Page 3 of Vows Made in Silence

“This piece came in from a private estate in New York,” I say, motioning to a brutalist abstraction—grey on grey, with slashes of crimson like ghost wounds on a battlefield. Stark. Imposing. A collector’s dream.

Roselli doesn’t glance at it.

His gaze slips past, predator-sharp, locking onto the back wall where a velvet curtain hides a single spotlighted frame.

I hesitate. My pulse flutters. Then I move.

“This one’s not for sale,” I begin, but even I don’t believe the words as I pull the curtain aside.

Light spills over a bold red-and-white label, framed in minimalist steel.

Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Can.

A cultural grenade. Bold, ironic, subversive. It screams American legacy and mafia wealth in equal measure.

Geno’s eyes sharpen. His lips twitch—not quite a smile.

“Warhol,” he murmurs. “Now that... that sends a message.”

I start to protest. “This one’s not for sale—”

“It is now,” he snaps. Then softer, lethal: “You’ll be paid. Generously. But if the new Don doesn’t smile when he sees it, I’ll be back, Julia.”

He scrawls his name across the slip like a brand on flesh. “Let’s hope he appreciates art as much as he values loyalty.”

I stare at the painting, stomach curling.

It was never meant to be sold. Not this one.

It was a gift—from Luca.

Back when we were reckless and in love. Before the blood and silence.

We’d spent the day museum-hopping, laughing at how he couldn’t tell a Monet from a Modigliani. But when we stood in front of Warhol’s work, his hand found mine.

“I like it,” he said. “It’s honest. No frills. Just... exactly what it is.”

Later that night—our last night—he gave me the print. We were tangled together on his bed, young and defiant, dreaming of afuture that never came. He held it up like a promise. Like we could be two identical cans, sealed and safe, side by side forever.

Now it’s leverage.

Now it’s currency.

And I just sold it to a man who might start a war with it.

2

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Built on a Lie

Even in the best room this hospital has to offer, the stench of antiseptic and dying breath clings to the walls. The air is thick with it—clinical, sterile, and still laced with the inescapable scent of death.

It’s too bright in here—whitewashed death under fluorescent light. I sit beside the bed, motionless, staring at the man who once ruled with a voice that could crack stone and hands that never shook. Now, those hands twitch with tremors. That voice is a gravelly whisper drowning beneath oxygen tubes and regret.

Vittorio Moretti.

My father.