19. Bella
19
BELLA
S aint Benedict’s Monastery looms against the darkening sky like something from a Gothic nightmare. Through my binoculars, I study every detail with an artist’s eye—the weathered stone walls that seem to absorb what’s left of the daylight, the spires that pierce the purple-tinged clouds like accusing fingers, the ancient windows that hold who knows how many dark secrets.
Something about the place feels wrong, like the very stones are soaked in decades of sins and confessions.
The monastery grounds spread out below our observation point like something from a medieval painting. Stone walls, weathered by centuries of harsh Canadian winters, rise at least thirty feet high. Gargoyles perch at regular intervals, their grotesque faces seeming to watch our every move. The courtyard is paved with ancient cobblestones, uneven and treacherous, creating shadows perfect for concealment.
As I watch the guards make their rounds, I can’t help but think of all the art history classes I’ve taken. How many times have I studied buildings like this in textbooks? Analyzed their architecture, their purpose? But this place feels different.
I crouch beside Antonio in our observation point, surrounded by pine needles and early autumn chill. The forest provides good cover, but there’s something oppressive about the air here. Like we’re being watched not just by the guards, but by something older. Something darker.
“Two men at the main gate,” I murmur, counting defensive positions just as my father taught me. The memory hits unexpectedly—afternoons I thought were just father-daughter time at the shooting range, now revealed as careful preparation for exactly this kind of situation.
My father’s voice echoes in my head as I count defensive positions: “Always note your exits, bella mia. Pattern their movements. Find their weaknesses.” At the time, I thought he was just being paranoid. Now I wonder how long he knew this day would come.
“Three patrolling the walls. Security cameras covering the courtyard.”
“Good eye.” Antonio sounds impressed despite himself. “The Boss taught you well.”
“My father did.” I shift position, pine needles crunching under my boots as I get a better angle on the east wing. Something bitter rises in my throat. “Though I’m starting to think they were both preparing me for this life, whether I wanted it or not.”
Movement at an upper window catches my attention. My heart jumps as a figure in priest’s robes crosses past the glass, followed by another man carrying what appears to be medical equipment. The sight sends a chill down my spine—what kind of monastery needs medical supplies?
“There,” I whisper, passing the binoculars to Antonio. “Third floor, east wing. That has to be where they’re keeping her.”
The window is large, Gothic-arched, its stained glass partially broken out as if someone wanted a clearer view inside. Or outside. The thought makes my skin crawl.
He studies the window for a long moment, his weathered face grim. “Agreed. But getting in there…”
“We don’t need to get in.” I pull out my phone, quickly sketching the monastery’s layout. My artist’s training comes in handy as I mark entry points and guard positions. Years of studying perspective and composition now being used to plan a potential rescue mission.
Is this what my father saw in me? A tactical mind hidden behind an artist’s eye?
My phone buzzes—Matteo. His message is brief.
Meeting starting. Stay safe.
I send back a quick acknowledgment, trying not to think about what he’s facing. The other Families voting on his leadership, Carmine’s political maneuvering, the video of Sophia still circulating…And beneath it all, these whispers about Giuseppe DeLuca. What could his father have possibly done that’s worth all this?
“Movement,” Antonio’s voice pulls me back to the present. “North side.”
I redirect my attention as a black SUV pulls through the iron gates, its headlights cutting through the gathering dusk. Father Romano steps out, along with another priest I recognize from my wedding. Their black robes seem to absorb what’s left of the daylight as they move, heads bent together in conspiratorial closeness.
“Can we get closer?” I ask, frustration building in my chest. More secrets, more whispered conversations that seem to hold the key to everything. “Maybe hear what they’re saying?”
Antonio shakes his head. “Too risky. But…” He pulls out a small device. “We might be able to pick up their phone calls. The Boss had their frequencies tracked after the wedding.”
As if on cue, Romano’s voice crackles through the device: “—getting restless. The sedatives are wearing off.”
“Keep her under,” Carmine’s voice responds, and hatred burns hot in my chest at the sound of my uncle. “DeLuca should be at the meeting by now. Once the Families vote him out, we move to phase two.”
“And what of Giuseppe’s records? The DNA tests?” Romano asks impatiently.
That damned name again. Giuseppe DeLuca. Every time someone mentions Matteo’s father, it’s like a shadow falls across the room. What kind of monster was he? What could he possibly have done that’s worth all this?
“Those files could destroy everything the DeLucas built,” Carmine continues, his voice turning cold. “Once we prove what he did…” He pauses, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Matteo’s precious family will crumble.”
“And the girl? His wife?”
“Bella’s proved more resourceful than expected,” I hear Carmine say. “But some truths even she won’t be able to forgive.”
My hands clench around the binoculars, rage and frustration burning hot in my chest. Always more secrets, more lies. Every answer seems to lead to ten more questions, and at the center of it all is Giuseppe DeLuca, a man whose shadow seems to poison everything it touches.
Movement in the courtyard catches my eye. A medical team wheels a gurney through the stone archway, heading toward the east wing. The sight that greets me makes my blood run cold. Bianca lies unconscious, her dark hair spilling over the white sheets like ink. Even at this distance, I can see Matteo’s features in her face. She’s pale but breathing, an IV drip attached to her arm like some macabre lifeline.
I quickly photograph the scene, my hands shaking slightly as I send it to Matteo with our location coordinates. His response is immediate: Coming. Don’t engage.
“We should go,” Antonio says quietly. “We have what we need.”
But I can’t look away from my stepdaughter’s unconscious form. The medical equipment they’re bringing in looks far more sophisticated than what you’d need for simple sedation. Through my binoculars, I can make out specific pieces—not just monitoring equipment but blood testing supplies, genetic testing kits. The kind of equipment you’d need to run DNA analysis.
“What are they doing to her?”
“Mrs. DeLuca?—”
“Look.” I point to where the medical team has stopped, consulting with Father Romano under the Gothic archway. Modern medical equipment looks out of place against the ancient stones, like two worlds colliding. “That’s not just sedatives they’re giving her. Those are serious medical supplies.”
Antonio tenses beside me. “You think they’re?—”
“Testing her for something specific.” The pieces start clicking together, but not completely. Like looking at an abstract painting where you can see the shapes but not quite grasp the meaning. “Why go to all this trouble? What kind of tests would be worth this risk?”
“The kind that could destroy a family legacy.” Antonio’s voice is careful, measured. “There are certain things even Matteo doesn’t talk about.”
Something in his tone makes me look closer at him. He knows something—something he’s not sharing.
I think about how Matteo reacts whenever Giuseppe is mentioned—the way his whole body goes rigid, like he’s bracing for a blow. How he keeps that old family photo turned away in his office. The way Father Romano smiled when he mentioned Giuseppe’s confessions.
Something dark lives in those memories, something that makes even the most feared man in New York flinch.
The medical team wheels more equipment through the courtyard—centrifuges, PCR machines, advanced testing equipment that seems wildly out of place in a monastery. My mind races as I catalog each piece, trying to understand what could possibly require this level of sophisticated technology in a place meant for prayer.
A branch snaps behind us. We whirl around to find Father Romano’s second priest, gun aimed steadily at my head. In the dying light, his collar seems to glow against his black robes, a mockery of everything it’s supposed to represent.
“Clever girl,” he says softly, and his voice carries none of the gentleness he used during my wedding ceremony. “Too clever for your own good. Hands where I can see them, both of you.”
The priest’s gun doesn’t waver as he steps closer. In the dying light, I notice details my eye can’t help but catalog—the expensive cut of his cassock, the gold cross at his throat that probably costs more than most parish priests make in a year.
This is no simple man of God. This is someone who’s comfortable with power.
Antonio moves to step in front of me, but another gun cocks from the shadows. They’ve surrounded us while we were focused on the monastery. Amateur mistake.
“You’re very like your father,” he observes, head tilting slightly. “Giovanni had that same look when he figured things out. That same inability to leave well enough alone.”
“My father is dead,” I say coldly, “because of secrets like the ones you’re keeping.”
“You know,” the priest continues conversationally, as if I hadn’t even spoken, “this could work out better than planned. Instead of just the girl, now we have DeLuca’s wife too.” He smiles, and the expression turns my blood cold. “Giuseppe DeLuca left quite a legacy of secrets. Come quietly, and you’ll learn just how deep they run.”
I think of Matteo’s words: “Come back to me.” Of his kiss before we parted, desperate and claiming. Of Bianca lying unconscious on that gurney, being tested for God knows what. Of all the secrets that seem to be circling us like wolves, waiting to strike.
I make my decision in a heartbeat.
“Antonio,” I say quietly, “tell my husband I’m sorry.”
Then I step forward, hands raised in surrender. Because sometimes the only way to protect your family is to break their trust.
And sometimes the only way to uncover the truth is to walk straight into the devil’s den.