they want me.” It’s not a question.

“They want to destroy me,” I correct, watching her process this. “You’re just their chosen method this time.”

Isabella stands abruptly, pacing to the window. The sun catches her hair, turning the dark strands to fire. She’s beautiful—all wild grace and unconscious sensuality. The paint-stained jeans hug curves that her baggy sweater tries to hide, and that damn tattoo keeps peeking out, taunting me.

“My father knew about Sophia?” The question draws my attention back to her face. In the weak light, shadows play across her features, highlighting the delicate architecture of her cheekbones, the vulnerable line of her throat.

“He helped me hunt down the men responsible.” I stand, unable to remain seated with her looking like that—like some tragic heroine in an oil painting, all beauty and sorrow backlit by the sun.

“Did you kill them?”

“Yes.” No point lying to her now. She’ll need to understand what our world is really like. What I’m really like. “Your father helped me track them. Each one died slower than the last.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, watching the gardens below where security teams patrol the perimeter. Her fingers trace patterns on the glass—artist’s fingers, long and elegant, stained with various colors. I imagine those fingers on my skin and have to turn away, pouring myself another drink.

“Will you tell me what really happened to my father?”

I sit, setting down my glass, studying her rigid posture. The sweater has slipped again, revealing the curve of her shoulder, the edge of that damned tattoo. Control.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“No.” She turns to face me, and there are tears in her eyes even as she lifts her chin defiantly. The combination of vulnerability and strength hits me like a physical blow. “But I need to.”

I gesture to the chair closer to my desk. When she sits, I catch a hint of her scent—jasmine mixed with paint thinner and something uniquely her. It makes my mouth water. Forces me to grip the arms of my chair to stay seated.

“The Calabrese family wanted to expand into your father’s territory in Queens. He refused. They made threats.” My jaw clenches at the memory. “He thought he could handle it alone. Didn’t want to involve me because he knew what they’d done to Sophia. Two days before he died, he came to me, said he needed help. But it was too late. They’d already infiltrated his security detail.”

“The shooting wasn’t random,” she whispers. Her face goes chalk white, fingers clutching the chair arms so hard I expect to hear the leather crack. A tear slips down her cheek, catching the last ray of sunlight like a diamond.

“No. His own driver betrayed him.” I lean forward, holding her gaze. Fighting the urge to wipe away that tear. “I found out too late. By the time I got to the scene …”

“Stop.” She wraps her arms around herself, and the protective gesture makes me want to kill someone. Preferably Johnny Calabrese. “Just … stop.”

Silence falls between us, heavy with unspoken grief. Outside, darkness from an impending storm creeps across the grounds like spilled ink. Soon the compound’s exterior lights will click on, turning the gardens into a floodlit security zone. But for now, we sit in the growing shadows, and I watch her try to rebuild her composure.

“The funeral is tomorrow,” I say finally, hating how inadequate the words feel.

“And our wedding the day after.” Her laugh holds no humor, the sound like broken glass. “My professors won’t believe my excuse for missing critique week.”

“You can continue your studies,” I remind her, though the thought of her leaving the compound’s protection makes my blood run cold. “That was part of our deal.”

“Our deal.” She stands again, this time moving to examine the Rembrandt more closely. The last light catches her profile, and for a moment, she could be one of Vermeer’s subjects—all quiet grace and contained passion. “Tell me, does this deal include the truth about everything? Or will I have to wait for the next attempt on my life to learn all your secrets?”

The question hangs between us like smoke. I rise, drawn to her like a moth to flame. My feet carry me across the room until I’m standing behind her, close enough to feel her body heat, to breathe in that intoxicating mix of jasmine and paint and woman. She tenses but doesn’t step away.

“There are things you don’t want to know, Isabella.”

“Bella,” she corrects automatically, still staring at the painting. Her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. “Everyone calls me Bella except you.”

“Bella,” I test the name, letting it roll off my tongue like honey. Watching goosebumps rise on her exposed shoulder, I fight the urge to trace them with my fingers, my mouth. She shivers slightly, and the movement draws my attention to the curve of her waist, the slight sway as she shifts her weight.

“Some secrets are better left buried.”

She turns suddenly, and we’re too close. Much too close. I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, count each dark eyelash, note how her pupils dilate as she looks up at me. Her lips part slightly, and I swear I can feel her breath on my skin.

“Those secrets got my father killed.”

“Those secrets keep you alive.” My voice roughens without my permission. Everything about her strips away my control—her scent, her proximity, the way she looks at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “Trust that what I do, I do to protect you.”

“Like marrying me?” There’s a challenge in her tone that makes heat pool in my gut.

“Yes.”

“And sharing your bed?” The words come out barely above a whisper, but they hit me like a physical blow.

My control snaps. I catch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up. Her skin is silk under my callused fingers, and I can feel her pulse racing. “That’s not about protection,” I growl, watching her eyes darken. “That’s about making sure every man in New York knows you’re mine.”

Her breath catches, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of hazel remains. For a moment, the air between us crackles with possibility. I could close this distance, taste those parted lips, finally discover if she’s as soft as she looks. My free hand moves to her hip of its own accord, and I feel her tremble.

But then she steps back, putting a safe distance between us. The loss of her warmth is like a physical ache.

“I’m not yours,” she says quietly, though her voice shakes. “And I’m not your dead wife. I won’t be a replacement for Sophia, or a pawn in your war with the Calabrese family.”

“No,” I agree, letting my hand fall. The ghost of her skin lingers on my fingers. “You’re something far more dangerous.”

Before she can ask what I mean—before I can do something unforgivable like pull her back against me—a knock interrupts us. Antonio enters, his expression grim enough to instantly set me on edge.

“Boss, we have a situation. Johnny Calabrese left a message … at Miss Russo’s apartment.”

My blood runs cold, desire instantly replaced by rage. “What kind of message?”

“The walls … they painted them red.” Antonio’s voice is careful, measured. He glances at Bella, then back to me. “And they left this.”

He holds out an envelope. I snatch it, already knowing I’m going to hate whatever’s inside. The paper tears under my fingers, and suddenly I’m staring at my past—at everything I’ve tried to forget, everything I’ve tried to protect Bella from.

Sophia on our wedding day, radiant in ivory lace and DeLuca emeralds. Her dark hair swept up, blue eyes bright with love and hope. She was beautiful, delicate as a butterfly in my world of violence. That’s why they chose her, why they broke her. Because they knew it would break me too.

Written in red across the image: History repeats.

The photograph crumples in my grip. I’m vaguely aware of Bella moving closer, of her sharp intake of breath as she sees the image. But all I can focus on is the rage building in my chest, the need to hurt someone—preferably Johnny Calabrese.

“That’s her?” Bella’s voice is soft. “Sophia?”

I force my fingers to relax, smoothing the photograph. “Yes. Our wedding day. She wore my grandmother’s emeralds.” The same emeralds sitting in my safe, waiting for another bride. Another potential victim.

“She was beautiful.” There’s something in Bella’s tone I can’t quite read. When I look at her, she’s staring at the photograph, cataloging details. “She looks … happy.”

“She was. For a while.” Until my world destroyed her. Like it might destroy the woman standing before me now, paint-stained and fierce and so goddamn young.

“Boss,” Antonio interrupts gently. “There’s more. The paint they used on the walls … it matches Miss Russo’s style. They’ve been watching her studio, studying her work.”

Bella makes a small sound, like someone punched her in the gut. Without thinking, I reach for her, but she steps back. Her eyes are huge in her pale face, that damned sweater slipping off her shoulder again like an invitation I can’t accept.

“I need to make some calls,” I say roughly, turning away before I do something stupid like pull her into my arms. “Antonio, take Miss Russo to Maria. She’ll help her get settled.”

“Matteo.” Her voice stops me halfway to my desk. It’s the first time she’s used my first name, and it sounds like sin on her lips. “What aren’t you telling me? About Sophia, about what they really want?”

I look back at her, this woman who makes me feel things I have no right to feel. Who stands in my study with paint in her hair and defiance in her eyes, demanding truths I can’t give her.

“Get some rest, Bella. Tomorrow we bury your father. The day after, you become my wife.” I let my voice soften slightly. “Some ghosts are better left undisturbed.”

She leaves with Antonio, but her scent lingers—jasmine and turpentine and something uniquely her. I throw back another scotch, staring at the photograph still crimped from my grip. Sophia smiles up at me, forever frozen in that moment of joy before everything went to hell.

“I’ll do better this time,” I promise her ghost, though we both know it’s a lie. Because Bella isn’t Sophia—she’s stronger, fiercer, more alive. And that makes her infinitely more dangerous.

To the Calabrese family. To my control. To my heart.

The storm that’s been threatening all morning finally breaks, rain lashing against the bulletproof glass. Somewhere in my city, Johnny Calabrese is plotting his next move. Somewhere in my house, Bella is probably planning her escape. And here I stand, caught between duty and desire, protection and possession, the ghost of my past and the woman who threatens to become my future.

God help us all.