Page 5 of Vows Made in Silence
The bastard never told me where she went.
—
Outside, the Chicago night doesn’t care.
The city is alive with its usual sins— seduction, whispered threats, deals sealed with blood. I walk the pavement like a ghost, the heat rising off the concrete no match for the fury simmering beneath my skin.
Every step echoes with the memory of that night—driving to her house, running up the walkway, only to find the place gutted. Empty. Gone. It was like the entire family had never existed. Eighteen years of history erased in a single breath.
I stood in that doorway, fists clenched, rage boiling in my veins. I convinced myself she was weak. That she couldn’t stomach the life we were stepping into. That she didn’t love me—not enough to stay, not enough to fight. I cursed her name, hated her more with each passing day until the anger became my armor.
But the truth was?
She didn’t run.
She was erased. Erased by the same man who crowned me in blood and called it legacy.
She wasn’t weak—she was sacrificed.
I stop when I realize I am at the edge of the hospital's rooftop parking garage, staring upward toward a kingdom we call Heaven. The city pulses below, a vein of wealth and corruption I own. Somewhere out there, she’s breathing the same air, carrying a truth I should have known.
I clench my fists at my sides with tears welling up in my eyes.
Guiliana, I scream. I am sorry!
—
I don’t remember the drive to the penthouse.
One minute I’m on that rooftop, fists full of fury and memory—the next, I’m in the elevator, staring at my reflection in the polished chrome, jaw tight, blood roaring in my ears. I look like my father now. Cold. Unmoved. A man carved by legacy and violence.
But inside, I am wounded.
The doors open to the top floor with a soft chime, and I step into the silence of my private fortress. Glass walls frame the skyline like a battlefield. The room is all steel and shadow—like me. A shrine to power. Control. Solitude.
I head straight for the ledger.
It’s black, leather-bound, and older than some of my enemies. I don’t use it for business. Not the official kind. This book is personal. Names that cost me something. Names that owe me something. Names I swore I’d never forget.
I flip to a fresh page.
Her name comes out before I even realize I’ve spoken.
“Giuliana Vitale.”
Her name slices through the air like a vow.
I write it in ink so dark it looks like blood. Then I circle it—once, slow. Deliberate.
She was taken from me. Buried in lies. But now she’s risen like a ghost, and I have to find her. Not just for closure. Not just for vengeance.
For the truth.
Because if my father tore us apart, I want to know why.
She had to have changed her name. I know she did. Because I looked for her for years, when the rage still burned fresh and I thought she’d walked away by choice—I searched every database, every backdoor, every digital shadow. And got nowhere. It was like she’d never existed.
But I know better now.
