Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal #1)

15. Bella

15

BELLA

T he jet climbs through turbulent air, each bump sending shockwaves of pain through my battered body. Tiny cuts from the shattered glass sting under my borrowed clothes—leggings and a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my old apartment’s monthly rent. The luxury feels surreal against my skin, like everything else about my new life. Was it really just yesterday I was painting in my studio, worried about my thesis exhibition? Now I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, running from someone who wants me dead.

Across from me, Matteo sits perfectly still as the flight attendant—a severe-looking woman with steel-gray hair and hands that move with military precision—cleans and bandages his arm. Blood has already soaked through his new shirt, the crimson stain a stark reminder of how close I came to losing him. His face betrays nothing, but I’m learning to read the subtle signs of his distress—the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drum against his thigh when he’s processing something dangerous.

The attendant works methodically, her practiced movements suggesting this isn’t her first time patching up bullet wounds at thirty thousand feet. She removes his shirt with clinical efficiency, revealing the full extent of the damage.

The bullet tore through muscle, leaving an angry furrow that makes my stomach clench. But it’s the other scars that catch my eye—old wounds that map his violent history across his skin like some brutal constellation.

“It was Carmine,” he says finally, dismissing the attendant with a sharp nod. The words fall between us like stones, heavy with implications. “He orchestrated all of it—your mother’s death, the attack at the lake house, Johnny’s video release.”

“My uncle?” My hands shake so badly I almost drop the scotch Matteo offers. The amber liquid catches the morning light streaming through the jet’s windows, creating patterns that remind me of fire. Of explosions. Of everything I’m leaving behind. “Why?”

“Power.” Matteo moves to sit beside me, taking the glass back for his own sip before returning it. The casual intimacy of sharing a drink shouldn’t affect me so much, not after everything we’ve shared, but the brush of his fingers against mine sends electricity through my body. “With your father dead and you married to me, he lost his chance at controlling the Russo territory. Unless…”

“Unless I die too.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. My uncle—the man who used to bring me gelato after Sunday mass, who taught me to drive in his Mercedes, who cried at my first art show. All of it lies, carefully crafted to hide the monster beneath. “Let me guess—tragic accident on my honeymoon?”

“With evidence pointing to me as your killer.” His laugh holds no humor, and the sound makes my skin crawl. “History repeating itself. Johnny releases the video about Sophia, making me look like a man who murders his wives. Carmine swoops in to avenge his beloved niece, taking control of both families in the process.”

“And my mother?” The question burns my throat like the scotch. I see her face in my mind—perfectly coiffed even in death, I’m sure. For all our differences, all her criticism of my choices, she was still my mother.

“Knew too much, probably. Or refused to play along.” He hesitates, and I see something dark cross his face. “Bella, there’s something else you should know about her death.”

I turn to face him fully, noting the fresh blood already seeping through his bandage. The sight makes my heart clench. “More secrets?”

“She called me yesterday, before the reception.” His words come slowly, carefully, like he’s defusing a bomb. “Said she had proof Carmine was working with the Calabrese family. That’s why I arranged the plumbing emergency—to get everyone out before?—”

He breaks off, jaw clenching, but I finish the thought in my head. Before they could kill her at my wedding reception. The realization hits me like a physical blow. My mother tried to warn us, tried to protect me in her own way. And now she’s dead because of it.

Nausea rises in my throat as memories assault me—her critical comments about my art suddenly feeling less like disapproval and more like desperation to keep me away from this world. Her insistence on the perfect wedding dress, perfect hair, perfect everything…Was she trying to give me one last beautiful day before everything fell apart?

“I should have moved faster,” Matteo says, his voice rough. “Protected her better.”

“Like you protected Sophia?”

The words slip out before I can stop them, sharp as broken glass. Matteo goes very still beside me, and I feel the temperature in the cabin drop ten degrees.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching for him instinctively. “That wasn’t fair.”

“No, it was perfectly fair.” He takes the scotch glass, finishing it in one swallow. The morning sun catches his profile, highlighting the silver at his temples, the barely contained violence in his frame. “I failed to protect Sophia, failed to protect your mother. You have every right to question whether I can protect you.”

“That’s not—” I stop, really looking at him. Beyond the dangerous facade, beyond the power and control that radiates from him like heat, I see something that breaks my heart. Guilt. Raw and deep and eating him alive. “You really believe that, don’t you? That you failed them?”

“Didn’t I?” The vulnerability in his voice makes my chest ache.

“You saved Bianca.” I reach for his hand, linking our fingers together. His skin is warm against mine, callused from years of violence but somehow still gentle when he touches me. “You chose to protect your daughter over your wife. Over your own reputation and power. That’s not failure, Matteo. That’s love.”

He stares at our joined hands like they hold some answer he’s been seeking. “Love makes you vulnerable. Gets people killed.”

“Love makes you human.” I shift closer, pressing my free hand to his cheek. The stubble under my palm reminds me of last night, of how it felt against my inner thighs. Heat floods my body at the memory. “And right now, I need you to be both—the ruthless don who can keep us alive, and the human man who’ll do anything to protect the people he loves.”

His eyes darken as he turns his face into my touch. The man I glimpsed last night emerges, making my breath catch. “And what about you, piccola ? Where do you fit in all this?”

“I’m your wife.” The words come easier now, feeling more true with each passing hour. With each shared danger. With each moment I fall harder for this complicated man. “Which means your fights are my fights. Your enemies are my enemies.”

“Even when those enemies include your own blood?” His voice drops lower, sending shivers down my spine.

“Carmine stopped being family the moment he ordered my mother’s death.” Steel enters my voice, surprising us both. “Just like he stopped being family the moment he conspired to kill me on my honeymoon.”

Matteo’s hand tightens on mine, almost painful. “I won’t let that happen.”

“I know.” I lean in, resting my forehead against his. His cologne surrounds me, mixed with gunpowder and something uniquely him that makes my head spin. “Because this time, we’re in it together. No more secrets, no more lies. Just us against them.”

“Us,” he echoes, like he’s testing the word. His free hand slides into my hair, grip gentle despite the darkness in his eyes. When he kisses me, it’s hungry, desperate, full of all the things we can’t say. I melt into him, opening for his tongue, letting him claim me all over again.

Somehow we end up stumbling toward the jet’s bathroom, need overwhelming common sense. He presses me against the wall, hiking my legs around his waist. The cashmere sweater hits the floor, followed quickly by my borrowed leggings.

“Mine,” he growls against my throat, and God help me, I love when he gets possessive like this.

“Yours,” I agree, working at his belt. “All yours.”

The bathroom is impossibly small, all chrome and luxury finishes, but we make it work. Every touch feels amplified by adrenaline and fear, by the knowledge that we might not get another chance. His hands are everywhere, leaving fire in their wake. When he enters me in one powerful thrust, my head falls back against the wall.

“Look at me,” he demands, and I do. In the soft lighting, his eyes are almost black with desire, focused entirely on me, like I’m the only thing grounding him to this moment. His hand braces against the wall for leverage while his other palm digs into my hip, guiding me as he moves, each thrust erasing the shadows of fear and danger that linger around us, leaving only this—us, here, now.

The rhythm between us becomes a frantic, desperate dance, driven by the need to feel something real, something certain. His body is relentless, and mine answers, matching each movement with rising intensity, with a hunger I can’t contain. As the tension crests, pleasure sears through me, and I bite down on his shoulder, stifling my cries as I shatter around him. Moments later, he follows, his own release tearing through him as he murmurs my name—a reverent promise that echoes in the stillness.

As we’re straightening our clothes, his eyes catch mine in the mirror. “Do you have any idea how dangerous you are to me?”

Before I can ask what he means, the pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom: “Sir, we have a problem. Air traffic control is ordering us to turn back. They’re saying?—”

The rest is lost as the jet suddenly banks hard left, throwing me into Matteo. His arms lock around me protectively as oxygen masks drop from the ceiling like suspended question marks. The luxury cabin transforms instantly into a scene from my worst nightmares.

“Carmine,” Matteo growls, reaching for his phone as we head back to our seats. He pulls me into his lap and his body is tense under mine, coiled like a predator ready to strike. “He’s got people in the control tower.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. Just when I thought we were safe, just when I was letting myself believe in our future…“Can they force us to land?”

“They can try.” He hits a number on speed dial, his other arm still locked around me as the plane shudders through another turn. “Antonio? Plan B. Now.”

Through the window, I see something that makes my blood run cold. Two military jets pull alongside us, close enough that I can make out the pilots in their cockpits. The morning sun glints off their wings like knives, and I’m hit with the sudden, terrifying understanding that my uncle’s reach extends far beyond what we imagined.

The jet banks again, harder this time. My stomach lurches as we drop altitude, the clouds rushing past our windows at sickening speed. Alarms start blaring through the cabin—high-pitched, urgent sounds that make my pulse spike. The flight attendant straps herself in, her previously unflappable demeanor finally showing cracks of concern.

Matteo’s earlier words echo in my mind. “Love makes you vulnerable. Gets people killed.” But as I feel his heart racing in time with mine, his arms still holding me close despite his injured shoulder, I know it’s too late for either of us to protect ourselves from that particular danger.

“Hold on to me,” Matteo murmurs in my ear as the jet begins another sharp turn. His voice is steady despite the chaos, an anchor in the storm. “And whatever happens next, remember—we’re in this together.”

I grip his shirt, breathing in his scent as the plane shudders around us. The military jets are still there, boxing us in like predators herding prey. One tilts its wings—a warning or a threat, I’m not sure which. The gesture makes everything suddenly, terrifyingly real.

My father is dead. My mother is dead. My uncle wants to kill me on my honeymoon. And now we might die in a forced landing, shot down by military jets over New York airspace. The absurdity of it all hits me, and I have to swallow a hysterical laugh.

Warning lights flash red across the cabin as we continue to lose altitude. Through the windows, I watch the clouds thin out, revealing glimpses of the landscape below. We’re over water now—the dark expanse of the Atlantic stretching endlessly ahead. Each moment brings us closer to whatever Carmine has planned, each mile marking our countdown to either escape or disaster.

“I won’t let them take you,” Matteo says against my hair, and even now, even here, I believe him. Whatever happens next, whatever my uncle has planned, we’ll face it together.

I just pray we both live long enough to see tomorrow.

The cabin pressure changes suddenly, making my ears pop. More alarms join the chorus, creating a symphony of danger that sets my teeth on edge. The flight attendant’s voice comes over the intercom, cool and professional despite the situation: “Please secure your oxygen masks and brace for potential rapid descent.”

“Matteo?” I hate how small my voice sounds, but fear claws at my throat as the military jets edge closer. Their missiles are clearly visible now, a deadly promise of what could happen if we don’t comply.

“Trust me,” he says, but his eyes are on his phone, reading something that makes his jaw clench. His arms tighten around me as the plane banks again, this time so sharply that loose items slide across the cabin floor.

A crackle of static fills the cabin, followed by a voice I recognize. My uncle. “Isabella,” Carmine’s voice comes through the speakers, dripping with false concern. “Be reasonable. Let the plane land. We just want to talk.”

Like he “just wanted to talk” to my mother? Rage burns through my fear, hot and clarifying. This man—this monster wearing my uncle’s face—killed my parents, tried to kill my husband, and now thinks he can force me to land and what? Trust him?

“Your father was weak,” Carmine continues when we don’t respond. “Your mother was foolish. Don’t make their mistakes.”

Matteo’s phone buzzes again. Whatever he reads this time makes his eyes glitter dangerously. “Hold on tight, piccola ,” he murmurs. “And whatever happens, don’t let go.”

The military jets suddenly break formation, one peeling left while the other drops below us. The move feels choreographed, practiced—like they’re executing a plan they’ve trained for. My eye catches details even through my fear: the way sunlight glints off their weapons, how they mirror each other’s movements with deadly precision.

“They’re boxing us in,” Matteo says, his voice tight. “Forcing us toward Kennedy.”

Where Carmine probably waits. Where an “accident” can be arranged. Where I’ll disappear like my mother, another tragic casualty in a world of violence I never wanted to join.