Broken Vow: A Dark Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 5)

I drive my mom, Bo, and the boys up to the hospital to see the baby. Even though this is his third time around, Grady looks like he’s over the moon at becoming a father again. He keeps saying, “She’s the prettiest little thing you’ve ever seen. You’ve never seen a prettier baby. Call up those people who make the Baby Gap ads—I bet they’d pay a million dollars for a picture of her.”

Shelby looks a lot more exhausted than Grady, but equally pleased. She’s sitting up in the hospital bed in her blue gown, her blonde hair in a messy bun on top of her head. The baby is all wrapped up like a little hot dog in a bun, laying parallel across her lap.

The boys stare at the baby like it’s an alien.

“I thought it was gonna be a girl?” Tucker says.

“She is a girl,” Shelby tells him.

“Then how come her hair’s so short?”

“That’s just how babies come out,” Grady says. “You were bald as an egg ‘till you were two. Look, she’s got a little hair at least.” He points to the pale blonde fluff on top of her head, which makes her look like a fuzzy yellow chick.

“She’s gorgeous,” my mom says. “Let me hold her!”

Shelby passes the baby over obligingly. To me, she says, “Where’s Riona?”

“She went home,” I say.

“Oh,” Shelby says, looking disappointed. “How come?”

“She doesn’t need me anymore,” I say. “As a bodyguard.”

“When’s she coming back?” Lawson asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

In my head I think, Probably never. But there’s no point telling Lawson that.

My mom looks over at me, her first little granddaughter cradled in her arms.

“You’re going to stay though, aren’t you?” she asks me.

“Yes,” I promise her. “I’m staying.”

“Good,” Mom says. “Hold your niece.”

She passes the warm bundle of the baby into my arms, before I can answer. Frances is lighter than I expected—too light to be a whole entire person, and yet that’s exactly what she is.

I’ve carried guns and grenades, newborn colts and lambs. But never a human only a few hours old. I feel unexpectedly nervous, and I sit down in the chair next to Shelby, so I can be sure I don’t drop the little bundle.

The baby’s skin smells sweet and milky. Her tiny hand looks like a curled-up rosebud. Her fingernails are so minuscule that you can barely see them, but all five are present and perfectly formed, even the pinky nail.

I stroke the back of her hand. It feels too soft to be real. Softer than satin or silk.

Her face is red, with a little bruise on the bridge of her nose. She must have gotten stuck during the delivery. But her tiny features really are quite lovely.

I wonder what it would feel like to hold my own child. To see a mix of my own features, and the features of the person I loved best in the world. I can imagine the gratitude I’d feel to my wife, for carrying my child and going through the pain and labor to bring it into the world. I can imagine the overwhelming impulse to take care of them both. To provide for them, and keep them safe.

I felt that impulse toward Riona. When I heard her scream my name, I ran back toward the house at a speed I’ve never even touched before. And when I saw the empty kitchen with its overturned chair, and the spatter of blood on the tiles, I was afraid like I’ve never been afraid before.

I ran back out into the yard and I saw her sprint out of the stable, with the Djinn right behind her. I charged at him without a weapon, without any plan. Just knowing that I had to save her, at all costs.

I still feel that impulse. I know it’s all over now, and she should be safe in Chicago. Josh is dead, the Djinn is dead, and she has her family to protect her.

But still . . . I feel like she needs me.

Or maybe it’s me who needs her.

I pass baby Frances over to Bo.

“You want a drink or anything?” I ask Shelby.

“I’d love a snack,” she says. “Those damn nurses wouldn’t let me have anything but ice chips while I was in labor.”

“They gave you breakfast after,” Grady says.

“I know, but I’m still hungry.”

“I’ll get you something,” I say. I saw a cafe on the way up, and there’s vending machines on every floor.

I walk down to the cafe first, thinking that Shelby might like a pastry or a cup of soup. While I’m scanning the menu, Bo joins me.

“You hungry, too?” I ask her.

“Nah,” she says. “I just want coffee.”

We place our orders—coffee for Bo and me, soup and a sandwich for Shelby. I get her the full-size order, because I’m sure Grady will eat half of it.

“Better get some cookies for the boys,” Bo says. “And coffee for mom.”

While we’re waiting for the food, she says, “What are you gonna do about Riona?”

“What do you mean?”

She fixes me with a look like I’m being deliberately stupid.

“You’re obviously crazy for her. You’re gonna act like you’re just gonna let her go back to Chicago and never see her again?”

“You’re one to talk,” I say to Bo.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m talking about you and Duke.”

She flushes, scowling at me. “He’s my best friend.”

“He’s been in love with you since you guys were twelve years old. Maybe even before that. And you lose your fucking mind if another girl so much as looks at him.”

“No I don’t,” Bo snarls.

“You’re gonna lose him as a friend, one way or another. Either you let the relationship develop . . . or you’ll lose him to somebody else.”

Bo doesn’t like that at all. She flings back her sheet of black hair, her eyes blazing at me. “What do you know about it? You’re never here. You don’t know what our lives are like.”

“I’m here now,” I tell her. “So you better get used to it. I’m your big brother—that means I give you big brother advice. Whether you like it or not.”

Bo grinds her teeth, considering the many retorts she could give me. Finally she settles on this: “Well, let me give you a piece of little-sister advice. If you found a girl who can stand you, you shouldn’t let her go so easy. ‘Cause it might not ever happen again.”

With that, she snatches up her coffee and flounces away from me, leaving me to carry the rest of the food.

I bring it all into Shelby’s room, juggling the various Styrofoam cups and paper bags.

“Thank you!” Shelby says gratefully, ripping open the sandwich wrapper. As I suspected, Grady hovers around like a mournful St. Bernard until Shelby passes him half her BLT.

My mother lays the baby in the bassinet so she can drink her coffee. Her eyes are drawn back to the infant again and again.

“I wish Waya could have seen her,” she says. “He loved babies.”

Sometimes after a person dies, everyone else feels obligated to speak highly of them. To exaggerate their merits and forget all their flaws.

With my father, it’s the opposite.

You could never do justice to how good a man he really was.

He didn’t just love babies—he was incredibly kind to all children. He laughed and joked with us. Taught us with infinite patience how to tie a shoelace, or skip a rock, or milk a cow. Never shouted, even when we did things that were stupid and aggravating. He’d answer any question—if you asked him why clouds float, or where bears sleep, he’d give you an explanation you’d actually understand.

The only time he was stern was if he saw us acting cruel. That he never allowed.

I miss him. God, I miss him.

I wish he could have seen this baby. And I wish he could have met Riona. He would have admired her fire, and her determination.

All my memories of my father are good.

The only regret I have is things unspoken. Things I should have told him when I found out we weren’t related by blood. But I never got the chance.

Sometimes opportunities come once, and never again.

I think of Riona, driving back to Chicago alone.

I think of our walk through the birch trees. Before Bo interrupted us, I wanted to tell Riona that I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about her. That I think I’m falling in love with her.

I almost said it.

I wish I had.

The moment passed. And it won’t come again.

“What’s wrong?” my mother asks me, quietly.

“I think . . . I might have made a mistake with Riona,” I tell her.

She looks at me with her clear blue eyes. Ellis had blue eyes, too. But I choose to think that my eyes came from my mother. My sense of humor and my cooking skills, too. From Waya, the desire to care for and protect the people I love. And the means to do it. He taught me to hunt, to shoot, and even to fight. He always said, “Be slow with your fists. But fight for things that matter.”

“Most mistakes can be fixed,” my mother says.

“I promised you I was home for good this time,” I tell her.

She gives me a smile that crinkles up the corners of her pretty blue eyes.

“I’m not worried,” she says. “You’ll come back when the time is right.”

I can tell she actually means that. My mother never says anything she doesn’t mean.

I give Bo the keys to the truck. She doesn’t ask me where I’m going, because she already knows.

I run out of the hospital and jog over to the taxi stand.

“I need to go to the airport,” I tell the driver.