A Crown of Silent Vows

Chapter 1

Phoebe

“Are you even listening to me?” Marco hisses, his voice a low grate that barely disturbs the funereal quiet of the room. “Fix your face. You look weak.”

I keep my eyes fixed on the polished mahogany of my father’s casket. The scent of lilies and formaldehyde is so thick I can taste it. Weak. If he only knew. I am a pillar of salt, a statue carved from ice. One wrong move and I might shatter, but I will not melt. I will not cry.

“I’m mourning, Marco,” I say, my voice a perfect, measured whisper. “It’s what people do at funerals.”

“We are not people,” he snaps. He gestures vaguely at the gold-leaf trim on the ceiling, the velvet ropes, the armed men standing like statues by every door. “We are Sterlings. And the new head of this family needs his sister to look like a princess, not a peasant.”

I finally turn my head to look at him. My older brother. He wears our father’s signet ring, but it looks like a toy on his finger. His suit is tailored to perfection, trying to add breadth to shoulders that are not broad enough to carry the weight he now thinks he owns. He is all bluster and cheap cologne, a hollow imitation of a powerful man. He projects authority the way a child wears his father’s shoes: clumsily, and with the constant fear of tripping.

“And the new head of this family,” I reply, my voice dropping even lower, “should be more concerned with the vipers in this room than with my expression.”

His jaw tightens. A flash of anger, predictable and impotent, crosses his face before he smooths it over with a smirk. “Always the clever one, aren’t you, Phoebe? Don’t worry your pretty little head about the vipers. I have them under control.”

I almost laugh. He has nothing under control. I can see it in the way Uncle Matteo keeps glancing at the door, his hand never straying far from the bulge under his jacket. I can see it in the nervous sweat on Gianni’s brow, a capo who controls the docks and probably thinks he should be the one wearing that ring. Marco sees a room of loyal soldiers. I see a room full of wolves, circling, smelling the blood in the water. My father is gone. The king is dead. And the prince is a fool.

“Of course you do,” I murmur, turning back to the casket. The conversation is over. He has postured, and I have dismissed him. It is a dance we have perfected over two decades.

The heavy oak doors at the back of the parlor swing open. A hush falls over the room so suddenly it feels like the air has been stolen from my lungs. Every capo, every soldier, every cousin turns. Marco straightens his tie, a nervous tick he thinks makes him look commanding.

It doesn’t.

Isaac Lorne walks in. He walks in as if he owns the ground beneath his feet, as if this is his victory celebration, not our family’s darkest day. He is young, my age perhaps, but he moves with the chilling certainty of a man who has never known doubt. Dark hair, eyes that miss nothing, and a suit so black it seems to absorb the light around him. He is flanked by only two men, a quiet declaration of power. I do not need an army to walk into the lion’s den.

The feud between the Sterlings and the Lornes is a story written in blood on the city’s streets. His father killed my uncle. My father, in return, took his. This bloody cycle has been our entire lives. And now, Isaac, the new Don of the Lorne family, has the gall to stand in our funeral home, before the body of the man he considered his greatest enemy.

Marco takes a step forward, his chest puffed out. “What are you doing here, Lorne?”

Isaac’s eyes drift past my brother as if he is nothing more than a piece of furniture. They land on me. For a second, a single beat of a hummingbird’s wing, our gazes lock. I expect to see hatred, or triumph. Instead, I see… something else. An assessment. A cold, calculating intelligence that mirrors my own. I see a flicker of defiance in his gaze, a challenge. I am the only person in this room he seems to truly see.

He gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod in my direction before addressing the room at large. His voice is calm, smooth. “I came to pay my respects. Enzo Sterling was a great man. A worthy adversary.”

Every word is a perfectly chosen insult wrapped in the guise of respect. He is marking his territory. He is telling every man in this room that the war is over because he has already won.

Marco’s face turns a shade of purple I find deeply satisfying. “Get out.”

“Marco,” a voice says. It is Uncle Matteo, his hand now resting on Marco’s arm. “He is a guest. We will show him the respect due.”

Matteo’s words are for everyone. They are a reminder of the old rules, the traditions my father held so dear. Even in war, there is etiquette. Isaac Lorne has made a bold move, a power play of the highest order. To throw him out would be a sign of weakness, of fear. Marco does not understand this. He only understands brute force and his own fragile ego.

Isaac walks slowly toward the casket. He does not look at my father. He looks at me again. His eyes trace the lines of my black dress, my face, my gloved hands clasped in front of me. I feel like a specimen under a microscope. I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. I will not give him the satisfaction. I will not show weakness. Not now, not ever.

He stops, dips his head in a gesture of finality, and turns. He walks out as silently as he came in. The room exhales as one. The tension bleeds away, replaced by a low, furious murmur.

Marco rounds on Matteo. “What was that? You let him disrespect our father’s memory!”

“He did not disrespect him, Marco,” Matteo says, his voice weary. “He put us on notice. He declared a new era. And you, you almost played right into his hands.”

My brother sputters, but he has no response. He stalks away to a corner to brood, surrounded by his sycophants who will tell him how strong he looked. I watch him go. This is how we lose. Not with a bang, but with the slow, steady rot of my brother’s incompetence.

Later, at the estate, the air is thick with cigar smoke and the clinking of whiskey glasses. The mood is dark. The soldiers are restless. Isaac Lorne’s appearance has shaken them, made them question the strength of their new leader.

The capos, the old guard who served my father for decades, are gathered in the library. They call it ‘the council.’ My father never allowed me in these meetings. ‘It is not a woman’s place,’ he would say. But tonight, Marco, in a rare moment of wanting to show me off like a prize, insisted I be there. He wants me to witness his power. He is too blind to see I am witnessing his failure.

I sit in a high-backed chair near the fireplace, silent, observing. They think I am merely decorative. A porcelain doll in a black dress. They do not know I spent my childhood listening at this very door. I know their secrets. I know Gianni skims from the ports. I know old Sal has a gambling problem. I know Marco’s right hand man, Leo, is feeding information to the press for pocket money. I know their weaknesses, their fears, their petty ambitions.

“The Lornes will strike soon,” Gianni says, his voice gravelly. “Isaac is not his father. He’s more aggressive. Smarter.”

“We strike first,” Marco declares, slamming his hand on the large oak desk. The gesture is so performative, so childish, I have to hide a smile behind my hand. “We show them that the Sterling family has not lost its teeth.”

Uncle Matteo sighs. He looks a hundred years old tonight. “A war now would be suicide, Marco. We are not ready. Your father’s death has left us exposed.”

“So we just wait for them to pick us off one by one?” Marco scoffs. “That is the talk of a coward.”

Matteo’s eyes flash with a dangerous light. “Watch your tongue, boy. I was a capo when you were still in diapers.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the room. The challenge hangs in the air. Marco has overstepped. He has the title, but he does not have the respect. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

It is Sal, the oldest of them all, who finally speaks. His voice is thin and reedy, but it cuts through the tension like a razor. “There is another way. An old way. A way to guarantee peace.”

All eyes turn to him. Even Marco looks intrigued, desperate for a solution that does not involve him having to prove his mettle.

“An alliance,” Sal continues, his gaze sweeping the room before it lands, with a dreadful finality, on me. “A bond of blood and marriage. The Lornes have a new Don. We have a daughter of the family. A truce, sealed by a wedding.”

My blood runs cold. The room is utterly silent. I can hear the crackle of the fire, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. It feels like my own heart has stopped beating. They are talking about selling me. Selling me like a prize horse to our mortal enemy to prevent a war my brother is too weak to fight.

I look at Marco. He is staring at me, a strange look on his face. He is processing the idea. I can see the gears turning in his selfish, simple mind. No war. No risk to his own skin. He gets to keep the throne, and all it costs is his sister.

A slow, ugly smile spreads across his face. He lets out a short, sharp laugh.

“Well, Phoebe,” he says, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. He leans back in our father’s chair, spreading his arms wide as if presenting the most brilliant idea in the world.

“Looks like you’re finally good for something.”

The words hit me harder than a physical blow. All my life, I have been dismissed. The quiet one. The smart girl who was good with books, but not with the family business. The pretty decoration to be seen and not heard. And now, my only value, my entire worth, is to be a sacrificial lamb. A peace treaty with a pretty face.

I feel a hot rage building in my chest, a fire that threatens to consume me. I want to scream. I want to throw the crystal glass on the table at my brother’s smug face. I want to tell these old men that I am worth more than all of them combined.

But I don’t. I do what I have always done. I swallow the rage. I push it down deep, letting it cool into something hard and sharp. Something I can use.

I look from Marco’s sneering face to Uncle Matteo’s resigned one, to Sal’s expectant gaze. They are all looking at me. The pawn. They think they are deciding my fate, moving me across the board to protect their king.

They have no idea. This is not a sentence. It is an opening. They are not putting me in a cage. They are sending a spy into the heart of the enemy’s camp. They see a marriage. I see a new chessboard.

I lift my chin, my spine straightening into a rod of steel. I let my gaze sweep over each of them, meeting their eyes one by one. I let them see the shift in me. The porcelain doll is gone. In her place is something else. Something they should have been afraid of all along.

My voice, when I finally speak, is calm and clear, without a single tremor.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll marry him.”

Chapter 2

Isaac

The whiskey is older than I am. I roll the liquid in the heavy crystal tumbler, watching the legs cling to the glass. It burns on the way down, a familiar fire that does nothing to warm the ice in my veins.

My father’s office. It still smells of him. Leather, cigar smoke, and that faint, metallic scent of ambition. Or maybe that’s just blood.

“The council has agreed,” Leo says from the doorway. He does not knock. He never has. He was my father’s consigliere, and now he is mine. He is a fixture, as permanent as the mahogany desk and the shadows in the corners.

“Of course they agreed,” I say, not turning. “Old men love sending young women to solve problems they can’t.”

Leo walks into the room. The sound of his leather shoes on the Persian rug is a soft, steady rhythm. “They see a path to peace, Isaac. A way to stop the bleeding. The Sterlings proposed it. It shows they are weak.”

“It shows Marco Sterling is a moron,” I correct him, finally turning to face him. “He would trade his queen to save a pawn. He doesn’t realize his sister might be the most valuable piece on his board.”

Leo raises a silver eyebrow. He is a man of few expressions, each one carefully chosen. “You think she is valuable?”

I think back to the funeral. The oppressive scent of lilies. The sea of black suits. The simmering hatred in a room full of our enemies. And her. Phoebe Sterling.

I expected a ghost. A weeping, pale thing draped in black lace, propped up by her family. That is what women in our world are supposed to be in times of grief. Decorative sorrows.

She was not that.

She stood by that casket like a statue. Cold, still, perfect. When Marco postured and puffed out his chest, her eyes showed nothing but contempt. Not for me. For him. For her own blood.

And when I walked in, when every Sterling soldier looked ready to draw their weapon, she was the only one who met my gaze without fear.

“I saw her at the funeral,” I say, my voice low. “She is not what they think she is.”

“She’s Enzo’s daughter,” Leo states, as if it is that simple. “Raised in a palace. Kept away from the business. She is a princess, nothing more.”

“No.” I shake my head, picturing her eyes. Dark, intelligent, and holding a spark of something I recognized. Defiance. “I looked at her, and she looked back. She wasn’t looking at the new Lorne Don. She was looking at an opponent. She was assessing me.”

A small, humorless laugh escapes me. “Marco is a child playing with his father’s gun. He will be easy to break. But her… She is a Sterling. She has her father’s blood. Enzo was a snake, but he was a clever one.”

Leo moves to the wet bar and pours himself a small glass of water. He is a man of discipline. “The marriage is a political necessity. It ends a war that has cost us thirty-two men and millions in lost revenue. It solidifies your position. It shows you are a man of reason, not just a man of war like your father was.”

The unspoken words hang in the air between us. A war his father started. A war that got him killed.

“My father believed in strength,” I say, the words tasting like ash. “He would see this as a surrender.”

“Your father is dead,” Leo says, his voice devoid of malice but sharp with truth. “And his idea of strength left us vulnerable. This marriage makes us stronger. It brings the Sterling territories under our influence. It gives us a window into their operations. You are the one who has to lead now, Isaac. In your own way.”

He is right. He is always right. But the idea of it, the thought of binding myself to one of them, it feels like swallowing poison.

“She will be a spy,” I say flatly. “A snake in my own house. You can be sure Marco will use her to listen, to watch.”

“Marco is not that strategic.”

“But she might be.”

I walk to the large window that overlooks the city. The lights glitter below, a kingdom of glass and steel built on secrets and violence. My kingdom. I am its king, and I will not have my reign ended by a woman with clever eyes.

“You are marrying her,” Leo says. It is not a question.

“Yes.” I turn back from the window. “It is a necessary evil. The truce holds. The families see a united front. The other players in this city will think twice before making a move.”

I drain my glass and set it down on the desk with a heavy click. The sound echoes in the quiet room.

“But I want her watched, Leo. Every minute of every day.”

Leo nods slowly, his expression unreadable. “You think that is necessary?”

“I think it is essential for survival,” I counter. “When she moves into this house, I want our best people on it. I want her rooms bugged. Her phone, her computer, everything she touches. I want to know who she talks to, what she says. I want to know if she whispers our secrets in her sleep.”

“That seems… extreme,” Leo ventures, a rare hint of caution in his voice.

“Extreme is what keeps us alive,” I reply, my voice hard. “I am not my father. I will not be blinded by tradition or pride. I will not underestimate an enemy, especially one I am inviting into my bed.”

The thought is a bitter one. This woman, this Sterling princess, will be my wife. A title that should mean trust, loyalty, partnership. For us, it will mean suspicion. A cold war fought under one roof.

“She will be under constant surveillance,” Leo confirms, the discussion over. He knows my tone. He knows when a decision has been made.

“Good. Use your most trusted men. No one else is to know. To the rest of the family, she is my wife, the sign of our new era of peace. They will treat her with respect. But you and I will know the truth.”

“And what is the truth, Isaac?”

I look him dead in the eye. “The truth is that the war is not over. It has just moved indoors.”

Leo gives a single, sharp nod and leaves the room, closing the heavy doors behind him. The silence descends again, thicker this time.

I am left alone with the ghost of my father and the impending arrival of my bride. I feel a strange mix of emotions. Wariness, certainly. A cold, calculated resolve to stay ten steps ahead of whatever game she thinks she is playing.

But underneath it all, there is something else. Something I am reluctant to name. A flicker of curiosity.

Most people in my world are predictable. Their motives are simple: greed, fear, power. They are easy to read, easy to manipulate. But Phoebe Sterling… that spark in her eyes at the funeral was not simple. It was not grief or fear. It was a silent challenge.

She looked at me like she knew she was a pawn, but she was already planning how to become a queen.

It is a distasteful arrangement, a necessary political maneuver. I tell myself that over and over. But I cannot shake the feeling that this marriage will be more than a truce.

It will be a battle of wills.

And I have no intention of losing.

Chapter 3

Phoebe

The dress is a lie.

It is made of ivory silk and Italian lace, a confection of innocence I have never owned. It weighs a ton, each pearl and crystal sewn into the bodice a tiny anchor pulling me down. They think this veil hides a blushing bride. It hides a soldier preparing for a new kind of war.

My reflection in the gilt mirror is a stranger. A pale, perfect doll crafted for sacrifice. Her eyes, though. Her eyes are mine. They are not soft or demure. They are hard chips of obsidian.

The door opens without a knock.

“It’s time,” Marco says. He fills the doorway, his tuxedo straining at the shoulders. He looks me up and down, a slow, appraising glance, like a butcher inspecting a cut of meat.

“Don’t you look pretty,” he says, a sneer playing on his lips. “A perfect little lamb for the slaughter.”

I say nothing. I adjust the diamond earring that once belonged to our mother. He hates it when I wear her things.

“Don’t trip on your way down the aisle, little sister.” He steps into the room, the scent of his cheap ambition filling the space. “And remember your place. Isaac Lorne is your husband now. Your Don.”

I meet his gaze in the mirror. “I am aware of the terms of my sale, Marco.”

His face flushes. “You are ungrateful. I am saving this family.”

“You are saving yourself,” I correct him, my voice a silken thread. “And you used me to do it.”

He takes another step closer, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. For a moment, I think he might actually hit me. Part of me wishes he would try.

But he is a coward. He always has been.

He stops, forcing a laugh that sounds like grinding glass. He straightens his bow tie, his composure a fragile mask.

“Just be a good little wife,” he finally says, the words dripping with poison. “Make the Sterling name useful for once.”

He turns and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, and I am alone with the stranger in the mirror again. A good little wife.

The words echo in the silent room. A promise of obedience. A vow of submission.

I pick up my bouquet of white roses. The thorns have been carefully removed. A shame.

I could have used them.

The church is cavernous and cold. Hundreds of faces turn to watch me as I walk the long aisle on Uncle Matteo’s arm. Half of these faces belong to my family, their expressions a mixture of pity and relief. The other half belong to the Lornes. Their stares are not pitiful. They are knives. They see a Sterling. They see the enemy.

I keep my eyes forward. At the end of the aisle, Isaac Lorne is waiting. He stands perfectly still, a statue carved from shadows and steel. His black tuxedo is a stark contrast to the white marble of the altar. He watches my approach, his face an unreadable mask. There is no warmth in his eyes. Only assessment. He is calculating my worth, my threat level.

Uncle Matteo’s hand tightens on my arm. “Be strong, little one,” he whispers, his voice thick with a sorrow I cannot afford to feel.

He places my hand in Isaac’s. His skin is cold, or maybe it’s just that mine is burning. His grip is firm, possessive. It is not the touch of a groom. It is the touch of a man taking ownership of a new acquisition.

We turn to face the priest. The ceremony is a blur of ancient words and hollow promises. To love. To honor. To obey.

When I say “I do,” the words taste like ash in my mouth. My voice does not tremble. It is clear and steady. A declaration of war, not of love.

Isaac’s “I do” is a low, rumbling sound that seems to shake the very foundations of the church. A promise of dominion.

He slides a heavy platinum band onto my finger. It feels like a shackle.

The priest says, “You may kiss the bride.”

The world holds its breath. Isaac turns to me. His eyes are dark, bottomless pits. He lifts my veil with a slow, deliberate motion. For a second, I see that same flicker I saw at the funeral. Not hatred. Curiosity. The look of a scientist examining a strange, potentially dangerous new specimen.

He leans in. His lips are cold and firm against mine. The kiss is brief, brutal, and utterly devoid of passion. It is a seal on a contract. A branding.

The crowd erupts into applause. A celebration of a peace no one in this room believes will last.

The reception is held in a grand ballroom dripping with crystals and resentment. Every smile is a lie. Every toast is a threat. I stand at Isaac’s side, a perfect statue of a wife, as a parade of Lorne capos and soldiers offer their congratulations.

“A beautiful bride, Don Lorne,” one says, his eyes lingering on me with open hostility. “May she be loyal.”

“Welcome to the family,” another murmurs, his tone suggesting he would rather welcome a plague.

I smile until my face aches. I nod and accept their false pleasantries. Isaac is a wall of cold indifference beside me. He accepts their fealty with a slight dip of his head, his hand never leaving the small of my back. A constant, heavy pressure reminding me of my place. I am his. I am Lorne property.

Later, I find a moment of quiet near the towering wedding cake, a monstrosity of white frosting and sugar flowers.

“Enjoying the party, Mrs. Lorne?”

I turn. It is Leo, Isaac’s consigliere. The man who is never far from his Don’s side. His face is lean and sharp, his eyes intelligent.

“It’s quite the spectacle,” I say, my voice neutral.

“A necessary one,” he replies smoothly. “Appearances are everything.”

“Indeed.” I meet his gaze. He is studying me, just as his boss did. Trying to see the cracks in my performance.

“My brother sends his regards,” I say, a small, calculated test. “He hopes this union will be fruitful.”

Leo’s expression does not change, but I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Contempt. He knows exactly what Marco is.

“Peace is always fruitful,” he says, the perfect diplomatic answer. He gives a small bow of his head and disappears back into the crowd.

He thinks I am a fool. They all do.

The orchestra begins to play a slow, languid waltz. The floor clears. It is time.

Isaac appears at my elbow as if summoned from the shadows.

“My dear,” he says, his voice a low drawl meant for the ears of those around us. He holds out his hand.

I place my fingers in his. His grip tightens, pulling me toward the center of the polished marble floor.

He pulls me into his arms. One hand finds the small of my back again, pressing me against him. His other hand envelops mine. We are closer now than we were at the altar. I can smell his cologne, something clean and sharp like gin and winter air. I can feel the warmth of his body, the hard muscle beneath the fine wool of his jacket.

We begin to move. The music swells around us, a beautiful, tragic melody for a beautiful, tragic lie.

We do not speak. There are no words for what exists between us.

This is not a dance. It is a negotiation. A battle.

He leads with brutal, unforgiving precision. Every turn is a statement of control. Every step is an assertion of power. He is testing my balance, my resolve. He expects me to stumble. To falter.

I do not.

I match him move for move. I follow his lead, but I am not pliant. I am not a rag doll in his arms. My frame is light, but my posture is rigid. My hand on his shoulder is not a lover’s caress. My fingers press against the muscle there, a subtle reminder that I am not breakable.

Our eyes lock. The noise of the party, the music, the world, it all fades away. There is only the silent war being waged in the space between us.

His eyes are a storm. They tell me I am a prisoner in his house, a Sterling snake he will not trust. They promise surveillance. They promise that if I make one wrong move, he will crush me without a second thought.

My gaze answers him. It tells him he may have bought a bride, but he has not bought my loyalty. It tells him I am not a frightened girl, but the daughter of Enzo Sterling. It tells him that he may be the king of his castle, but a queen can be just as deadly.

He spins me, his hand tightening on my waist until I can barely breathe. A punishment for my defiance. I do not gasp. I do not look away. I hold his gaze, my chin held high.

I see a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He expected fear. He did not get it.

For a moment, just a single, fleeting moment, the surprise is replaced by something else. A reluctant sliver of respect. Or perhaps, just curiosity.

The music begins to fade, the final notes hanging in the tense air between us.

We slow to a stop in the center of the floor. For a beat, we remain locked in our embrace, the silent battle raging on.

He is the first to break contact. He releases me, stepping back. The space between us feels like a chasm.

He bows his head, a gesture of perfect, cold chivalry for the watching crowd.

I curtsy, my movements fluid and graceful. A perfect imitation of a dutiful wife.

The applause is thunderous.

No one saw the fight. They only saw the dance.

He turns without another word and walks away, swallowed by the crowd of his men.

I am left alone in the center of the room, the heat of his hand still burning on my skin. The war is not over.

It has just begun.