Page 69 of Vows Made in Silence

He trusted her—maybe more than he ever trusted me. He thought I’d fall in line. Thought I’d play heir to the hollowempire he left behind. He didn’t understand that I was never going to be anyone’s pawn.

I was born to flip the board.

So, they silenced Tommaso.

And my father let them.

The Bratva pulled the trigger, but Sal opened the door. He let them in, let them believe the Moretti family could be bought in pieces. And Gaetano? He was the price of admission. He gave them our routes, our ports, our soldiers. All for a seat at a table that was never theirs to begin with.

And when Tommaso started putting the puzzle together, they panicked.

They didn’t just kill my brother.

They made it look like an accident.

A statement.

The message was clear to my father.

But they underestimated me.

Now Sal’s standing there, not because he wants to confess.

But because there’s no one left to hide behind.

He knows.

“Turk,” I say, voice low. “Get Leo. Now.”

Turk disappears without a word, his boots heavy down the hall. The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s charged. Thick.

Sal’s hand twitches. Not to run. Not to reach for a weapon. He’s too smart for that. He knows he won’t make it to the street.

He steps inside, shutting the door behind him like a man walking into his own execution.

“You figured it out,” he says, calm as ever.

My fists clench. “You should’ve been the one to tell me.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Bullshit.” I step forward, the air between us turning electric. “You let Gaetano take the fall. You let Giuliana get hunted. You let then put a gun to my son's temple.”

His silence is an answer. One that slices deeper than any lie.

I stare at him—this man who stood beside my father, who was like an uncle to me, who taught me how to fire my first gun, who was there the night we buried Tommaso.

And all along, he was slipping blades between the bricks—quiet moves, whispered orders, deals made in shadow. Not loud. Not sloppy. Just sharp enough to cut without drawing attention. That’s how Sal operated. Not a soldier. A strategist. The kind of man who poisoned the well while guarding the gate.

“You were supposed to protect this family.”

“I did,” he says, eyes fierce. “I protected the family from itself.”

I don’t move. “You were in the network.”

“I was the network,” Sal breathes. “Your father built it. Your brother tried to dismantle it. And when he got too close—”

His jaw ticks. “I gave the order like a good solider and asked that it look like an accident.”