Page 55 of Vows Made in Silence

I tilt her chin up, kiss her forehead. Gently. Like a vow.

Then I grab a towel and start drying her off, slow and deliberate. She doesn’t protest—just watches me like she’s trying to memorize my face all over again.

But something flickers across her expression—gone too fast, like a shadow slipping behind her eyes.

“What is it?” I ask.

She hesitates. That heartbeat of silence is enough to tell me I’m not going to like the answer.

“I need to show you something,” she finally says.

My stomach knots. “What?”

She pulls away, grabs the shirt I left on the counter, and shrugs into it. “There’s a box. One I hid. Before everything. Before the safe house.”

My blood goes cold. “What kind of box?”

“The kind someone inside your family would kill to keep buried.”

I stare at her.

And suddenly, the steam in the bathroom feels like smoke..

I throw on a pair of joggers and follow her into the bedroom. She moves with purpose now—controlled, guarded, like she’s walking back into the past.

The softness is gone.

And that tells me whatever this is… it’s bad.

She pulls the worn duffel bag from beneath the bed—heavy, dusty, and wrapped in plastic. My pulse picks up. That bag isn’t just old. It’s hidden.

She unzips it slowly, as if unsealing a grave.

“There’s more,” she murmurs. “I didn’t understand what I had at first. I just knew it was dangerous. But Vittorio… he told the night he offered me the gallery job—he said if I ever feared for our lives again, to retrieve this and run.”

My jaw clenches. “You’re telling me my father knew about this?”

She nods, pulling out the first object—a thick envelope, yellowed at the edges and marked with three words in black ink:

IN CASE OF MY DEATH.

Inside are photographs. Dozens of them. Surveillance shots. Some recent, some old. Faces I recognize: rival bosses. Corrupt politicians. And members of my own goddamn inner circle.

Turk. Leo. Even Sal.

Giuliana’s hand trembles as she passes me the final photo. One I know instantly.

Anthony Gallo. In my father’s office. Another one standing over my father's body at the funeral home. Smiling.

I go cold.

“You’re sure this wasn’t doctored?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

She shakes her head. “There’s more. Documents—bank accounts, off-book trades, deeds hidden under shell companies. Your father was keeping records, Luca. On everyone. Even you.”

“And Gallo?”

She nods. “It looks like he was trying to bleed the Moretti legacy dry from the inside. Vittorio found out… and paid the price.”