Page 97 of Broken Vows

"I remember when we were kids. Before Dad turned us into weapons. Marco used to sneak into my room during thunderstorms, scared of the noise." His jaw works, fighting words that want to pour out. "He was different then. Before the violence corrupted him."

"People change." I tie off the final stitch, then move to clean the shoulder wound. "Sometimes they choose to become monsters."

"And sometimes monsters are made by the people who love them." Vincent's eyes meet mine, dark with pain that has nothing to do with physical injury. "My father created Marco's hunger for violence. Fed it, praised it, shaped him into a killer who couldn't stop killing."

"That's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" His laugh is bitter. "I was the heir. The smart one. The strategic one. While I built empires with spreadsheets and negotiations, Marco learned that blood was the only currency Dad truly valued."

I finish cleaning the shoulder wound and reach for butterfly closures. "Your brother made his choices, Vincent. Just like you made yours."

"My choice was putting a bullet through his head."

The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. I've seen Vincent kill before—efficient, calculated, necessary elimination of threats. But this is different. This is family blood on his hands, and it's destroying him from the inside.

"Your choice was protecting your family," I correct, smoothing the bandage over his shoulder. "Marco threatened our daughter. He would have kept escalating until someone died."

Vincent's phone buzzes with an incoming call. He glances at the screen, then answers with clipped efficiency. "Tony."

I can hear the other man's voice through the speaker, reporting the completion of cleanup operations, the elimination of Marco's remaining loyalists, the city's gradual return to calm.

"Good," Vincent says. "Consolidate all territories under direct family control. No independent operators, no loose ends." He pauses. "And Tony? Thank you. For everything."

He hangs up and looks at me, something shifting in his expression. "It's finished. Really finished. Marco's network is dismantled, his supporters eliminated or converted. For the firsttime in three generations, both our families are aligned under leadership that prioritizes stability over expansion."

I study his face, seeing past the exhaustion to something that might be hope. "What does that mean for us?"

"It means our daughter will inherit a different world than the one we grew up in." Vincent reaches for my hand, thumb tracing over my engagement ring. "Still dangerous. Still requiring strength. But with the possibility of something beyond mere survival."

"What kind of something?"

"Growth. Legitimate expansion. Businesses that don't require body counts." His voice strengthens as he speaks, the cold emptiness giving way to determination. "Marco's vision was about fear and territory. Mine is about building something that lasts."

From down the hall, Maria's soft sounds come through the monitor—not crying, just the gentle noises of a baby settling deeper into sleep. Vincent's expression softens at the sound.

"She's safe now?"

"Completely. Tony doubled security before you left, and I've been monitoring her all night." I lean into his touch, finally allowing myself to feel the relief. "Medical training has its advantages when it comes to staying calm under pressure."

Vincent pulls me closer, careful of his injuries, until I'm curled against his uninjured side. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For bringing this violence into your life, for making you choose between families, for?—"

"Stop." I press my finger to his lips. "I chose you, Vincent. I chose us. Everything else is just details."

I can almost believe that love might be stronger than legacy. That what we've built together—through violence and betrayal and impossible choices—might actually last.

It's probably naive. In our world, hope is a luxury that gets you killed.

But tonight, holding Vincent while our daughter sleeps safely down the hall, I choose hope anyway.

The End

Epilogue

MAYA

The bass from the nightclub still pounds in my chest as I step onto the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan.

The neon lights reflect off the wet pavement like spilled blood, and I can't help but smile at the comparison.

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