Chapter 5 - The Silent Vow
Matteo pushed open the door to the guest bedroom and stepped inside.
The room was lit only by the soft orange glow of a bedside lamp. Sofia was propped up against a mountain of plush white pillows, her lower chest wrapped tightly in fresh medical bandages beneath a soft cotton nightgown. Her eyes were heavy from the sedative Dr. Vance had given her, but she was still awake, staring blankly at the dark rain beating against the windowpane.
When she heard Matteo’s boots on the rug, she turned her head slowly, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and strange, fragile curiosity.
Matteo pulled up a heavy wooden chair and sat beside the bed, resting his forearms on his knees. For the first time all night, he was completely quiet, his broad shoulders relaxed, his terrifying aura tucked away behind a mask of calm composure.
"The doctor said you need to sleep," Matteo said gently.
"I can't," she whispered. Her voice was raspy, barely audible over the sound of the rain. "Every time I close my eyes... I feel the dress. I feel the zipper."
"The dress is gone," Matteo told her. "I had Dante burn it in the courtyard incinerator ten minutes ago. It's ash."
A tiny, breathless hitch sounded in her throat—a micro-gasp that was almost a laugh, if she had known how to laugh. "You burned a fifty-thousand-dollar Venetian dress?"
"It was ugly," Matteo said flatly. "And it belonged to your father's world. You don't live in his world anymore."
Sofia turned her head fully to look at him, her dark hazel eyes searching his sharp, scarred jawline, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the dark tattoos creeping up his throat from his collar.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked softly. "You don't know me. You married me for thirty percent of the western docks. My father told me you were a monster. He said if I displeased you, you'd throw me into the bay."
Matteo’s lips twitched into a dark, bitter half-smile. "Your father projects his own sins onto other men. I'm no saint, Sofia. I've killed men. I've taken territory by force. But I don't wage war on women, and I don't break my contracts."
He reached out, his large, calloused hand moving slowly across the blanket toward hers. He didn't rush. He gave her three full seconds to pull away.
She didn't.
Slowly, her small, pale fingers slid across the linen sheet, resting gently inside his massive palm. His skin was warm, rough, and smelled of tobacco and rain, but to her surprise, it felt safer than anything she had ever touched in her life.
"Your brother, Julian," Matteo said, his fingers gently closing around hers. "What does he look like?"
"He has dark hair like mine," she whispered, a soft, genuine warmth flickering in her eyes for the first time. "He likes airplanes. He wants to be a pilot. He has a small wooden model of a Spitfire he keeps hidden under his mattress."
"He'll be sleeping in the room next door to yours by tomorrow night," Matteo promised her.
May you like
Sofia stared at him, tears welling in her eyes once more, but this time they were not tears of terror. "How can you be sure?"
"Because tomorrow morning," Matteo said softly, "I am going to pay my father-in-law a visit. And he is going to learn what happens when you hand Matteo Moretti a broken bride."
