Page 99 of Broken Vows

"Impressive," I say, not lowering my weapon. "But if you think I'm going to thank you, you're shit out of luck."

He holsters his gun with practiced ease, studying me like I'm some kind of interesting specimen. "I wouldn't dream of it."

His voice is cultured, accented, but not in any way I can place immediately. Definitely not New York Italian. Something more refined, more dangerous.

"Who sent you?" I demand, taking a step closer despite every instinct screaming at me to maintain distance. "Max? Because if my brother thinks I need a goddamn guardian angel?—"

"Consider it professional courtesy." The words flow in perfect Italian, the accent now clear—old world, aristocratic, the kind that comes with generations of power and blood.

This is no ordinary soldier. This is someone who matters.

"Professional courtesy, my ass," I snap back in the same language. "Nobody does favors in our world without expecting payment."

His smile is enigmatic, revealing nothing. "Perhaps our interests simply align."

"And what interests would those be?"

But he's already moving, melting back into the shadows like he was never there at all. In the distance, I can hear sirens—someone reported the gunshots, and the cops will be here soon.

"We'll meet again, Maya Mastroni," his voice drifts from the darkness. "Next time, perhaps wear something that doesn't restrict your left-side defense."

The bastard has been watching me long enough to analyze my fighting style. That should terrify me, but instead, I feel something I haven't experienced in years—genuine intrigue. Someone who might actually be my equal, who sees me as a threat worth studying rather than a liability to protect.

I wipe my blade clean on one of the dead men's expensive jackets before sliding it back into its sheath. The sirens are getting closer, and I need to disappear before some overeager detective decides to ask uncomfortable questions.

As I walk away, leaving the carnage behind like it's just another Tuesday night, I can't stop thinking about those dark eyes and that knowing smile. Whoever he is, whatever game he's playing, he's just made things infinitely more interesting.

"Next time, stranger," I murmur to the empty street. "And there will be a next time."

The rain continues to fall, washing the blood from my skin but not from my memory.

In our world, debts are always collected, one way or another. He saved my life tonight, which means I owe him something. The question is: what does he want in return?