Page 162 of Vow Of Fire

“Marcelli.” Mikhail’s voice cut through the rain and the wind and the choking sounds coming from Vincent on the ground. “We need him alive.”

Dante lifted his hand for a final punch but then stopped and glanced at Mikhail. Vincent moaned, semiconscious. I didn’t think he could take much more.

With a growl, Dante uncurled his fist and shoved back off Vincent’s chest, breathing hard. He nodded at Mikhail as if to say, “your turn.”

Mikhail crouched, gripped Vincent’s jaw, and turned his ruined face up to the light. “I want names. Every cartel member in New York—or you die.” His threatening tone was so unfamiliar to me, that I simply stared, stunned at the change in him.

It seemed we all had hidden sides to us that we didn’t show the world.

Vincent wheezed but gave a faint nod. “My phone,” he rasped. “They’re all in my phone.”

Mikhail reached into his pocket and pulled out the device. He held it up to Vincent’s battered face and, remarkably, it unlocked. After scrolling wordlessly for a long beat, he nodded and passed the phone to his colleague.

“We have what we need.”

Mikhail straightened up. “We’ll take care of this.”

Dante nodded, then turned to me.

And that should have been the end of it.

I felt a surge of relief that it was over. That our side was done and we could go home.

Dante strode toward me, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Vincent move. Broken, one eye swollen shut, running on nothing but spite, he reached for the gun lying forgotten on the wet concrete. He swung it up, but not at Dante.

At me.

I didn’t even have time to scream.

The shot was deafening, and it came from Dante. Vincent’s head snapped back. Then a second shot, right after. It hit him in the center of his chest and Vincent folded sideways onto the concrete.

The gun slipped from his fingers into a puddle that was turning slowly red. He didn’t move again.

For a moment nobody moved. The only sound was the rain hissing down on us.

Mikhail looked at the body, then at Dante, and gave a slow nod. The closest thing to respect a Bratva consigliere would ever offer a Marcelli.

“Better get out of here,” Mikhail said, glancing at me. “Before New York’s finest arrive.”

I exhaled, waiting for the scream still frozen in my throat to emerge. I’d just watched Dante take a life. It was awful. Horrific. I should be shocked.

Yet the scream died in my throat.

Vincent had put a gun to my head. He’d watched his men shoot Kyle. He’d have dropped me into the black water of the East River without losing a minute’s sleep.

The old Evelyn, the gallery owner who paid her taxes and recycled and believed in the police, would have wanted a trial. Courts. Justice.

But I wasn’t her anymore. Dante had made sure of that. And the new Evelyn, though shaken, stood firm, knowing the man she loved had literally killed for her.

I didn’t feel like a victim.

I felt like a queen.

In two long strides Dante was at my side, pulling me into his arms. I didn’t care that he smelled of sweat and violence and was covered in Vincent’s blood.

He was mine.

“You saved my life,” I whispered. “He was going to shoot me.”