Page 37 of Forgotten Vows

I pull out my phone and send a text to Rian, Jack, and Cormac:My office. Now.Tommy is working on a job for me, but I'll fill him in later.

They arrive within minutes. "Close the door," I say, and Cormac does. The soft click of the latch is ominous in the quiet of the office.

They arrange themselves in front of my desk, standing rather than sitting. I can see the questions in their eyes, the readiness to do whatever needs to be done. These are my men, my brothers in everything but blood. I'm about to ask them to risk their lives for a woman they barely know and a war that isn't really theirs to fight.

"Gio Santoro just called," I say without preamble. "He wants Adriana back. I told him no. He's declared war."

The silence that follows is heavy. I watch as they run through the implications and the sheer fucking magnitude of what I've just told them. A war with the Santoro family isn't like the territorial disputes we've had with other organizations. It's not even like the skirmishes and power plays that have marked my rise to the top of the Irish mob in Chicago. The Santoros have resources we can't match, and connections that run deep into every level of organized crime on the East Coast.

"How long do we have?" Rian asks finally. His voice is remarkably calm.

"Days, maybe. He'll want to move fast, before I can fortify our position and call in many favors. He'll come hard, and he'll come soon, and he'll expect us to fold under the pressure."

"We're not folding." Jack's voice is flat, and there's a hardness in his eyes that reminds me why I brought him into my inner circle. "We've fought for everything we have. We're not giving it up because some New York asshole thinks he can walk in here and take what's yours."

"It's not just about territory." I need them to understand what they're really fighting for. "It's about Adriana. It's about my son. The Santoro family has been keeping them prisoner for ten years, and I'm not sending them back. I can't. Even if it means war, even if it means we lose everything, I'm not letting him have them."

Cormac nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "We'll need to call in everyone," he says finally. "Every man we have, every favor we're owed, every alliance we've built that we can in whatever time we have. If the Santoros are coming, we need to be ready to meet them with everything we've got."

"Agreed." I move to the map of Chicago that's mounted on the wall, that's marked with territories, safe houses, other families' territories, businesses, and strategic locations. I start pointing out positions and talking through defensive strategies. We talk for over an hour, going through scenarios and contingencies, discussing weapons and manpower—the logistics of preparing for a war that could start at any moment. But the whole time, part of my mind is elsewhere, drifting back to Adriana and Matteo and wondering if they're awake yet.

By the time we're done, the morning is well underway, and my men file out with grim determination on their faces, already pulling out their phones to start making calls. They need to start mobilizing our forces and start preparing for the storm that's coming. I watch them go, and I feel the weight of the responsibility for all the lives that are about to be put at risk because of my choices—because of my refusal to let go of the woman I love.

My email inbox pings, and my heart stutters in my chest for a moment as I see what I've just been sent—the results of the paternity test that I sent in as soon as Adriana and Matteo were on that plane and I was able to get a swab from the boy's cheek while he slept.

I've known since the moment I saw Matteo that he's mine. The resemblance is too strong, and the math is too obvious to deny. But my men needed proof. They needed to know that this isn't just about me reclaiming an old love but about protecting my actual family—my blood. My son.

I open the email and scan until I find the line that matters:Probability of paternity: 99.99%.

He's mine.

Matteo is my son, my flesh and blood. The confirmation of it steals my breath for a moment. I'm not just fighting for Adriana anymore—I'm fighting for him too, for this boy who doesn't know me yet. But I hope he will, in time. I want him to be mine in more than just DNA. I want Adriana and me to raise him together. Give him siblings, eventually.

She won't even let you touch her yet. How are you going to get another baby out of that?

I ignore the voice in my head and get up from my desk. I need to tell Adriana.

I find her in the living room, sitting on the couch with a book in her lap that she's not actually reading. She looks up when I enter, her expression immediately guarded, like she's bracing herself for whatever I'm about to say or do. She's wearing jeans and a loose T-shirt again, and her hair is pulled back from her face. She looks so much like the girl I remember and so different at the same time that it makes my chest ache.

"We need to talk." I try to keep my voice gentle and not sound like I'm issuing a command or making a demand, but I can see her shoulders tense anyway. I can see the way her hands tighten on the book.

"About what?" Her voice is carefully neutral.

"About Matteo." I move closer and I pull out my phone, opening the email with the test results. "I had a paternity test done. He's mine, Adriana. He's my son."

Her lips press together, and she takes a slow breath through her nose. "I know," she says simply. "He couldn't be anyone else's." She pauses. "I didn't know if you'd realize it right away."

"I might not be the most educated man, but I can do simple math. Why didn't you tell me?" The question comes out rougher than I mean for it to, edged with hurt and confusion. "Why didn't you try to find me, try to let me know I had a son? I would have come for you, Adriana. I would have done anything?—"

She laughs. It's not a happy sound, not amused or light or anything close to joy. It's bitter and hollow, and it cuts through me like a knife.

And then she gets up without a word, dropping the book on the couch, and walks out of the room. She doesn't even look at me as she passes by, heading for the stairs, and I stare after her as she goes. I don't know what to do with the rage and the hurt and the confusion that's flooding through me. I'm trying to make up for all the time we lost, and she's acting like I'm the villain in this scenario instead of her brother.

I grit my teeth. I'mnot. I'm doing all of this for her, forus. I've just started a war for her. How can she not see that the only reason I didn't come for her sooner was that I didn't believe I could?

And how could she not have tried, when she had myson?

I try to control my breathing and calm down. I feel like there's a war inside these walls as well as one brewing without, and that unsettles me more than anything else.