Page 90 of Savage Vows

Her eyebrows draw together, and her silence gnaws at the edges of my composure, but I don’t stop to explain. There isn’t time, and there aren’t words. I have too many people counting on me—and too many people waiting for me to fail.

The past few days have been hell. I’ve barely slept, barely eaten. Seeing my mother shattered like that…

I can’t shake the image.

Her grief is endless, like an abyss, and I’ve stood at the edge of it, supporting her because the family can’t afford for her to fall.

Every day, we’ve been at her house. Well-wishers and endless trays of food have cycled through the doors, a parade of people trying to prove their loyalty, trying to be seen. They’ve been speaking in whispers, eyes darting. There are no answers, no leads, and no reprieve.

More and more, I understand why Alessia wanted no part of this life.

Before Alessia can say anything else, the crunch of tires on the driveway echoes through the rain-drenched silence.

I glance out the rain-splattered window. Nico. Always the first to arrive.

Alessia comes to stand in front of me, taking hold of my lapels, her fingers curling tight into the fabric like she’s holdingon to more than just me. “I miss you, Matteo.” Her voice is quiet, threaded with rawness that digs under my skin.

Since the night of our wedding, we haven’t had sex, and I haven’t spent more than two or three hours in bed at any time.

I can’t meet her eyes for long. “Alessia.” My tone is sharper than I mean it to be, but it’s the best I can manage.

She releases me like I’ve burned her, and her hands fall to her sides. With a step back, she tells me, “I’ll keep the coffeepot filled.” The fatalistic resignation in her words twists through my chest.

“There’s one in the bunker,” I reply automatically. I hear my own words and want to take them back, but my mind has already moved on, toward the constant battles that are looming.

“I won’t bother you then.”

“We leave for my mother’s in three hours,” I remind her. Where we’ll pick her up and begin the journey to the church.

“I’ll be ready.” My wife is polite, distant, and that’s worse than her earlier frustration.

I glance out the window. Nico is walking toward the house, his stride steady and deliberate despite the rain. The idea of him seeing her like this sends arrows of possessiveness through me.

I capture her wrist and lower my voice. “Get upstairs. Now.”

Her eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, I think she might argue. But then she nods, pulling away and retreating up the stairs without a word.

The door opens, and Nico enters, shaking off his umbrella. His expression is grim, and he offers a faint smile that I barely register. Moments later, Dante joins us, his presence more a force of nature than a man as he shrugs off his coat.

Cursory greetings exchanged, they follow me to the bunker, my secure space. Reinforced steel walls are hidden behind paneled wood, giving the room the appearance of an executive office rather than a fortress. A long mahogany table dominatesthe center, polished to a mirror-like finish and flanked by high-backed leather chairs.

Built-in screens line one wall, quietly displaying live security feeds and critical information. The hum of discreetly placed lighting makes it feel as if we’re not in a fortress.

I take my seat at the head of the table. Nico is on my right, Dante on my left.

Watching me carefully, Dante crosses his arms. “What’s the agenda?”

I lean forward to rest my forearms on the table. “We need to solidify the hierarchy. If there’s a power vacuum, someone will exploit it.”

In the past few days, no one has made any overt moves. Instead, people have been respectful. I know that will all change the moment the first shovel of dirt hits the top of my father’s casket.

As his underboss, I moved into the position of Don the moment the monitor signaled a flatline.

But my position is temporary, and I need to know who’s with me and who’s not.

I consider my brother—our enforcer. He’s one of the people who may consider a challenge. “Dante, do you want the top spot?”

Dante raises a brow, his expression momentarily unreadable. “That’s your role, Matteo. You’ve been groomed for it, not me.”

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