Vows Made in Silence

Buried Oaths

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The Lux Casino pulses with heat and tension, every sound a live wire beneath my skin. Laughter rolls over the marble like smoke, perfume clings to the air, and light from the chandelier above fractures across crystal and steel—like the night might shatter with one wrong move.

My hand trembles against the centerpiece: a blown-glass sculpture shaped like a bleeding heart. Too poetic to be a coincidence.

I shouldn’t be nervous.

But I am.

The air feels different tonight. Heavy. Expectant. Like the universe is holding its breath, waiting to exhale chaos.

A ripple moves through the crowd. Champagne flutes tilt. Designer heels pause mid-step. I catch a name on the wind—

Moretti.

The sound sears through me like acid.

“It’s just a rumor,” I whisper to myself, straightening the sculpture by a millimeter.

Precision calms me. Control calms me. I glance at the staff across the exhibit hall, forcing my voice to stay cool.

“Make sure the lighting on The Crucible is warm, not harsh. It’s a redemption piece, not a funeral. ”

But the words don’t slow my heartbeat. Not when I hear it again, louder now.

“I heard Luca Moretti just landed from Chicago,” someone whispers near the champagne tower, voice tight with awe—and fear. “Word is, he took his father’s place. New head of the Moretti syndicate. The old man’s not even cold, and already the streets are shifting.”

“The Roselli’s are holding emergency talks. The Valenti’s are pulling muscle out of New York. That kind of move means blood’s already been spilled—maybe more to come,” another mutters. “And Luca? He’s not like his father. He’s worse. Cold. Calculated.”

“They say he took out a lieutenant in his own ranks last month. Just dropped him off a balcony mid-meeting. Didn’t flinch. And that was before the funeral.”

“God help whoever gets in his way.”

“And rumor is,” someone adds with a conspiratorial glint, “he’s got a thing for modern art. Maybe he’ll stop in, buy something—leave his mark with more than blood.”

“Yeah,” another voice agrees, low and graveled. “The Strip’s crawling with muscle tonight. He’s not here for pleasure. He’s meeting with the Vitelli’s. There’s talk of a blood pact.”

The voices fade, but their words burrow deep—hot and sharp and unshakeable.

My breath catches.

The glass shifts in my hand. Just a fraction, but enough for the sharp edge to nick my palm. I inhale sharply, hiding the sting as I pull back. No blood. Just a whisper of pain.

He can’t be here. He can’t be near me. Not after all this time.

I grab a linen napkin and curl it in my fist, then turn to the donors. Smile. Nod. Reassure. My mask doesn’t crack—on the outside. I’ve had years of practice. Years of hiding.

But inside, the name is a siren.

Luca Moretti.

My ex.

His name is a scar—still tender. I didn’t just leave to survive. I left to keep my child breathing.

Luca was my everything once.

Now, after a decade of silence, my enemy is in Las Vegas. My city.

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The exhibit goes off without a hitch. Donors toast. Critics nod in reverent approval. The gallery hums with praise and the quiet thrill of rising reputation.

No Moretti. No storm. Just the careful success I fought tooth and nail to build.

I exhale, almost believing the rumor was wrong. I need to believe art is the last thing on his mind.

I signal the staff to begin ushering out the final guests. One more pass through the room, and I’ll lock it down.

Then the double doors slam open—

shattering the gallery’s calm.

A wall of muscle in tailored suits enters first—three men, silent and watchful. Vitelli’s men. But not just capos. These are old-world enforcers, raised in blood and baptized in silence. They sweep the room like predators.

And behind them...

Geno Roselli.

He walks into my gallery like he owns the ground beneath it. Like this is a battlefield and every piece of art is a landmine.

He doesn’t want to be greeted. Doesn’t remove his gloves. His coat stays on—sharp and black, like a tailored threat. The men flanking him halt just behind, hands folded, still as tombstones.

“Who’s in charge here?” he asks, voice weighty with power and a thousand buried bodies.

I step forward before anyone else can. “I am.”

His gaze flicks to me—surprised, then intrigued. Possessive. His eyes travel down, slow and unapologetic, stripping me bare with the kind of entitlement only men like him can afford. A mafia move wrapped in silk and steel.

He steps closer, voice dropping low. “You run this place? Then I want to make a purchase. Something expensive. Something unforgettable.”

Tension coils in the air, thick and electric.

“Of course,” I reply, gesturing to the central installation. “We have several exclusive pieces that—”

“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t care what it is. Just make sure everyone knows I bought it—and sees me pay for it.”

I blink. “Is this... a donation?”

He leans in, smile razor-thin. “A gesture. I’ve got a sit-down tonight with a rival family. Neutral ground. High stakes. Word is he’s got a hard-on for modern art. Collects it. Respects it. I need something rare. One-of-a-kind. A piece that speaks louder than any alliance.”

His voice hardens. “I’m sparing no expense, so don’t show me something they auction off at charity galas. This isn’t about taste. It’s about sending a message. I want it to hit him between the eyes.”

I say nothing. Frozen. My throat goes dry.

“And if he doesn’t like it?” His smile vanishes. “Then I’ll be back. And someone will pay for wasting my time—with blood. One bullet. One body. That’s the cost of disappointment.”

My heart pounds.

“You understand now?” he asks, head tilting. “The purchase is for show. The war, if it comes, won’t be.”

The air drains from my lungs. A wave of nausea rises—thick and burning. My sanctuary is being turned into a battlefield, and I can’t breathe through the dread tightening in my chest.

Geno Roselli is using my gallery as a stage in a mafia negotiation.

He turns to his men. “Let’s make it quick.”

I force my legs to move, guiding him toward the private alcove where we keep the high-value, off-the-record works—pieces too volatile for public display. My voice doesn’t falter, but my grip on the door handle aches.

“This piece came in from a private estate in New York,” I say, motioning to a brutalist abstraction—grey on grey, with slashes of crimson like ghost wounds on a battlefield. Stark. Imposing. A collector’s dream.

Roselli doesn’t glance at it.

His gaze slips past, predator-sharp, locking onto the back wall where a velvet curtain hides a single spotlighted frame.

I hesitate. My pulse flutters. Then I move.

“This one’s not for sale,” I begin, but even I don’t believe the words as I pull the curtain aside.

Light spills over a bold red-and-white label, framed in minimalist steel.

Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Can.

A cultural grenade. Bold, ironic, subversive. It screams American legacy and mafia wealth in equal measure.

Geno’s eyes sharpen. His lips twitch—not quite a smile.

“Warhol,” he murmurs. “Now that... that sends a message.”

I start to protest. “This one’s not for sale—”

“It is now,” he snaps. Then softer, lethal: “You’ll be paid. Generously. But if the new Don doesn’t smile when he sees it, I’ll be back, Julia.”

He scrawls his name across the slip like a brand on flesh. “Let’s hope he appreciates art as much as he values loyalty.”

I stare at the painting, stomach curling.

It was never meant to be sold. Not this one.

It was a gift—from Luca.

Back when we were reckless and in love. Before the blood and silence.

We’d spent the day museum-hopping, laughing at how he couldn’t tell a Monet from a Modigliani. But when we stood in front of Warhol’s work, his hand found mine.

“I like it,” he said. “It’s honest. No frills. Just... exactly what it is.”

Later that night—our last night—he gave me the print. We were tangled together on his bed, young and defiant, dreaming of a future that never came. He held it up like a promise. Like we could be two identical cans, sealed and safe, side by side forever.

Now it’s leverage.

Now it’s currency.

And I just sold it to a man who might start a war with it.