Silent Vows (Bonds of Betrayal #1)

30. Bella

30

BELLA

T he war room buzzes with carefully controlled chaos as Matteo’s captains gather to plan our response to Mario’s threat. From my place at my husband’s right hand, I catalog details with an artist’s eye—the way shadows from tactical screens paint faces in shifting blues, how each captain arranges themselves around the massive table with practiced precision. They move like dancers in a deadly ballet, everyone knowing their exact position.

Except for one chair that remains conspicuously empty. At the head of the table opposite Matteo—Giuseppe’s old place. No one acknowledges it, but no one sits there either. The vacuum it creates feels like a haunting, the ghost of Matteo’s father still presiding over every decision. I notice how the older captains’ eyes occasionally drift to that empty seat, decades of conditioning still governing their movements.

My father taught me to read these subtle power plays, these unspoken traditions that govern our world. “Watch how they arrange themselves, bella mia,” he’d say during family gatherings. “Every empty space tells a story.”

“The Irish connection changes everything,” Antonio explains, drawing my attention to the map dominating the main screen. Red markers dot the Brooklyn waterfront like bloodstains, each one representing property acquisitions we’ve only just discovered. The pattern makes my stomach clench—not from morning sickness this time, but from growing dread.

“Using Mario’s old network,” Matteo adds, his voice carrying that edge that makes younger captains flinch. “The captains who stayed loyal to him, the businesses that never fully accepted my leadership…”

I study the map, my father’s lessons about territory and influence surfacing in my mind. “Every stronghold needs a supply line, bella mia. Find that, and you find their weakness.” The markers form a clear pattern, creating a corridor from the docks inland like a river of blood flowing through our city.

“These properties form a pattern,” I say, moving closer to the display. “They’re creating a corridor from the docks inland.”

Several captains look at me with surprise—these strategy sessions have always been male territory. But Matteo smiles grimly, pride mixing with concern in his eyes. “For weapons shipments. The Irish are well-connected with European arms dealers.”

“But that’s not Mario’s endgame,” Bianca speaks up from her position near the door. Even though she’s changed into torn jeans and a T-shirt she looks every inch the Mafia princess, her spine straight despite the tension in the room. “He doesn’t care about weapons or territory. This is personal.”

“Very personal.” My hand moves unconsciously to my stomach. “He’s targeting the future of the family. Especially with threats against the baby.”

Matteo’s hand finds mine under the table, squeezing gently. Before he can respond, a guard enters with a package—another delivery, this one marked specifically for Bianca. The box is wrapped in expensive black paper with a bloodred ribbon, an echo of the one that exploded in Matteo’s study.

The room erupts into controlled chaos. Vicente crosses himself, muttering in Italian. Two younger captains reach for weapons. Matteo moves with lethal grace, putting himself between the package and us. But it’s the older captains’ reactions that catch my eye—the way they look at that empty chair at the head of the table, as if seeking guidance from Giuseppe’s ghost.

“Clear the room,” he orders, his voice carrying that tone that brooks no argument. “Now.”

“Dad—” Bianca starts to protest, but Matteo cuts her off.

“Antonio, get them to the panic room.” His eyes never leave the package as he pulls out his phone. “Full containment protocol. No one in or out until we’re sure.”

Antonio appears at my elbow, trying to guide us toward the door, but I resist. “Matteo?—”

“Please, piccola .” The rare plea in his voice makes me pause. “I can’t think if you’re in danger. Let me handle this.”

I let Antonio lead us to the reinforced room down the hall, designed specifically for situations like this. Through the security feeds, we watch Matteo coordinate with precision born of experience. The bomb squad arrives within minutes—they’ve been on standby since the first explosion—in full protective gear. The package is moved to a containment unit, scanned with equipment that looks military grade.

Only after they confirm it’s clean does Matteo allow us back in. But those ten minutes of waiting, of watching him handle another threat to our family with such lethal efficiency, remind me exactly who I married.

Not just the don who commands respect, but the man who would die to protect what’s his.

The bomb squad’s equipment confirms what their initial scan suggested—no explosives, no chemical agents, nothing overtly dangerous. Just a single photograph that makes my blood run cold when they finally clear us to open it.

A preteen Bianca tied to a chair in what appears to be a warehouse, Mario standing behind her with a gun to her head. The image is dated five years ago—the night that led to his exile. The harsh fluorescent lighting catches every detail my artist’s eye wishes it couldn’t see—Bianca’s slumped over body, the rope burns on her small wrists, the casual way Mario’s finger rests on the trigger.

But it’s his expression that haunts me most—that DeLuca smile twisted into something cruel, something that speaks of carefully planned revenge rather than spontaneous violence.

“I never saw…” Bianca’s voice catches beside me, her face draining of color. Her hand finds mine, squeezing hard enough to hurt. “He knocked me out before taking that picture. I didn’t know…”

I watch Matteo’s reaction, see the muscle jumping in his jaw as he studies the photo. His hands clench at his sides—the only visible sign of how close he is to violence. The older captains exchange knowing looks, and once again their eyes drift to Giuseppe’s empty chair.

“He’s playing mind games,” Vicente growls, his scarred hand clenching on the table. “Trying to destabilize us with old wounds.”

“No.” I embrace my stepdaughter. She feels fragile in my arms despite her fierce facade, trembling slightly as she leans into me. Unlike the confident young woman of moments ago, she suddenly feels like that twelve-year-old girl again. She can’t hide how she shakes, how the past reaches out with cruel fingers to grab her all over again.

“He’s showing his hand,” I continue, holding her closer. “This isn’t about territory or power—it’s about family. About what he lost when Matteo chose Bianca over him.”

“And now there’s another child coming.” Matteo’s voice carries that deadly quiet that usually precedes violence. His eyes meet mine across the room, dropping briefly to where our baby grows beneath my heart. “Another choice he thinks he can force me to make.”

A new message appears on the screens: Remember the warehouse, brother? History has a way of repeating. But this time, you have so much more to lose.

I feel Bianca stiffen in my arms as Salvatore breaks the tense silence. “The O’Connors won’t just provide weapons. They’re worse than any of us—no code, no honor. Just chaos and blood.”

“Tell me,” I say, keeping my arms around Bianca. “What makes them so dangerous?”

The older captains exchange loaded glances before Vicente speaks, his voice heavy with old memories. “The O’Connors make the worst of our world look civilized. They started in Boston during the Troubles, running guns to the IRA. But it wasn’t just weapons—they specialized in making people disappear. Politicians, witnesses, entire families. No bodies ever found.”

“Seamus O’Connor runs things now,” Antonio adds, pulling up surveillance photos. A man with steel-gray hair and cold eyes fills the screen. Despite his expensive suit, there’s something feral about him—like a wolf in designer clothing. The kind of predator that plays with its food before killing it. “He modernized their operation, made it global. But they still prefer the old ways when it comes to handling problems.”

“What old ways?” I ask, though something in my gut tells me I don’t want to know. Beneath my arms, I feel Bianca’s slight tremor at the question.

“They believe in sending messages,” Matteo says quietly. His eyes never leave the photo of young Bianca. I hear the strain in his voice, the effort it takes to maintain control. “Five years ago, when a rival family challenged them in Boston, the O’Connors didn’t just kill the don. They took his entire family—wife, children, even his elderly mother. Made him watch as they…” He glances at Bianca and stops, but the unfinished sentence hangs heavy in the air.

“That’s why Mario chose them,” Salvatore adds, his scarred face grim. “They share his taste for psychological warfare. For making it personal.”

“There’s more,” Vicente says, looking uncomfortable. His eyes dart to Giuseppe’s empty chair before returning to me. “The O’Connors have a particular interest in pregnant women. They believe taking a family’s future is the ultimate power play.” His eyes meet mine briefly before darting away. “That’s why Mario told them about the baby. He knows they can’t resist that kind of target.”

My hand moves protectively to my stomach as the implications sink in. The warehouse photo suddenly takes on new meaning—not just a reminder of past trauma, but a blueprint for future violence.

“The photo,” I say suddenly, my tactical mind racing. “Antonio, can you pull up property records from five years ago? Find out who owned that warehouse?”

Minutes tick by as Antonio’s fingers fly over keyboards. Screens fill with property deeds, shell companies, offshore accounts—a complicated web designed to obscure ownership. But there, buried in the paperwork, a connection appears. O’Connor Holdings LLC, registered in the Cayman Islands.

“The same warehouse where Mario held Bianca,” Vicente breathes, crossing himself again. “It belonged to the O’Connors even then.”

“Which means this whole thing—Mario’s exile, the five years away…” I look at Matteo, seeing understanding dawn in his eyes. “He wasn’t just running. He was planning. Building connections. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.”

“Like now,” Bianca says softly. She’s moved away from me to study the warehouse photo, her spine straight despite her pallor. “With a new baby coming. A chance to recreate that night, but with higher stakes.”

“He’s going to try to make me choose,” Matteo’s voice carries that lethal edge. “Between my empire and my family. Again.”

“No.” I move to stand beside him, letting my strength flow into him through our joined hands. “There will be no choice this time. No games. Mario wants to use the past against us? Fine. But he’s forgotten something important.”

“What’s that?” Bianca asks, moving to join us. Despite everything, she looks more like her father than ever—that same dangerous grace, that same ability to transform fear into tactical advantage.

“The warehouse is still there,” Antonio reports, bringing up recent satellite images. “Recently purchased through another shell company linked to O’Connor’s Dublin office.”

“Then we know where he’ll make his move.” My mind races through possibilities, through angles and approaches like I would with a complex painting. Every detail matters. Every shadow holds potential. “He’ll expect you to send us away, to try to protect us. That’s when he’ll strike.”

“Which is exactly why you’re staying in the compound,” Matteo starts, but I cut him off.

“No. We make him think we’re separated. Make him think his plan is working.” I meet my husband’s eyes steadily, seeing the war between love and strategy play out in their steel-blue depths. “Let him think he’s recreating the past. But this time, we control the game.”

Understanding dawns on Matteo’s face as the pieces align. Because this is what Mario never understood about me—I’m not just an artist playing at being a donna. I’m Giovanni Russo’s daughter, raised on strategy and survival even when I tried to escape it. And now, with everything I love at stake, those lessons surface like muscle memory.

“Together,” Matteo says finally, and it’s both a promise and a battle cry. His hand finds mine, then Bianca’s, forming an unbreakable circle.

“Together,” I agree, one hand still protective over our child, the other holding Bianca close.

Because Mario and the O’Connors have made a fatal mistake. They think love makes us vulnerable, that family ties can be used as weapons. But they don’t understand that real strength comes from what we choose to protect. What we choose to fight for.

And I choose this—this complicated, dangerous, beautiful family we’ve built. This future growing beneath my heart. This love that transforms fear into power.

Let them come with their games and threats. Let them think they understand family bonds and blood debts.

We’ll show them what real family means.

Together.