Page 2 of Vows Made in Silence
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The exhibit goes off without a hitch. Donors toast. Critics nod in reverent approval. The gallery hums with praise and the quiet thrill of rising reputation.
No Moretti. No storm. Just the careful success I fought tooth and nail to build.
I exhale, almost believing the rumor was wrong. I need to believe art is the last thing on his mind.
I signal the staff to begin ushering out the final guests. One more pass through the room, and I’ll lock it down.
Then the double doors slam open—
shattering the gallery’s calm.
A wall of muscle in tailored suits enters first—three men, silent and watchful. Vitelli’s men. But not just capos. These are old-world enforcers, raised in blood and baptized in silence. They sweep the room like predators.
And behind them...
Geno Roselli.
He walks into my gallery like he owns the ground beneath it. Like this is a battlefield and every piece of art is a landmine.
He doesn’t want to be greeted. Doesn’t remove his gloves. His coat stays on—sharp and black, like a tailored threat. The men flanking him halt just behind, hands folded, still as tombstones.
“Who’s in charge here?” he asks, voice weighty with power and a thousand buried bodies.
I step forward before anyone else can. “I am.”
His gaze flicks to me—surprised, then intrigued. Possessive. His eyes travel down, slow and unapologetic, stripping me bare with the kind of entitlement only men like him can afford. A mafia move wrapped in silk and steel.
He steps closer, voice dropping low. “You run this place? Then I want to make a purchase. Something expensive. Something unforgettable.”
Tension coils in the air, thick and electric.
“Of course,” I reply, gesturing to the central installation. “We have several exclusive pieces that—”
“No,” he cuts in. “I don’t care what it is. Just make sure everyone knows I bought it—and sees me pay for it.”
I blink. “Is this... a donation?”
He leans in, smile razor-thin. “A gesture. I’ve got a sit-down tonight with a rival family. Neutral ground. High stakes. Word is he’s got a hard-on for modern art. Collects it. Respects it. I need something rare. One-of-a-kind. A piece that speaks louder than any alliance.”
His voice hardens. “I’m sparing no expense, so don’t show me something they auction off at charity galas. This isn’t abouttaste. It’s about sending a message. I want it to hit him between the eyes.”
I say nothing. Frozen. My throat goes dry.
“And if he doesn’t like it?” His smile vanishes. “Then I’ll be back. And someone will pay for wasting my time—with blood. One bullet. One body. That’s the cost of disappointment.”
My heart pounds.
“You understand now?” he asks, head tilting. “The purchase is for show. The war, if it comes, won’t be.”
The air drains from my lungs. A wave of nausea rises—thick and burning. My sanctuary is being turned into a battlefield, and I can’t breathe through the dread tightening in my chest.
Geno Roselli is using my gallery as a stage in a mafia negotiation.
He turns to his men. “Let’s make it quick.”
I force my legs to move, guiding him toward the private alcove where we keep the high-value, off-the-record works—pieces too volatile for public display. My voice doesn’t falter, but my grip on the door handle aches.
