Page 85 of Forgotten Vows

And I couldn't. I couldn't help him. What kind of mother am I? The question loops through my head, relentless and cruel. What kind of mother lets her son be taken? What kind of mother can't keep him safe?

But I know the answer. I'm the kind of mother who was born into this world. The kind who never had a choice, never had a chance. The kind who thought love would be enough to save us, and learned too late that love doesn't mean anything when you're surrounded by men who only understand power and violence.

I thought Lachlan was different. I thought he was the boy I fell in love with, the one who looked at me like I was something precious and worth protecting. But that boy is gone. He died the night my father's men beat him and left him for dead. What came back ten years later is something else entirely.

A killer. A king. A man who's built his empire on the same foundation of blood and brutality that Gio has. And I'm caught between them.

I don't want to be owned. I don't want to be protected if protection means living in a cage. I don't want my son to grow up learning that violence is the answer to everything, that power is the only thing that matters.

But I don't know how to escape it, because this is the world I was born into. This is the world Matteo was born into. And no matter how far we run, no matter who we run to, we'll always be pulled back. Always be trapped by the blood in our veins and the names we carry.

Santoro. Gallagher. It doesn't matter. They're both chains.

I close my eyes and try to breathe through the panic rising in my chest. Try to find some center of calm, some place inside myself that isn't consumed by fear and despair.

But there's nothing. Just emptiness. Just the cold and the dark and the terrible certainty that nothing is going to be okay.

22

LACHLAN

The house looks like it's been rotting from the inside out for decades, sagging into itself like a corpse left too long in the sun. I see peeling paint, boarded windows, a front porch that's half-collapsed. The sort of place people walk past without looking twice, which is exactly why Gio chose it.

I crouch behind a rusted-out car across the street, Declan at my side, and watch the shadows move behind the gaps in the boards. Four men visible from here, maybe more inside.

"Two at the back door," Tommy's voice crackles through the earpiece. "One on the second floor, northeast window. I've got eyes on him."

"Jack?" I keep my voice low, my gaze fixed on the front entrance.

"Side entrance is clear. Looks like they're concentrating manpower at the main points."

"Rian?"

"In position. Waiting on your signal."

I glance at Declan. His face is pale, sweat beading at his temples, but his hands are steady on his weapon. I know he's in pain, but he hasn't said a word about it—just insisted on being here and seeing this through.

"You good?" I ask quietly.

"I'm not sitting this one out." His jaw is set, his eyes hard. "That's your family in there, Lach. Which makes it my family too."

The words are a reminder of how close we were once. I had to walk away from him, too, when I ran from New York that night. I lost my best friend as well as the woman I loved. And now he's here, bleeding and battered, ready to walk into a firefight because I asked him to.

"Let's get them out," I say, my heart is hammering against my ribs. "On my count. Three... two... one."

I move.

The front door is locked, but that doesn't slow me down. One kick and the rotting wood splinters, the frame giving way with a crack that echoes through the empty street. I'm through the doorway before the sound fades, my weapon raised, my focus narrowing to a single point.

Find Adriana. Find Matteo. Kill Gio. Everything else is just noise.

The first guard comes at me from the left, and I put two rounds in his chest before he can get his weapon up. He goes down hard, his body hitting the floor with a wet thud, and I'm already moving past him, scanning for the next threat.

Declan is right behind me, and I hear the sharp crack of his weapon as he takes out another guard coming down the stairs. The house erupts into chaos—shouting, the thunder of boots on old floorboards, the rapid-fire percussion of gunshots that makes my ears ring.

"Second floor clear!" Rian's voice is in my ear, calm and controlled despite the violence. "Two down."

"Back door secure," Tommy reports. "Three hostiles neutralized."