Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal #1)

21. Bella

21

BELLA

T hey keep me in what was once a monk’s quarters—a stone cell barely ten feet square, with walls that seem to breathe centuries of prayers and secrets. A narrow window, more arrow slit than proper opening, lets in thin ribbons of moonlight that paint silver stripes across the rough floor. I pace the space, counting steps—eight long strides one way, six the other—trying to keep my mind off what might be happening to Bianca in the medical wing.

The image of my stepdaughter’s unconscious face haunts me, so like Matteo’s in repose that it makes my chest ache. Strange how quickly she’s become family, despite her initial hatred of me. Or maybe not so strange. After all, we’re both products of this violent world, both pawns in games played by powerful men.

My mind is still racing through the path they took to bring me here. Even with a gun at my back, I had cataloged every turn, every doorway, every possible escape route—just as my father taught me.

“Move.” The guard’s grip is bruising on my arm as he marches me through ancient stone corridors. But while they expect fear or submission, I do what I’ve been trained to do since childhood—I observe. I paint the layout in my mind like I’m composing a canvas.

First floor: A massive wooden door marks the main entrance, its hinges ancient but well-oiled. Three guards posted there, all with automatic weapons. The entrance hall splits two ways—east wing to the right, where modern medical equipment is being unloaded, west wing to the left, where the original monastery kitchens must be, judging by the faint scent of old smoke and herbs that still lingers in the stone.

Second floor: They take me up a spiraling staircase, the steps worn smooth by centuries of use. More medical equipment here, being installed in what were once prayer rooms. A modern security door stands out garishly against medieval stone—that must be the lab. Two key card readers, retinal scanner. Expensive. Important.

Through a window, I glimpse the courtyard below, mentally mapping the patrol patterns. Four guards, probably rotating every fifteen minutes. Predictable. Exploitable.

Third floor: Where they’re keeping Bianca, judging by the concentration of guards and medical personnel. They pause outside a heavy door, and I catch a glimpse of my stepdaughter through the reinforced window. The sight makes my blood boil, but I force myself to focus. Count the turns. Note the cameras. Find the blind spots.

They finally shove me into the monk’s cell, but I’m already building the map in my head, adding details like brushstrokes to a canvas. Because that’s what my father really taught me all those years ago—not just how to shoot or fight, but how to see . How to turn observation into survival.

But now, those mental brushstrokes could mean the difference between life and death.

An ancient wooden crucifix hangs crooked on one wall, its shadow wavering in the weak light like a dark guardian. I wonder about the monk who once lived here, who sought peace and salvation in this austere space. Did he find it? Or did he too lie awake at night, haunted by the weight of the secrets these walls have absorbed?

The heavy iron lock clicks, and Father Romano enters. He’s traded his priest’s robes for an expensive suit that probably costs more than most parish priests make in a year. The black Brioni fits him perfectly, but something about seeing him in civilian clothes makes him more threatening. The pretense of holiness has been abandoned, revealing the predator beneath.

“Comfortable?” His voice carries none of the warmth it held during my wedding ceremony but more of what I heard on the beach after the jet crash. His eyes—pale blue and cold as arctic ice—study me with clinical detachment.

“Lovely space.” I lean against the rough wall, channeling my mother’s social grace. The thought sends an unexpected pang through my chest—has she even been buried yet? Have I been so caught up in survival that I haven’t properly mourned? “Though the hospitality could use work. How’s Bianca?”

“Awake.” His smile reminds me of documentaries I’ve watched about great white sharks—all teeth and soulless eyes. “And asking for her father. She’s quite confused about why he hasn’t come for her yet.”

The taunt is meant to hurt, to make me doubt Matteo. Instead, it gives me hope. If Bianca’s awake and asking questions, she’s stronger than they expected. Like her father—whether by blood or choice—she won’t break easily.

“What are you testing her for?” I move to the window, keeping my movements casual despite my racing heart. Through the narrow opening, I can see the monastery’s courtyard three stories below. Guards patrol in regular patterns, their weapons visible even from this height. “It must be important if you’re willing to risk Matteo’s wrath.”

“Clever girl.” Romano steps closer, and something about his movement reminds me of a serpent preparing to strike. The expensive cologne he wears can’t quite mask an underlying smell—something medicinal and sharp that turns my stomach. “You’ve figured out some of it, haven’t you? About Sophia?”

“I have theories.” I turn to face him, noting how the moonlight catches the silver at his temples, highlighting features that might be handsome if they weren’t twisted by cruelty. A small scar bisects his left eyebrow—old, with a story I probably don’t want to know. “But I think you want to tell me. Isn’t that why you had them bring me here? So you could gloat about finally destroying Matteo DeLuca?”

He studies me for a long moment, head tilted like a bird of prey assessing its next meal. “You’re nothing like Sophia was. She was…fragile. Easily manipulated. But you…” His hand reaches out as if to touch my face, and it takes everything in me not to flinch away. His fingers are manicured, soft—hands that have never known real work, only the administration of other people’s pain.

I hold my ground, though every instinct screams to back away. “Tell me what you found in those medical records. What was worth killing for?”

“Giuseppe DeLuca’s sins run deeper than anyone knows.” His voice drops to a whisper, but in the stone cell it seems to echo endlessly. “Ask yourself why he forced his son to marry a pregnant teenager.”

The words hit me hard, making my knees weak. “What are you saying?”

“That some secrets are written in blood.” He circles me slowly, like a shark tightening its hunting pattern. His shoes make no sound on the stone floor—expensive Italian leather, the same brand Matteo favors. “But Carmine…he saw an opportunity. A way to protect Sophia, to give her child legitimacy. A secret marriage, performed right here in this monastery.”

My mind races, trying to process the implications. “You’re saying Carmine married Sophia first? Before Matteo?”

“Which makes their marriage invalid. And Bianca’s claim to the DeLuca empire void.” His smile widens, showing too many teeth. “Though her claim to the Russo family remains intact. Funny how these things work out.”

Wait, what the hell ? Bianca is—she’s my cousin?

But something doesn’t add up. The way Matteo reacts to any mention of his father. The timing of it all. The look in Sophia’s eyes in that security footage…There’s more here, something darker that makes Romano’s revelation about Carmine feel like misdirection.

“That’s what this is about? Succession?”

“Power, my dear. It’s always about power.” He moves to the door, his movements smooth and practiced. “I’ll let you think about what that means for your own position. After all, if Matteo’s marriage to Sophia was invalid, what does that make his marriage to you?”

The door closes behind him with a heavy thud, the lock’s click echoing in the stone cell. I wait until his footsteps fade completely before moving into action. The bobby pin Elena insisted I always hide in my sleeve (another memory that makes my chest tight—my best friend, probably sick with worry) comes free easily. Her voice echoes in my head as I work the lock: “Every society girl needs an escape plan, B. Especially in this world.”

The lock yields after two minutes of careful manipulation. My hands shake slightly, but years of controlling brushes for detailed work helps me maintain the precision needed. The ancient mechanism finally gives with a soft click that sounds deafening in the quiet cell.

The hallway stretches before me like something from a Gothic nightmare—all worn stone and shadows, lit intermittently by modern LED fixtures that seem obscene against the medieval architecture. The contrast makes my artist’s eye twitch—clinical white light harsh against ancient stone, like the past and present are at war. The air smells of incense and antiseptic, another jarring juxtaposition.

I move silently toward the medical wing, remembering the path they’d taken me past earlier. Every shadow could hide a guard, but I push forward, driven by the need to reach Bianca. My boots make no sound on the stone floor. Through narrow windows, moonlight creates patterns that my mind automatically tries to capture—how would I paint this? What colors would convey this mixture of ancient holiness and modern corruption?

The medical wing’s security focuses outward—guards at external doors, cameras covering approaches from outside. But they’re overconfident about their internal security, another sign of Romano’s arrogance. I slip through a service door, following the steady beeping of medical monitors.

The sound leads me to a private room that makes my blood run cold. The space might once have been another monk’s cell, but now it’s been transformed into something out of a nightmare. Modern medical equipment crowds the small space—heart monitors, IV stands, and more sinister-looking machines whose purposes I don’t want to contemplate. The harsh fluorescent lighting makes everything look sickly and unreal.

Bianca lies amid this technological invasion like a broken doll. They’ve dressed her in a hospital gown that makes her look younger than her seventeen years. Tubes and wires connect her to various machines, their steady beeping a mockery of lullabies. Dark bruises mark the crooks of her arms where they’ve drawn blood—too many times, judging by the rainbow of colors that speaks to different healing stages.

“Bianca?” I whisper, moving to her side. Up close, the resemblance to Matteo is even more striking—the same sharp cheekbones, the same dark hair. Even unconscious, she has that DeLuca grace.

Blood or not, she’s her father’s daughter.

Her eyes flutter open, revealing those steel-blue eyes that match Matteo’s exactly. “Bella?” Her voice comes out rough, like she’s been screaming. The thought makes rage burn hot in my chest. “What…what are you doing here?”

“Breaking you out.” I start removing monitoring leads with trembling fingers. Each one seems determined to mock me with its steady rhythm. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.” She tries to sit up, wincing. New bruises peek out from under her gown—they’ve been none too gentle with their “tests.” “They’ve been…taking samples. Blood, tissue…They keep asking about my mother.”

“I know.” I help her stand, supporting her weight against my side. She feels too light, like they haven’t been feeding her properly. Another sin to add to Romano’s growing list. “But right now we need to move. Your father’s coming, but we need to help ourselves first.”

“My father…” Her voice breaks slightly, vulnerability showing through her usual ice princess facade. “Is it true? What they said about him not being…”

“Hey.” I turn her to face me, one hand cupping her chin like Matteo does when he’s trying to make a point. “Listen to me. Family isn’t about blood. It’s about who stays, who fights for you, who loves you no matter what. Your father has fought for you since the day you were born. That’s what matters.”

Tears slip down her cheeks, cutting through the pallor of her skin. “Why are you helping me? After how I treated you…”

“Because you’re family. And I protect my family.” The words come easily, naturally, surprising us both with their truth. I check the hallway—still clear. “Now, can you run?”

A shadow of Matteo’s dangerous smile crosses her face, transforming her from victim to survivor in an instant. “Try to stop me.”

We make it three corridors and a flight of stairs before the alarms start wailing—high-pitched electronic screams that seem to pierce the ancient stone like daggers. The sound echoes off the vaulted ceilings, making it impossible to tell where pursuit might come from. I guide us toward the monastery’s old kitchen, following the mental map I’d created during my earlier captivity. My father’s voice echoes in my head: “Always know your exits, bella mia. Always have a plan.”

“Wait.” Bianca pulls me to a stop near a modern security door that looks obscene against the medieval stonework. Despite her weakness, her grip is strong—DeLuca strength showing through. “The lab. We need to destroy the samples.”

“Bianca—”

“Please.” Steel enters her voice, transforming her from scared teenager to Mafia princess in an instant. “I won’t let them use me against my father. Against our family.”

Our family . The words echo my own from earlier, and something warm unfurls in my chest despite the danger. I nod once, changing course. The lab isn’t far—I noted its location earlier, my artist’s eye automatically mapping the incongruous modern additions to the ancient space.

The laboratory itself is a jarring intrusion of chrome and fluorescent lighting into the monastery’s sacred space. Banks of sophisticated equipment line the walls—centrifuges, PCR machines, genetic sequencers that probably cost more than most hospitals can afford. The air smells sharp with chemicals, burning my nose and making my eyes water.

While Bianca moves through the space with surprising purpose, destroying samples and hard drives, I stand guard. Her hands shake slightly as she works, but her movements are precise, deliberate. Another thing she gets from Matteo—that ability to focus through fear, to turn terror into fuel for action.

The sound of running feet echoes through the stone corridors, growing closer. “Time to go,” I urge, already calculating escape routes.

But as we turn to leave, Father Romano appears in the doorway like a demon manifesting from shadow. The gun in his manicured hand looks wrong—too modern, too brutal for hands that were meant to offer blessings. His expensive suit is slightly disheveled now, his mask of civility slipping to reveal the monster beneath.

“Going somewhere?” His voice still carries that false gentleness that makes my skin crawl.

“Actually,” a familiar voice growls from behind him, “they are.”

The priest’s eyes widen as Matteo’s gun presses against his skull. Relief floods through me at the sight of my husband—dangerous and beautiful in his rage.

“How—” Romano starts, but Matteo cuts him off with a harder press of the gun.

“You really should update your security.” My husband’s voice carries that deadly calm that makes smarter men tremble. His eyes find mine across the lab, and the intensity of his gaze steals my breath. Pride and possession and relief war in those steel-blue depths. “Bella’s note was very helpful.”

“Dad,” Bianca whispers, and the vulnerability in that one word speaks volumes. She still sees him as her father, blood or not. Still trusts him despite whatever poison Romano has tried to pour in her ear.

But before any of us can move, Romano laughs—a horrible, knowing sound that seems to corrupt the very air. “Kill me if you want, DeLuca. The truth is already out there. About Sophia, about your father, about what really happened that night in the monastery. About what you’ve been hiding about your precious daughter?—”

“My real father,” Bianca cuts in, her chin lifting in that defiant way she gets from Matteo, “is right here.” She moves to his side, and even in her hospital gown, she radiates that DeLuca strength. “The rest is just DNA.”

Something in Romano’s face twists—rage and madness and decades of secrets all warring for control. He moves suddenly, spinning toward Matteo with inhuman speed. Two shots ring out simultaneously, the sound deafening in the enclosed space.

Both men fall.