Chapter 8 - THE ALPHA'S VOW
Vincent fell forward, bracing himself on one arm. Blood began to stain the back of his white shirt, blooming like a dark rose in the moonlight.
The matron dropped the shotgun, staring in absolute horror at what she had done, before turning and fleeing into the fog.
I dropped to my knees beside him, still clutching Mia. “Vincent, look at me. Look at me!”
His eyes were hazy, but they found mine. He reached up with a trembling, blood-stained hand and touched my cheek.
“Are you... hit?” he rasped.
“No, no, we’re fine, you shielded us,” I sobbed, pressing my free hand desperately against the wound on his side. It was a grazing shot—the buckshot had torn through his side, but it didn't look like it had hit center mass. Still, there was so much blood.
Tires screeched on the gravel behind us.
I turned, terrified it was Julian’s men returning. But it was a fleet of black SUVs. Vincent’s men poured out, heavily armed.
“Boss!” His top lieutenant rushed over, dropping to his knees. “Paramedics are three minutes out. Julian is dead.”
Vincent let his head fall back against my shoulder, a ragged breath escaping his lungs. “Dead?”
“He tried to run when he heard the sirens. We handled it. It’s over.”
The lieutenant looked down at the bundle in my arms. He gently reached out and touched Mia’s tiny hand. “You found her.”
“We found her,” Vincent whispered, his eyes closing. “Take my wife home.”
“No!” I gripped his shirt, panic overriding reason. “I am not leaving you. I lost you for two years, Vincent Rossi. If you think you get to die on me now, I will kill you myself!”
Vincent let out a weak, breathy laugh, opening his eyes to look at me. There was a profound, overwhelming love in his gaze.
“There’s my Claire,” he whispered, before his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness.
The paramedics rushed in, swarming him. I was pulled back, screaming his name, holding our daughter tight against my chest.
---
Three hours later.
I sat in the sterile, bright waiting room of the private hospital. My clothes were covered in soot and blood. Mia was asleep in my arms, finally peaceful after drinking a bottle the nurses brought.
The doors swung open.
The nanny, her arm in a sling, walked in holding Matteo. The little boy was wide awake, looking around with big, serious brown eyes.
When he saw me, his face lit up.
He wiggled frantically out of the nanny's good arm and toddled unsteadily across the waiting room floor.
“Ma!” he babbled, grabbing my pant leg.
I carefully knelt down, shifting Mia to one arm, and scooped Matteo up with the other. I buried my face in his soft curls, inhaling the scent of baby soap and lavender.
I had both of them. My son. My daughter.
But my heart was still bleeding out in the operating room.
The surgical doors hissed open. The head surgeon, an older man in green scrubs, walked out, pulling off his mask.
I stood up, holding both babies, my heart stopping in my chest.
The surgeon looked at me. Then, he reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a heavy, silver object and held it out to me.
Vincent’s pocket watch.
May you like
“He made me promise to give this back to you,” the surgeon said.
My knees gave out.
