Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal #1)

10. Matteo

10

MATTEO

T he cathedral falls silent as the doors open. St. Patrick’s soars above us, all Gothic arches and stained glass, the same space where we said goodbye to Giovanni just yesterday. The scent of funeral lilies still lingers beneath today’s roses, a reminder that’s almost too pointed to bear. My best friend should be here, standing beside me as I marry his daughter. Instead, his ghost haunts every shadow, every whispered prayer.

Yesterday, this church held his casket. Today, it will witness his daughter becoming my wife. The irony isn’t lost on me, nor on the hundreds of calculating eyes watching from the pews.

Every major family in New York fills the ancient wooden seats, the women dripping in jewels, the men in custom suits that barely conceal their weapons. The Russo family takes up the first three rows on the bride’s side, their red roses marking their territory. The Calabreses sit opposite, white lilies their signature. Behind them, the Marconis with their yellow orchids, the Vitellis with white gardenias. A garden of allegiances and threats, all perfectly arranged.

I catch Johnny Calabrese’s smirk from the third row, and it takes everything in me not to order his death right here in God’s house. He looks exactly as he did last night, when he showed up at my gates with his threats thinly veiled as congratulations.

“I just wanted to offer my best wishes,” he’d said, that snake’s smile in place. “After all, we both know how…fragile brides can be in our world.”

My response had been equally coded. “Touch her and I’ll send you back to your father in pieces.”

Now he sits in my cathedral, wearing that same Brioni suit like armor, his presence a deliberate provocation. But before I can dwell on it, the first notes of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” fill the space, and everything else fades away.

Bella appears in the doorway, and my heart actually stops. She’s a vision in white Vera Wang lace, the dress somehow both elegant and ethereal. The bodice hugs her curves before flowing into a skirt that seems to float with each step. But it’s her hair that catches me—she took my suggestion, letting it fall in loose waves down her back, tiny diamonds scattered throughout like stars against dark silk. The style makes her look younger, more vulnerable, yet somehow more powerful too.

A murmur ripples through the crowd. I catch fragments of whispered appreciation, of calculated assessment. “Stunning.” “So young.” “The DeLuca bride.” She’s being weighed and measured by every eye in the cathedral, and she knows it.

My pendant rests at her throat instead of Sophia’s emeralds, and possessive satisfaction burns in my chest. I’d made the decision last night after seeing her painting—that swirl of midnight blue and crimson, shot through with gold. It spoke to something in me, that blend of darkness and light, danger and beauty. Just like her. I’d paid an obscene amount to have it replicated in precious metals and stones within hours, but seeing it grace her throat instead of Sophia’s cursed emeralds makes it worth every penny.

She walks alone, her chin lifted in quiet defiance. She’d refused Carmine’s offer to give her away, causing another wave of whispers to sweep through the church. I see Cher’s frozen society smile, the muscle working in Carmine’s jaw at the public slight. But Bella moves as though she doesn’t notice, each step precise and measured, her eyes locked on mine.

When our gazes meet, electricity shoots through me. There’s challenge in those hazel depths, but something else too—something that makes my blood heat as I remember her gasps in my study last night, the way she’d melted against me, the taste of her skin.

Soon she’ll be mine in every way, and the thought makes it hard to breathe.

My gaze shifts briefly to Bianca, standing stiffly in her deep blue bridesmaid’s dress. Her smile is brittle as glass, reminding me of our confrontation after I left Bella’s suite earlier.

“You’re making a mistake,” she’d hissed, catching me in the hallway. “She’s not ready for this world. She’s not?—”

“Enough.” I’d kept my voice low, conscious of the bustling preparations around us. “This isn’t about readiness. This is about survival.”

“Like it was with Mom?” Her eyes—so like mine—had filled with tears she refused to let fall. “How long before history repeats itself?”

Now she stands at the altar, every inch a DeLuca in her perfect posture and controlled expression, but I see the tremor in her hands as she clutches her bouquet. She’s so young, still carrying the wounds of her mother’s death, and here I am giving her a stepmother barely five years her senior.

But then Bella reaches the altar, close enough that I catch the scent of jasmine and something uniquely her. Her hands tremble slightly as she holds her bouquet of white roses, but her eyes meet mine steadily. Strong. Defiant. Alive in a way Sophia never was.

“Dearly beloved,” Father Romano begins, his youthful face solemn beneath his vestments. He’s been the family priest for years, and he plays his part well. Too well, perhaps.

I barely hear the words of the ceremony. I’m too focused on Bella’s profile, the elegant line of her throat where my pendant rests, the way she holds herself like a queen despite her obvious nervousness. She’ll make a magnificent donna , I think. If she survives what’s coming.

The thought of what’s coming sobers me. Somewhere in the cathedral, Johnny’s men wait for any sign of weakness. One wrong move, one hint that this marriage isn’t absolutely real, and Bella’s life is forfeit. My hands don’t shake as I take the massive diamond ring—not Sophia’s, never Sophia’s—and prepare to slide it onto her finger.

“I take you, Isabella Marie Russo, to be my wife,” I pronounce clearly, letting my voice carry to the back of the cathedral. Making sure every family, every potential threat, hears the possession in my tone. “To have and to hold, to protect and cherish, until death do us part.”

She starts slightly at my deviation from the traditional vows—the added “protect” a message to both her and our audience. A faint flush colors her cheeks, and something warm flickers in her eyes. Pride, maybe. Or understanding.

Her voice is steady as she repeats her own vows, though her pulse flutters visibly at her throat where my pendant rests. Each word is clear, deliberate, a performance for our audience but something more too. When she says “to be your wife,” her eyes meet mine with such intensity that heat pools in my gut.

“You may kiss the bride.”

I cup her face in my hands, gentler than I was last night but no less possessive. Her lips part slightly in surprise at my tenderness, and I take full advantage. The kiss is both a claim and a promise—deep enough to leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that this marriage is real, tender enough to make her melt against me despite herself. Her free hand clutches my lapel, and I feel her slight gasp against my mouth.

She tastes of mint and something sweeter, and the small sound she makes when I deepen the kiss nearly breaks my control. I want to devour her right here, show everyone exactly who she belongs to now. Instead, I force myself to end the kiss, though everything in me screams for more.

When we turn to face our guests, I keep my arm firmly around her waist, my hand splayed possessively against her side. The applause is thunderous, political alliances being sealed with each clap. My eyes find Johnny’s across the cathedral, and I let every ounce of warning show in my gaze: Mine. Protected. Touch her and die.

His smirk tells me this isn’t over.

The reception that follows is a masterclass in Mafia politics. The Plaza’s ballroom drips with elegant excess—crystal chandeliers throwing diamonds of light across white roses and silver centerpieces, champagne flowing from a fountain that probably costs more than most cars, an orchestra playing softly in the corner. It’s all Elena’s work, and she’s outdone herself. Every detail screams old money and power, exactly the message we need to send.

I guide Bella through the crowd, watching her handle each interaction with growing pride. She charms old Don Marconi with just the right mix of respect and grace, making the weathered bastard actually smile. When Donna Vitelli makes a thinly veiled comment about “young brides’ short lifespans,” Bella responds with such elegant brutality that I have to hide my grin in my champagne glass.

“You’re doing beautifully,” I murmur in her ear as we dance our first waltz. The silk of her dress whispers against my tuxedo, and her scent surrounds me, making it hard to focus on anything but how perfectly she fits in my arms.

“I’m doing what’s necessary,” she returns quietly, her smile perfectly maintained for our audience. One hand rests on my shoulder while the other is clasped in mine, her new ring catching the light. “But don’t think I’ve forgotten your promise. Tonight, I want the truth.”

My hand tightens on her waist, drawing her slightly closer than the waltz requires. “Be careful what you wish for, piccola .”

“I’m not afraid of the dark, Matteo.” Her eyes meet mine, challenging despite our intimate position. The gold flecks in her hazel irises seem to glow in the chandelier light. “I paint with it, remember?”

A new song begins, and Carmine appears at my elbow, wrapped in the scent of expensive cologne and ambition. “May I cut in?” His smile doesn’t reach his cold eyes as he holds his hand out to his niece.

Every instinct screams at me not to release her. But this is part of the dance—the political minuet we must perform. I surrender my bride with obvious reluctance, my eyes tracking them as Carmine leads her away. Her back is straight, her movements graceful, but I see the tension in her shoulders.

I make my way to the bar, needing scotch to maintain my composure. Watching another man’s hands on her, even her uncle’s, sets my teeth on edge. The possessiveness surprises me with its intensity—I’ve never been a jealous man, but something about Bella brings out the primitive in me.

“Beautiful ceremony,” Johnny Calabrese’s voice comes from behind me, dripping with false sincerity. “She looks so much like Sophia did on our wedding day. Oh wait…” He smirks. “That was your wedding day.”

I turn slowly, letting him see exactly how close to death he’s dancing. “Careful, Johnny.”

“Tell me, does she know?” His voice drops to a whisper, though his dark, soulless eyes glitter with malice. “About how Sophia came to me first? About how you?—”

“Mr. DeLuca?” Antonio appears at my elbow, a guardian angel in a Zegna suit. “Your wife is asking for you.”

The word “wife” pulls at something in my chest. I force myself to walk away from Johnny, though every fiber of my being wants to end him right here, splatter his blood across the elegant parquet floor.

I find Bella surrounded by chattering society wives, their designer dresses and surgical enhancements a sharp contrast to her natural beauty. Her throat works as she swallows repeatedly—a tell I’m learning means she’s suppressing anger. Her smile remains perfect, but her knuckles are white around her champagne flute.

“Dance with me,” I say, not caring that I’m interrupting their conversation. Relief flashes in her eyes as she takes my hand, letting me lead her back to the dance floor.

“Thank you,” she breathes, melting against me more naturally than she has all day. “If I had to hear one more story about their sons who would have been much more suitable…”

“You’re mine now,” I remind her, pulling her closer. The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me, but I can’t help it. Not with Johnny’s threats still ringing in my ears, not with the way she feels in my arms. “No one else’s opinion matters.”

She looks up at me through dark lashes, and the mix of defiance and desire in her eyes makes my blood heat. “Yours barely matters.”

I chuckle despite myself, sliding my hand lower on her back. “Still defiant, even as my wife?”

“ Especially as your wife.” But there’s heat in her voice that wasn’t there before, and when my fingers trace her spine through the lace of her dress, she shivers. The reaction shoots straight to my groin, making me want to forget this whole reception and take her somewhere private.

The moment shatters at the sound of breaking glass. We turn to see Bianca, face flushed from too much champagne, squaring off with Elena near the fountain. My daughter sways slightly in her bridesmaid dress, all teenage fury and inherited stubbornness. In the background, I see Johnny watching the interaction with interest.

“Tell them!” Bianca shouts, her voice carrying across the ballroom. Heads turn, conversations halt, and I feel Bella tense beside me. “Tell them what kind of man they’re celebrating! Tell them what he did to?—”

I’m there in an instant, my grip firm but controlled on my daughter’s arm. “Enough,” I growl, steering her toward the exit. Every eye in the ballroom watches us, and I can practically hear the whispers starting.

“Let me go!” She struggles against me, tears streaking her perfect makeup. “She deserves to know! Bella! Ask him about the video! Ask him what he?—”

Two of my security team materialize, escorting her swiftly and discreetly from the ballroom. But the damage is done. Whispers ripple through the crowd like wind through dry leaves. I catch fragments of speculation, see the calculating looks being exchanged.

When I return to Bella’s side, her society smile is firmly in place, but her eyes are arctic. “Video?” she asks under her breath as we pose for photographs. The camera flashes highlight the tension in her jaw. “What video, Matteo?”

“Not here,” I murmur, pressing my lips to her temple in what appears to be a loving gesture. The scent of jasmine fills my nose, making it hard to focus on anything but how badly I want her.

“Then when?” Her voice is steel wrapped in silk. “Because I’m starting to think tonight’s revelations will be more interesting than either of us anticipated.”

I turn her to face me, uncaring of the photographers or our watching guests. In this moment, I see everything I could lose—not just my new wife, but any chance of her ever trusting me. The secrets I’ve kept, the truths I’ve hidden…they could destroy whatever is building between us.

“Do you trust me, Bella?”

“No,” she answers honestly, and the bluntness of it surprises a laugh out of me. Her lips quirk slightly. “But I’m beginning to think I might want to.”

The admission hits me harder than her defiance ever could. Because I’m about to destroy any chance of that trust taking root. Unless…

“Change of plans,” I say suddenly, decisively. “We’re leaving now.”

“What? We can’t—the reception—” Her eyes widen as she sputters, looking more natural than she has all day.

“Antonio will make our excuses.” I’m already leading her toward the exit, my mind made up. The warmth of her hand in mine feels right, feels necessary. “If you want the truth, all of it, you’ll have it. But not here. Not with Johnny watching and waiting to use it against us.”

She allows me to guide her to the waiting Bentley, her wedding dress whispering against the leather seats. In the privacy of the car, I finally let myself really look at her—my bride, my salvation, possibly my destruction. The diamonds in her hair catch the streetlights as we pull away, making her look otherworldly.

“Where are we going?” she asks, and I hear the mix of fear and anticipation in her voice.

“Somewhere safe,” I answer, taking her hand. Her new wedding ring catches the light, and I force myself to continue. “Somewhere I can show you exactly who you’ve married, for better or worse.”

As we drive through the gathering darkness, I pray I’m making the right choice. But looking at her now, fierce and beautiful and mine, I know there’s no going back. It’s time for the truth, whatever the cost.

God help us both.