Dangerous Vows

Isabella De Luca stood before the easel, poised in her fingers so that its bristles hovered just above the canvas. It was late into the afternoon, and the light that filtered through the large studio windows did so in a very gentle way with the warm, dancing strokes of color she had been applying meticulously to the canvas. There, this was her sanctuary, the one place where the noise of the world couldn't reach her. Here, she could get lost in the rhythm of the brush, lost in the quiet hum of creativity that was her solace through the years. However, today felt different. Even the soothing ritual of painting didn't dispel the gnawing sense of unease. Something seemed off, but she couldn't decide what. She hesitated for a second and then at long last set the brush to the canvas, making one bold stroke and applying a streak of crimson that almost could have been from another painting. She frowned and stepped back to view her work, as if to see it with new eyes. Yet, try as she might, she felt that inside, something could not just shake off the feeling that something was about to shatter her peace into pieces. It slashed through silence as a knife would through paper. Isabella started at the ringtone, setting her brush down as a convenient rag was near to wipe her hands on before she reached out to pick up the phone. Her heart leaped at the name that came up: Papa. It hadn't been idle curiosity that had prompted the call from her father, Giovanni De Luca. The ice had begun to thaw not long ago, when she had made the decision to leave the fold to practice her art in self-imposed obscurity in a one-bedroom walk-up in New York City. Giovanni had accepted her decision, though she knew it galled him grievously. They went on indefinitely. His calls were few and always very brief. He wouldn't be calling now unless something were very wrong. "Papa," answered the first daughter with a tone mixed with fear. "Bella," Giovanni's voice was heavy, laced with a sense of grief that made her blood run cold. He hadn't called her by that childhood nickname in years. "What's wrong?" Isabella asked, her hand tightening around the phone. The pause after the other end of the line was very, very long. And when Giovanni next spoke, his voice cracked. "It's Marco. He's “ he's gone." Livia felt the world tilt a little bit sideways. "Gone? Gone where?" she asked, but her voice was too loud, too high. "He's dead, Bella. Your brother is dead." The words just seemed to hang in the air, thick—smothering. Isabella's knees buckled, and she dropped back onto the stool behind her. The phone escaped from her hand and clattered to the floor. Dead? Marco? There was just no way. Gone? Her brother, who had been invincible to her all her life, was gone? She could not remember how long she had been sitting staring into the floor. She wouldn't have known whether these were seconds, minutes, or hours, because it was all blurry. At last, she could hear the faded phone lying on the floor with the calling of her father's voice. She picked up the phone and said, "Papa, how, how did it happen? "It's a long story, Bella. I can't explain all of that over the phone. But you have to come back here. We need you." She recoiled in horror. Home was just another way of returning to her life, to her world, to the Mafia world that she had promised never to partake in again. How could she say no, when Marco was dead and her family needed her? She, at least, would not refuse. "I'll be there," she repeated the words so softly. "Thank you, Bella. I will send someone to pick you up." "No," Isabella cut off barely two seconds into her protest. "I'll drive up alone. I just need some time to pack." Now, it was Giovanni who hesitated before he sighed, "Fine. But please, come quickly." "I will. See you soon, Papa." And with that, she ended the call, staring at the blank screen her heart heavy with the weight of what was to come. The De Luca Estate was as she remembered it: big, forbidding, and bathed in all the old-world charm that carried some sense of darkness. Goodbye to New York proved quick as thoughts flooded back to Marco. The car pulled straight up in front of the mansion, and anxiety twisted in Isabella's stomach. With cars lining the drive-away and people dressed in black milling about with faces etched in sorrow, great buzz was afoot on the estate. And this could only go on, digging the knot in her chest” to drive the point home” Marco was really gone. Then came a familiar figure from the mansion and began to walk toward her. It was Giovanni De Luca” the father” a mountain magnified by anger, his salt-and-pepper hair seeming to sparkle in the delicate fall of the moonlight around him. His face was a mask, hollow-eyed with grief. "Papa," Isabella whispered as she got out of the car. She already felt like a kid with his arms closing around her in a crushing hug. "Mi dispiace molto, Bella," he murmured; his voice was chokingly thick with emotion. "Mi dispiace. this didn't have to be." Against his chest, she nodded, unable to form words. They just held each other for a moment before Giovanni finally pulled her back and led her inside. The interior of the mansion was not different from the outer gloom; the gloom was inside too, where every colourful room now looked as if it was mourning for something. The lilies filled the air, favourite flowers of Marco's, and mingled with the hushed voices of all the people who had come to provide solace. She drifted pell-mell about the house, nodding and throwing half-c****d smiles at people who waved at her. The weight of her grief all but dropped her onto her knees, yet she willed herself to keep going, to be strong” for her family, even if not for herself. She soon found herself standing over the finality of Marco. To see her brother so still, so pale, hit her anew with a wave of pain as it dawned on her. He had always been alive, alive, full of energy, and charm” a constant whirlwind of energy and charm for any lady. To see him like this, cold and lifeless, was almost too much to fathom. "Why, Marco?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why did this have to happen?" The only response was that the sound of a voice had come from behind her. "Because he made enemies, *Bella.*" Isabella whirled to face him, narrowed eyes studying the man who in his introductions was always Lorenzo Romano, but to most everyone else he was an urban legend only spoken about in hushed tones” Enzo. He was several years younger than she had imagined, probably not even in his mid-thirties, and his dusky, black eyes seemed to lock onto her, looking straight through her soul. Something about his carriage, so in control as to give the impression he belonged with whoever had charge, pulled the attention of the entire room. "Who are you?" she marked, anyhow. "And what do you know about Marco?" "I'm Enzo Romano," he intoned in silk, holding out his hand, which she didn't take. "I was. an associate of your brother's." "An associate?" Isabella repeated, her voice gleaming with suspicion. "You mean you had something to do with this mess that got him killed?" It ticked around Enzo's lips for a moment before they curved. Faintly, not reaching his eyes. "Your brother was involved in so many things, *Bella.* More than you know." He cut off when Giovanni ducked Isabella's side with an expression unreadable on his face. "Isabella, this is not a good time” A hand was placed firmly on her shoulder. "We'll talk more later." "Indeed. There are things we need to discuss, unfinished business that Marco left behind." Enzo's smile faded, his expression replaced by cold calculation as he pressed on to become serious as a heart attack. "The kind that could get a lot of people killed if we're not careful." Isabella held her breath. "How do you mean?" Giovanni just kept talking, his tone allowing no room for argument. "Later, but for now be content in the knowledge that Enzo is here to help." Help? She wasn't exactly sure that was the term Enzo represented. There was something about the man that set her on edge” something that whispered danger. But if he had information as to who was responsible for Marco's death, she couldn't afford to ignore him. "Okay," she said at last, her eyes turning to take in Enzo's. "But I've got to know." "And you will," Enzo replied, his voice low and steady, "but first we got to make sure no one else gets hurt." He had made his ominous pronouncement and then retreated, leaving Isabella with a thousand questions and that sinking gut feeling. Somehow, just like her return to the family and the pronouncement, she knew it was a forbearer of something much worse. She could not make herself run now. The weight of the awful day settled onto Isabella with the scattering of the crowd that had come for the wake. But before she had a chance to retreat into the safe cocoon of her room, Enzo again emerged at her elbow, his meaning so somber his expression held. "We have to talk, Bella," he whispered, his eyes surveying the big room to make sure no one else could hear them. "Marco's unfinished business.” Isabella felt her heart quicken for a brief moment. "What business?" Enzo moved a little closer to her in a way that brought his voice to nothing more than a whisper above her ear. " Let's just say that your brother.