Page 95 of Broken Vows

"This isn't what he meant."

"Isn't it?" His smile is broken glass and bloodstained teeth. "He's probably watching from hell, proud that one of his sons remembers the rules."

I draw my Glock in the same motion he pulls the trigger. Two gunshots echo through the study where we learned to be killers, where our father taught us that blood was the only truth that mattered.

Marco's bullet goes wide, gouging wood from the wall behind me. Mine finds its target—center mass, just like Dad taught us. Marco staggers backward, surprise flickering across his features before the light fades from his wild blue eyes.

He collapses beside the desk, blood spreading across the same rug where I once knelt to receive my first lesson about power. In death, he looks younger—like the brother who used to help me with homework, who took beatings meant for me when we were children.

I holster my weapon and kneel beside him, closing his eyes with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry," I whisper to the ghost of the boy he used to be.

The estate is silent around me, three generations of family legacy ending in gunpowder and grief. Outside, the sun sets over grounds where we once played war games, never knowing how prophetic they'd prove to be.

My phone buzzes with messages—Tony wanting updates, Melinda demanding confirmation I'm alive. I ignore them all for now, sitting in the gathering darkness beside my brother's body, surrounded by photographs of a family that never learned the difference between loyalty and love.

Family first. The principle that built our empire and destroyed us both.

I finally stand, legs unsteady, and dial Tony's number. "It's finished. Send the cleanup crew."

"Boss? You okay?"

I look at Marco one last time—at the brother I failed to save, at the war that should never have started. "No. But I'm alive."

That's going to have to be enough.

33

Melinda

The silence stretches like a death sentence.

I pace the length of our bedroom, phone clutched in my white-knuckled grip, watching the minutes tick past without word from Vincent's team.

Twenty-three minutes since their last check-in. In our world, twenty-three minutes of radio silence might as well be a funeral announcement.

Down the hall, Maria sleeps peacefully in her nursery, three months old and blissfully unaware that her father is out there settling family business with bullets instead of boardroom negotiations.

I've checked on her twice in the last hour, my maternal instincts on high alert even though she's surrounded by enough security to protect a head of state.

"Come on," I whisper to the phone, willing it to ring. "Just fucking answer."

But the device remains silent, mocking my desperation with its black screen.

A sharp pain shoots through my chest—not physical, but the kind of anxiety that makes it hard to breathe. I stop pacing, press my palm against the wall, and force myself to implement the breathing techniques I've taught countless patients in crisis. Four counts in through the nose, hold for four, out through the mouth for six.

If I stay calm. What a fucking joke.

The irony isn't lost on me. I'm standing here worrying about my husband's safety while our three-month-old daughter sleeps down the hall, completely dependent on parents who solve problems with violence. Because in this family, that's normal.

My phone buzzes. I lunge for it, desperate for news, but it's just a text from Maya:Any word? Max is climbing the fucking walls.

I type back: Nothing. How long since your last contact?

Thirty minutes. Dad's mobilizing backup crews just in case.

Thirty minutes. Seven more than my silence. The knot in my stomach tightens, and I have to grip the dresser to steady myself.

I scroll through my contacts, finding Tony's direct line. My thumb hovers over the call button. If something's gone wrong, if Vincent needs medical assistance...

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