The Bride They Should Never Have Betrayed

The silence in the cabin was heavier than the storm outside.

Vivienne stared down the barrel of the shotgun, her mind instantly shifting from betrayal to tactical survival. She was standing six feet away from Marcus. Too far to lunge. Her own weapon was lowered at her side.

“Marcus, look at the boy,” Vivienne said, keeping her voice incredibly calm. “He’s seven years old. You don’t kill kids. That was your one rule.”

Marcus’s jaw twitched. He glanced at Leo, who was hiding behind Salvatore’s legs, whimpering softly.

That one-second distraction was all Vivienne needed.

She didn’t raise her gun. Instead, she kicked the heavy oak coffee table directly at Marcus’s knees.

The table slammed into him, knocking him off balance. The shotgun blasted, the buckshot tearing a massive hole in the ceiling, raining wood splinters down on them.

Vivienne closed the distance in a flash. She grabbed the hot barrel of the shotgun, twisting it violently upward while driving her knee into Marcus’s groin. He grunted, dropping the weapon. Vivienne spun, driving the butt of her pistol into his temple.

Marcus hit the floor like a sack of concrete.

Vivienne stood over him, breathing heavily, her gun aimed at his head.

“Tie him up,” Salvatore commanded, moving surprisingly fast for a man his age. He grabbed a roll of duct tape from the kitchen counter.

Within minutes, Marcus was bound to a wooden chair. Vivienne splashed a glass of cold water on his face. He jolted awake, groaning.

“You sold me out,” Vivienne said, her voice dripping with venom. “The man who taught me how to be a cop.”

“I taught you how to survive!” Marcus spat, blood trickling from his forehead. “The department was already gone, Viv! Antonio owns the judges, the unions, everything. You can’t beat him.”

“Watch me,” she whispered, pressing the barrel of her gun against his kneecap. “What is happening at Pier 44?”

Marcus squeezed his eyes shut. “He’s smuggling the Cartel weapons out, not in. He’s taking the DeLuca fortune and running. The bomb at the pier is just a distraction. It’s set to go off at midnight to kill the feds and frame the Don.”

Vivienne checked the grandfather clock in the corner. It was 10:30 PM.

Suddenly, Marcus’s jacket pocket began to vibrate.

Vivienne reached in and pulled out a sleek satellite phone. The caller ID simply read: The Groom.

She answered the call and put it on speaker, setting it on the table.

“Marcus,” Antonio’s smooth, arrogant voice filled the cabin. “Tell me you have my bride and my nephew.”

Vivienne leaned close to the phone. “Marcus is a little tied up right now, Antonio.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then, a low, cruel chuckle.

“Vivienne. I should have known the old dog couldn't put you down,” Antonio said. “You always were too stubborn for your own good.”

“It’s over, Antonio,” Vivienne said. “I have the ledger. I have the boy. And I’m sending the real FBI to Pier 44 right now.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Antonio replied lightly. “Because if the FBI shows up, or if you don't bring my nephew to the pier in the next hour, I’m going to make a phone call.”

“You have nothing left to threaten me with,” she hissed.

“Are you sure about that?” Antonio asked. “How is your sister, Maya, doing? The doctors say the cystic fibrosis is getting worse. Such a shame she’s hooked up to all those fragile machines at St. Jude’s.”

Vivienne’s blood turned to ice. Maya. Her younger adoptive sister. The only family she had ever known before tonight.

“Don’t you touch her,” Vivienne breathed, pure terror finally cracking her voice.

“My men are standing outside her ICU room right now,” Antonio said coldly. “I have remote access to the hospital’s backup generators, and my man has his hand on her oxygen line. You bring me the boy and the ledger by 11:30, or Maya suffocates in her bed. See you soon, sweetheart.”

The line went dead.

Vivienne backed away from the phone, her hands trembling violently. Maya. Sweet, innocent Maya, who had spent the last two years fighting for her life in a hospital bed.

Salvatore stood up, looking at Vivienne’s pale face.

“He’s forcing you to choose,” the old man said quietly. “Your sister, or my grandson.”

Vivienne looked down at Leo. The little boy was holding up a crude, crayon drawing he had made on a scrap of paper he found on the floor. It was a picture of a woman in a white dress, holding a sword, fighting a monster.

“You’re gonna beat him, right?” Leo asked, his brown eyes full of absolute, unwavering trust.

Vivienne closed her eyes, fighting back a sob. She looked at Salvatore, then at the shotgun on the floor.

“I’m not making a choice,” she said, her voice hardening into steel. “I’m taking everything from him.”

She turned to Salvatore. “Hide Leo in the storm cellar beneath the floorboards. Leave him food and water. He doesn't come out until I come back.”