Page 1 of Vows Made in Silence
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Buried Oaths
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.
