Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal): Chapter 7

The bedroom—our bedroom, I guess—is larger than my entire apartment. The late afternoon light filters through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the illuminated gardens, casting long shadows across the herringbone hardwood floors. A massive four-poster bed dominates the space, its dark mahogany frame holding what looks like a small fortune in Italian linens. The sheets alone probably cost more than a semester’s worth of art supplies.

Everything speaks of old money and masculine taste—from the leather chaise by the fireplace to the abstract paintings that I suspect are original Rothkos. The air itself feels expensive, carrying notes of sandalwood and leather from the candles burning on marble side tables. This is Matteo’s domain, his sanctuary, and soon it will be mine too.

The thought makes my stomach flip.

I stand in the center of it all, wrapped in nothing but a towel after my shower, staring at the meager belongings Matteo’s men managed to salvage from my vandalized apartment. My throat tightens at the sight. My paintings, my art supplies, most of my clothes—all ruined with red paint. They didn’t just destroy my things; they violated my art. Used my own bloodred acrylics to write their message across my canvases: Welcome to the family.

The memory of seeing the photos of my studio like that makes bile rise in my throat. Each ruined canvas represented hours of work, pieces of my soul poured onto the surface. My upcoming thesis exhibition pieces, the cityscapes I’d been developing for months, the portrait of my father I’d been working on in secret—all destroyed.

They didn’t just take my possessions; they took my voice.

My hands shake as I open the garment bag containing my funeral dress. Black Valentino, the fabric so fine it feels like water between my fingers. The design is elegantly simple—knee-length with long sleeves and a high neck, perfectly appropriate for a Mafia princess burying her father. My mother’s choice, of course. Cher had shown up an hour ago with an entire team of stylists and her usual acid tongue.

“Really, darling,” she’d said, eyeing me with disdain. “This artistic phase has served its purpose, but it’s time to be who you were born to be. The DeLuca name comes with certain expectations.”

I’d bit back a retort about what exactly I was born to be. A pawn? A replacement? A pretty puppet in designer clothes?

A knock at the bedroom door makes me jump. “Miss Bella?” It’s Maria, the housekeeper. “Mr. DeLuca asked me to bring you these.”

The older woman enters, her silver hair neatly coiled at her nape, warm brown eyes crinkling with kindness. She’s exactly what a grandmother should look like, from her sensible shoes to her pressed uniform, and something about her gentle presence eases the tension in my shoulders.

She carries a stack of shopping bags—Neiman Marcus, Bergdorf Goodman, La Perla. The signature colors and logos mock me with their luxury. “He said you might need … everything.”

Everything. Because the Calabrese family had destroyed everything I owned. My throat tightens as I think of my ruined supplies—the specialized brushes I’d collected over years, the imported paints I’d saved up for, the sketchbooks filled with ideas and dreams. All gone, replaced with designer labels and price tags that probably equal my yearly tuition.

“Thank you, Maria.”

“Do you need help⁠—”

“No,” I say quickly, needing to be alone with my grief, my anger, my confusion. “No, I can manage.”

Once Maria leaves, I dump the bags onto the massive bed. The contents spill out like a fashion magazine exploded—cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, tailored pants, all in a muted palette of blacks and grays and creams. Everything in exactly my size, because of course Matteo would know my measurements. The thought makes heat rise to my cheeks.

Then I find the La Perla bag.

My breath catches as I pull out piece after piece of barely-there lingerie. Emerald silk and black lace, delicate straps and strategic cutouts. A negligee that would fall like water to my thighs. A bra set that costs more than my monthly rent. Things designed to entice, to seduce, to submit.

The message is clear: I’m to look the part of a Mafia don’s wife. Every inch of me, even the parts only he will see, must be perfectly curated.

The bedroom door opens again, this time without a knock. Matteo strides in, and my heart stutters to a stop.

He stops short at the sight of me in just a towel, and the air in the room suddenly feels electric. Even after hours of meetings, he looks devastating in his tailored suit—all controlled power and lethal grace. His jacket stretches across broad shoulders that make me feel delicate in comparison. His hair, usually perfectly styled, is slightly mussed as if he’s been running his fingers through it. The silver at his temples catches the lamplight, and something low in my belly tightens at the sight.

“I—I thought you were still in your meeting,” I stammer, clutching the towel tighter. That’s what I had been told—that Matteo would be busy until late. Water drips from my hair down my back, and I’m acutely aware of how little I’m wearing. The towel suddenly feels too short, too thin. Every drop of water sliding down my skin feels like a caress, and from the way his eyes darken, he’s tracking their path.

“It ended early.” His voice is rough, deeper than usual. The sound sends shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with being cold. “The Calabrese family sent another message.”

Fear slices through my embarrassment, dousing it like cold water. “What kind of message?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” The dismissive tone should infuriate me—and it does—but it’s hard to focus on anger when he’s looking at me like that. He loosens his tie with one hand, a gesture that shouldn’t be erotic but somehow is. The suit jacket comes off next, revealing a crisp white shirt that does nothing to hide the power in his frame.

“The funeral.” My knees suddenly feel weak as reality crashes back. I sink onto the edge of the bed, among all the shopping bags. “I don’t know if I can …”

Matteo crosses to me in two long strides, kneeling before me. This close, I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, smell the lingering traces of his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine. His eyes hold mine—steel blue with hints of gray, like a storm over water—and my breath catches in my throat.

“You can,” he says softly, and the gentleness in his voice undoes me more than any show of force could. “You’re stronger than you know, Isabella.”

“Bella,” I correct automatically, then want to laugh at myself for caring about names when he’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. A drop of water falls from my hair onto his hand where it rests near my knee, and I watch his fingers twitch.

His lips quirk slightly. “Bella,” he concedes, reaching up to brush a wet strand of hair from my cheek. The gesture is surprisingly gentle for hands I know have killed. His callused fingers graze my skin, and my entire body comes alive at the touch.

I should pull away. Should grab my new clothes and retreat to the bathroom. Should maintain some distance between us. But I find myself leaning into his touch instead, my body betraying me as it has since that first moment in his office. He smells like scotch and danger and something uniquely male that makes my head spin.

“Tell me about him?” I whisper, desperate to break this tension before I do something stupid like trace that stubble with my fingers. “My father. Not … not the Mafia don everyone feared. Tell me about my father, your friend.”

Something soft crosses Matteo’s face, transforming his features from dangerous to devastating. He rises from his crouch to sit beside me on the bed, close enough that his thigh brushes mine through the towel. The contact sends electricity skittering across my skin.

“He was the best man I knew,” Matteo says, his voice warm with memory. “And the worst poker player.” His chuckle resonates through me, making my stomach flip. “He’d tell the same terrible jokes at every family dinner, and your mother would pretend to be embarrassed, but she’d laugh every time.”

“I remember those dinners.” I pull my knees to my chest, careful of the towel even as I’m aware of Matteo’s gaze sliding over my bare legs. Water droplets trail down my calves, and I swear I hear his breath catch. “Before … before everything got complicated.”

“You were always covered in paint, even then.” His finger traces an old paint stain on my arm, and my skin erupts in goosebumps. The touch is innocent enough, but it feels intimate in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly. “Gio said you got that from his mother—she was an artist too.”

“I never knew that.” The revelation surprises me, momentarily distracting me from the fire his touch ignites on my skin. My grandmother died before I was born, and my father rarely spoke of her.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about your family. About this world.” His hand stills on my arm, but I can feel each individual finger like brands against my skin. “Things I’ll have to teach you.”

The words send heat rushing through me. It’s the way he says it—dark and promising—that makes my imagination run wild. What else could those hands teach me? What would his stubble feel like against my neck, my breasts, my⁠—

No. Reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. Tomorrow I’ll bury my father. The next day I’ll marry this man—this dangerous, captivating man who fills every space he occupies with raw power and barely contained violence.

“I should get dressed,” I say abruptly, standing. But my foot catches on an errant shopping bag, and I stumble.

Matteo catches me before I can fall, one hand splaying across my bare back where the towel has slipped. His palm is hot against my damp skin, and I have to bite back a gasp. We’re too close again, my nearly naked body pressed against him. His cologne surrounds me, spice and sandalwood and danger, making my head spin. I can feel every hard plane of his chest under my palms where I’ve braced myself against him.

“Careful, piccola,” he murmurs, and the Italian endearment in that rough voice sends shivers down my spine. His thumb strokes small circles on my back, each movement making it harder to breathe.

“I’m not little,” I protest weakly, but I can’t seem to make myself pull away. My body is a traitor, wanting to arch into his touch like a cat.

“No,” he agrees, his voice low and rough, his other hand coming up to cup my cheek. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I swear I can feel my pulse there. “You’re not.”

For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Part of me—a reckless, hungry part—wants him to. I want to know if his mouth is as dangerous as the rest of him, if he kisses with that same controlled violence that radiates from his every movement. Would he be gentle, treating me like something precious? Or would he devour me, marking me as his in every way?

My lips part involuntarily, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. His eyes darken to midnight, and his hand on my back presses me closer. Just a few inches and I could find out exactly how his mouth tastes, how that stubble would feel against my skin …

Instead, he steps back, putting a safe distance between us. The loss of his touch leaves me cold, but my skin still burns where his hands were. I watch him struggle to regain control, fascinated by the muscle jumping in his jaw, the way his hands clench at his sides.

“Get dressed,” he says, his voice controlled again but rougher than usual. “We have an early morning tomorrow.” He turns toward the en suite bathroom, already removing his tie. The simple movement shouldn’t be so goddamn erotic, but something about the casual display of masculinity makes heat pool low in my belly.

“And Bella?” He glances back, and the look in his eyes nearly stops my heart. Hunger and possession war with something softer, more dangerous. “The emerald nightgown. Wear that one.”

He disappears into the bathroom before I can respond, leaving me trembling in the middle of our bedroom. The shower turns on, and unbidden images flood my mind—water running down his muscled back, those powerful hands sliding over wet skin …

With shaking fingers, I dig through the La Perla bag until I find it—an emerald silk nightgown that would fall to mid-thigh. The material is impossibly fine, almost sheer, with delicate lace panels at the sides and a neckline that would plunge indecently low. It’s the kind of thing designed to seduce, to submit, to surrender.

The same color as the ring I saw him fidgeting with earlier. The ring that belonged to his dead wife.

I sink back onto the bed, surrounded by expensive clothes bought to replace everything I’ve lost. The sound of the shower seems to echo in my ears, along with the ghost of his touch on my skin. Tomorrow I’ll bury my father. The next day I’ll marry a man who makes me feel things I shouldn’t—desire and fear and a desperate kind of hunger I don’t want to examine too closely.

And tonight … tonight I have to decide if I’ll wear his dead wife’s color to bed. If I’ll play the role he’s casting me in—the replacement bride, the perfect donna, the submissive beauty meant to grace his arm and warm his bed.

Steam curls under the bathroom door, carrying his scent with it. I close my eyes, remembering the feel of his hands on my skin, the way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole. It would be so easy to give in, to let myself be consumed by him. To wear what he wants and become what he needs.

But that’s not who I am.

My fingers find the black silk nightgown instead. The material is just as fine, just as seductive, but it’s my choice. Not his. Not his dead wife’s. Mine.

I may have to marry Matteo DeLuca, may have to share his bed and his name, but I won’t be a replacement for his ghosts. I won’t let him reshape me into someone else’s shadow.

As I slip the black silk over my skin, I hear the shower turn off. My heart races, but I lift my chin defiantly. Let him see that I won’t be so easily controlled. Let him learn that while he might own my body after tomorrow, my will remains my own.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam, and I brace myself for his reaction. Whatever comes next, I’ll face it on my own terms. In my own colors. In my own skin.

I am not Sophia. I never will be. And it’s time Matteo DeLuca learned that.