Page 2 of Of Oaths and Secrets

“Do you feel that, Sergio?” I whisper, twisting the blade slowly, deliberately, until I see the raw, naked fear in his eyes. “That’s your loyalty tearing apart—every scream, every drop of blood. The only thing I want to hear from you is names. Anything else, and I’ll cut off your tongue and make you swallow it. Clear?” I pull the knife out slowly, savoring his agony, and wipe the blade clean on his pant leg.

“Rafaele, don’t do that. You’re a monster!”

I spin around with such speed that Sofia flinches, her eyes wide with fear. “You shut your mouth, Sofia!” I roar, my voice reverberating through the cold, sterile space. My gaze pins her in place, her trembling reflecting the gravity of her situation. “You should thank me for sparing you. Don't push your luck. Your husband is a traitor and a fool, and you’re a poor excuse for a wife if you say you didn’t know what he was doing,” I add,knowing that their lifestyle has been way over their pay grade for a long time now.

I turn back around and plant the knife in his other hand. “Names. Now!”

Sergio’s resolve shatters. He whimpers, then starts to talk—names and details spilling out between sobs and gasps. I listen intently, committing every name to memory, each new traitor marked for retribution.

“Fucking Russians.” My face mirrors my disgust. “With all the people you could have betrayed us with, you picked the Russians.”

I turn to Paolo. “Dispatch the Italians he named. The Russians can wait.” I turn back toward Sergio. “I traditori soffrono una morte da traditori… lunga, patetica e silenziosa.”Traitors suffer traitors' deaths… long, pathetic, and silent.I position the knife just below his Adam’s apple, feeling the slight resistance of his skin before the blade slices through. His vocal cords sever with a grisly crunch, silencing his screams into muted gurgles. With deliberate precision, I draw the knife along the side of his throat, creating a shallow yet fatal incision. Blood wells up, flowing in a slow, inexorable stream. His eyes widen in panic as he struggles to breathe, each ragged gasp filling his lungs with blood, the life slowly draining from his body. It will be long for him, seconds feeling like minutes. This silent death takes ten minutes.

I turn to Sofia, her struggles growing more frantic as two men hold her in place. "Now for your punishment," I say, my voice cold. As I approach her, I snap my fingers. One of the men hands me a roll of tape. With measured calm, I tear off a strip, forcing her eyelids open and securing the tape. "You'll watch him die," I whisper. "And remember the price of betrayal." Her eyes are wide, unblinking, filled with horror as they fixate on Sergio’s dying form. “They call me Il Mietitore because I am thesilent reaper, the shadow that looms, the embodiment of Death. Betrayal ignites my wrath, transforming me into an instrument of fate—inescapable, relentless. Cross that line, and your fate is sealed, as unavoidable as dusk swallowing light. In our world, loyalty binds us; sever it, and you invoke a demise most grim and certain.”

She lets out a shout of fury. “You are a monster, Rafaele, a cruel beast. I pity the poor soul who ends up marrying you.”

“So do I, Sofia,” I murmur softly, leaning in until our gazes lock, the truth of my words sinking in. “So do I.”

I walk out, Sofia's anguished cries and Sergio's gurgles fading behind me. The night air is cold and biting, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked heat inside. This is the life I’ve chosen, the life I excel at—ruthless, relentless, and just. Tonight, I’ve reminded them all why they call me Il Mietitore, the silent reaper in the darkness. And I wear that name with pride.

Chapter One

Nora

Iscoop a dollop of batter onto my finger and close my eyes as the rich, sweet flavor melts on my tongue. Chocolate and coconut—heavenly!

Baking is my escape, a small piece of joy in a world where happiness is a rare commodity.

Opening the cabinet, I pull out the endless spice rack. It’s a shame our chef only uses them for her traditional Italian dishes, but she loves me enough to let me experiment with my cakes.

I tap my finger on the marble countertop as I read the names of the spices. “Ah! Cardamom will do.” I add a pinch and begin transferring the batter into two molds, tensing as I hear my mother’s familiar heels clicking down the corridor.

She strolls in, dressed in her red silk robe, a dry martini in her hand. She sighs and takes a sip, her eyes glassy from the pills and alcohol. I glance at the clock; it’s barely ten a.m. She’s starting early, as always, on my birthday.

She notices my gaze and purses her lips. “It’s twelve somewhere, darling. What are you doing?”

“Baking my birthday cake. I’m making my new creation, the Tropical Delight Cake,” I say with a hint of pride. “It’s a coconutand chocolate base with a hint of cardamom.” I open the oven and slide in the cake pans. “I’ll layer it with mango puree and passion fruit curd and finish with a light coconut frosting and toasted coconut flakes.” I smile at her. “What do you think?”

She looks at the ingredients on the counter, then back at me and sighs. “You’re a mess.”

I shrug. “It’s half the fun.”

“Nora, darling, why do you keep baking cakes that no one else eats?”

I shrug again and start on the filling. It’s not true—my father and the house staff always enjoy my cakes. My mother never eats them, but that’s probably because she drinks too much and takes too many pills to be hungry.

“You’re twenty-two now. Why not call Gervais? It’s the best patisserie in town, and they can bake you a diet cake.” She looks pointedly at my waist. “You need to ease off on the baking, sweetheart. There’s a fine line between being curvy and fat, and well… You’re walking it.”

Her words sting, as they always do when she mentions my weight “for my own good,” but I’ve learned to brush it off. She’s on the other end of the spectrum—stick thin, likely due to her vices.

“Oh, don’t look so annoyed. I’m saying this because I love you. You’re loving cake too much, and it shows.”

"You know, maybe you should lay off the alcohol. It's starting to show on your skin." I know vanity is all that matters to her now.

She narrows her eyes, finishes her glass in one go, and walks away without another word. Probably to make another drink.

I sigh, looking at the kitchen door. No matter what she tells me, I’m never angry. I don’t even dislike her. Mostly, I pity her because I know she hasn't always been like this. I've seen photosof her when she was young, before she married my dad or even on her wedding day.

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