Dangerous Vows

Isabella’s POV

The brush hovered just above the canvas, the soft bristles barely touching the surface as I hesitated. The afternoon light filtered through the large studio windows, casting a warm glow over the room, but today, even my sanctuary couldn't calm the unease gnawing at me. This studio was where I escaped—where the world’s chaos couldn't touch me. Yet, today felt different.

I forced myself to make a bold stroke, applying a streak of crimson that seemed too vivid, too aggressive. I stepped back, frowning at the canvas. No matter how I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling that my peace was on the verge of shattering.

My phone rang, slicing through the silence like a blade. I startled, nearly dropping the brush as I wiped my hands and reached for the phone. My heart lurched when I saw the name on the screen: Papa.

Giovanni De Luca wasn’t one for idle conversation, especially not after I’d left the family behind to pursue my art in New York. His calls were rare, and when they came, they were brief. If he was calling now, something was terribly wrong.

“Papa,” I answered, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Bella.” His voice, heavy with grief, sent a chill down my spine. He hadn’t called me by that nickname in years.

“What’s wrong?” My hand tightened around the phone.

There was a long pause, so long that I almost thought the call had dropped. When he spoke again, his voice cracked. “It’s Marco. He’s... he’s gone.”

The world tilted. “Gone? Gone where?” My voice was too loud, too high, as if by raising it, I could force reality to make sense.

“He’s dead, Bella. Your brother is dead.”

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. My knees buckled, and I dropped onto the stool behind me. The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering to the floor. Marco? Dead? It couldn’t be true. He had always been invincible to me, larger than life. How could he be gone?

I don’t know how long I sat there, staring at the floor, the world blurring around me. Time lost all meaning. Eventually, I heard my father’s voice, faintly, still calling my name from the phone on the floor.

I picked it up with trembling hands. “Papa, how... how did it happen?”

“It’s a long story, Bella. I can’t explain everything over the phone. But you have to come back. We need you.”

Home. The word hit me like a blow to the chest. Returning meant stepping back into the world I had sworn to leave behind—the mafia life I had promised myself I’d never be part of again. But how could I refuse when Marco was dead and my family needed me?

“I’ll be there,” I whispered, the words barely audible.

“Thank you, Bella. I’ll send someone to pick you up.”

“No,” I interrupted. “I’ll drive up alone. I need some time to pack.”

Giovanni hesitated before sighing. “Fine. But come quickly.”

“I will. See you soon, Papa.” I ended the call, staring at the blank screen, my heart heavy with dread.

The De Luca Estate loomed before me, just as I remembered—grand, imposing, and shadowed by the weight of old secrets. Leaving New York had been a blur, my thoughts consumed by Marco. Now, as I pulled up to the mansion, anxiety twisted in my stomach. The driveway was lined with cars, and people dressed in black milled about, their faces etched with sorrow. It only drove the point home—Marco was really gone.

As I stepped out of the car, a familiar figure emerged from the mansion, walking toward me with slow, deliberate steps. Giovanni De Luca, my father, looked like a man carved from stone—his salt-and-pepper hair glinting in the moonlight, his face a mask of hollow-eyed grief.

“Papa,” I whispered, feeling like a child again as he enveloped me in a crushing hug. “Mi dispiace molto, Bella,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Mi dispiace. This didn’t have to be.” I nodded against his chest, unable to find my voice. We stood there, holding each other, until he finally pulled away and led me inside.

The interior of the mansion was as gloomy as the exterior. Every room seemed to mourn alongside us, the air heavy with the scent of lilies—Marco’s favorite. I drifted through the house in a daze, nodding at familiar faces and offering half-hearted smiles. The weight of my grief threatened to crush me, but I willed myself to stay strong—for my family, if not for myself.

Eventually, I found myself standing over Marco’s lifeless body. Seeing him so still, so pale, broke something inside me. He had always been so full of life, so full of energy and charm. The thought of him lying here, cold and lifeless, was too much to bear.

“Why, Marco?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Why did this have to happen?”

A voice behind me answered, low and cold. “Because he made enemies, Bella.”

I whirled around, my eyes narrowing as they fell on the man who had spoken. He was younger than I expected, probably not even in his mid-thirties, with dusky black eyes that seemed to see straight through me. His presence was commanding, almost magnetic, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

“Who are you?” I demanded, suspicion lacing my voice. “And what do you know about Marco?”

“I’m Enzo Romano,” he replied smoothly, holding out his hand. I ignored it. “I was an associate of your brother’s.”

“An associate?” I repeated, my voice sharp. “You mean you had something to do with the mess that got him killed?”

A faint smile curved his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Your brother was involved in many things, Bella. More than you know.”

Before I could respond, Giovanni appeared at my side, his expression unreadable. “Isabella, this is not the time,” he said firmly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll talk more later.”

Enzo’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “There are things we need to discuss, unfinished business that Marco left behind. The kind that could get a lot of people killed if we’re not careful.”

My heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

“Later,” Giovanni insisted, his tone brooking no argument. “For now, be content knowing that Enzo is here to help.”

Help? The word felt foreign coming from my father, and something about Enzo set my nerves on edge. There was an air of danger about him, something that whispered of hidden threats. But if he had information about Marco’s death, I couldn’t afford to ignore him.

“Okay,” I agreed, my eyes locking onto Enzo’s. “But I need to know everything.”

“And you will,” Enzo assured me, his voice low and steady. “But first, we need to make sure no one else gets hurt.”

He turned and walked away, leaving me with a thousand questions and a sinking feeling in my gut. I knew, as surely as I knew my own name, that my return to the family was just the beginning. Something worse was coming, and I couldn’t make myself run from it.

The day dragged on, and as the crowd began to thin, the weight of it all settled heavily on my shoulders. I was about to retreat to my room when Enzo reappeared at my side, his expression somber.

“We need to talk, Bella,” he whispered, his eyes scanning the room to make sure no one was listening. “About Marco’s unfinished business.”

My heart quickened. “What business?”

Enzo leaned in closer, his voice a whisper in my ear. “Let’s just say your brother was involved in something that could put us all in danger.”