Page 36 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Rosalynn

The screaming wakes me at two in the morning.

Not the neighbors. Not the city. Dante.

I'm out of bed before I'm fully conscious, used to it from weeks of this routine.

My bare feet hit the cold floor, and I'm running down the hall to his room, Varrick's shirt billowing behind me like wings.

He's tangled in his Spider-Man sheets, thrashing, crying out words that aren't quite words.

His small face is contorted in terror, sweat making his dark hair stick to his forehead.

"Dante, baby, wake up." I keep my voice soft but firm, sitting on the edge of his bed without touching him yet. I've learned not to grab him when he's like this—it makes the panic worse. "It's just a dream. You're safe."

His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused.

For a moment, he doesn't recognize me, and I see pure terror in those eyes that are so like his father's.

"Rosa?" His voice is tiny, broken.

"I'm here." Now I touch him, gathering him into my arms. He clings to me like I'm a life raft, his small body shaking. "You're safe. You're home."

"She was back," he whispers into my shoulder. "Mama was back and she was so angry. She said I was bad for choosing you and Daddy. Said she was going to take me away again."

My heart breaks.

It's been six weeks since Sienna died, since Varrick ended the threat she posed.

But trauma doesn't understand death.

In Dante's dreams, she's still alive, still angry, still hurting him.

"She can't take you anywhere," I tell him, rocking him gently. "She's gone, remember? No one's taking you from us. Ever."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

I feel rather than see Varrick in the doorway.

He does this—watches us from the doorway like he's afraid to intrude on these moments.

Like he doesn't deserve them.

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly, the same thing he says every time. "I can?—"

"He's yours, which makes him mine," I tell him, the same response I always give. "We're family."

Dante pulls back slightly, looking between us with those too-wise eyes. "Rosa's good at making the bad dreams go away," he tells his father solemnly. "Better than anyone."

Something soft crosses Varrick's face, an expression I only see when he looks at us. "She's good at a lot of things."

Dante yawns, the adrenaline fading. "Will you both stay?"

We've done this dance before.

Varrick takes the chair by the window, standing guard even in sleep.

I curl up beside Dante, who insists on sleeping between me and the door because "I protect Rosa now too."

Within minutes, his breathing evens out.

But I stay awake, thinking about how this traumatized little boy has started calling me Rosa.

Not Mama—that word is still poisoned for him.

But Rosa is close. Rosa is him choosing me.

"The custody papers came through today," Varrick says into the darkness.

"Already?"

"The judge signed off this afternoon. Full custody, no visitation rights to anyone from Sienna's family. He's officially mine." A pause. "Ours."

"Ours," I repeat, liking how it sounds.

"He asked me yesterday if you were going to be his new mom." Varrick's voice is careful, testing.

"What did you tell him?"

"That you already were, in every way that mattered."

I reach across Dante's sleeping little body, find Varrick's hand in the dark. "He's opening up more. Yesterday he showed me his drawings. Even the dark ones."

"The ones of Sienna?"

"Yeah. But also new ones. Of us. Of his family." I squeeze his hand. "We're in all of them. Together."

"Dr. Fitchett says he's making remarkable progress," Varrick adds. "Said Dante told her he feels safe now. First time he's used that word."

Before I know it, the sun has risen and we’re all into our normal routine.

Dante pads into the kitchen with his stuffed wolf, Guardian, tucked under one arm and a piece of paper in the other.

"I made this in therapy yesterday," he announces, climbing onto Varrick's lap at the breakfast table. "Dr. Fitchett said I should show you."

It's a drawing.

Not the dark, violent ones from before, but something else.

Three figures holding hands—a tall man in black, a woman with yellow hair, and a small boy between them.

Above them, he's written in careful, crooked letters: MY FAMLY

"Family is spelled wrong," he says seriously. "But Dr. Fitchett says that's okay."

"It's perfect," I tell him, my throat tight.

"Can we put it on the fridge? Like normal families do?"

"We are a normal family," Varrick says, carrying him to the refrigerator where he ceremoniously places the drawing with a magnet. "Our kind of normal."

The peaceful morning shatters with a phone call.

"It's Marco," Maria says, holding out my phone with distaste. "Says it's urgent."

I haven't spoken to my brother in so long, but I’m curious to know what the hell he wants. "What do you want?"

"Sister." His voice is oily, fake-warm. "Heard you've upgraded from payment to princess."

"Get to the point, Marco."

"Uncle Enzo's sick. Dying, actually. Liver's finally giving out from all the drinking." He pauses for effect. "He wants to see you."

"No."

"You owe us." The warmth drops, revealing the ugly truth underneath. "We raised you after Dad died. Fed you, clothed you, kept a roof over your head."

"You burned me with cigarettes and sold me to pay a debt."

"None of it matters," he dismisses. "Point is, you're rich now. Varrick Bane's woman. And family helps family."

"We're not family."

"Blood says different. Uncle Enzo needs treatment. Private doctors. Expensive ones." I can hear his smirk through the phone. "Five million should cover it."

"Five million," I repeat, and Varrick looks up from where he's making Dante breakfast, alert to the danger in my tone.

"Seems fair. You're worth at least that much to Bane, right?"

I look at Varrick, at Dante carefully spreading peanut butter on toast with intense concentration, at the life I've built from the ashes of what they burned.

"Fine," I say. "I'll bring it today. In person."

Marco's surprised. "Yeah? Just like that?"

"Just like that. Text me where."

I hang up, and Varrick's already moving toward me. "You're not going alone."

"I'm not going alone," I agree. "But I need to do this. Need to face them one last time."

"Why?"

"Because they still think I'm that scared girl they could hurt whenever they wanted. They need to see who I've become."

He studies my face, then nods. "After breakfast. And we take backup."

"Can I come?" Dante asks suddenly. We both turn to look at him. "I want to see Rosa be brave."

"Not this time, buddy," Varrick says gently. "But Uncle Korrin and Uncle Cyrus are coming over to play with you."

As if summoned, the elevator opens and Varrick's brothers appear.

Korrin immediately scoops Dante up, making him squeal with laughter.

But Cyrus approaches me, something formal in his bearing.

"Before you go," he says, pulling out a slim box. "From both of us."

Inside is a knife. Small, elegant, deadly. The handle is engraved with a single word: "Family."

"Anyone who hurts you hurts us," Korrin says, still holding Dante upside down. "That's the Bane way."

"Welcome to the family, officially," Cyrus adds. "Even if the wedding isn't for another month."

I slip the knife into my boot, feeling its weight like armor.

Two hours later, we're standing outside a run-down bar on the South Side.

Uncle Enzo's territory, or what's left of it.

The place reeks of desperation and cheap whiskey.

Gomez and three other men wait by the cars, but Varrick comes inside with me.

Not to save me—to watch everything that’s about to happen.

Uncle Enzo looks like death warmed over.

His skin is yellow, eyes bloodshot, hands shaking with more than just age.

Marco stands beside him, trying to look intimidating but mostly looking desperate.

"Rosalynn." Uncle Enzo attempts a smile that looks more like a grimace. "You look... expensive."

"You look like you're dying," I reply flatly.

"Still got that mouth on you. Thought I'd beaten it out."

"You tried, but failed."

They notice the bruises on my wrists have finally faded completely.

The cigarette burns are just silver memories. I'm whole again, in body if not entirely in spirit.

Marco steps forward. "You brought the money?"

I pull out a check from my purse, hold it up so they can see. Five million dollars, made out to cash.

"Your debt was cleared when you sold me," I tell Uncle Enzo. "But you're right. I do owe you something ."

Hope flares in his eyes.

"I owe you this moment." I pull out a lighter—Varrick's, heavy and silver—and hold it to the corner of the check. "This is what your niece is worth to you. This is what family means to you."

The paper catches, burning quickly.

"You fucking bitch!" Marco lunges for me, but I'm ready.

The moves Varrick taught me flow naturally now.

I sidestep, grab his wrist, use his momentum against him.

My elbow connects with his nose, and I feel the crunch of cartilage breaking.

He drops, blood pouring through his fingers.

"I learned to fight back," I tell him calmly.

Uncle Enzo tries to stand, but he's too weak. "You owe us! We raised you!"

"You tortured me. You sold me. You made me believe I was worthless." I drop the burning check into an ashtray, watch it turn to ash. "But you were wrong. I'm worth everything to the people who actually love me."

"Your father would be ashamed," Uncle Enzo spits.

"My father is dead." I lean closer, and he flinches. "You're not my family. You never were."

Marco's still on the floor, moaning about his nose. Uncle Enzo's shaking with rage or illness or both.

"You'll regret this," he wheezes. "When Bane gets tired of you?—"

"He won't," Varrick speaks for the first time, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "She's mine. Forever. And if either of you come near her or our son again, I'll finish what her father's death started—the complete erasure of the Lombardi line."

The threat hangs in the air, promise and prophecy both.

I turn to leave, then pause. "Uncle Enzo's dying anyway. Marco, you should run. Leave Vancouver. Tonight. Because if I see you again, if you come near my family, I'll use the skills Varrick taught me to do more than break your nose."

Outside, in the car, I finally let myself shake.

Varrick pulls me against him, solid and warm.

"You didn't need me," he says, pride clear in his voice.

"I'll always need you," I correct. "I just don't need saving anymore."

Gomez speaks from the driver's seat. "Word is Marco's already booking a flight to Miami. And Enzo... doctors give him maybe a week."

"Good," I say, and mean it. "Let the past die with him."

That afternoon, while Dante naps, Varrick and I meet with the wedding planner.

It feels surreal, choosing flowers and cakes after threatening my blood relatives, but that's our life—beauty and violence intertwined.

"I want to be the ring bear!" Dante announces, wandering in rubbing his eyes. "Is that a thing? Ring bear?"

"Bearer," Varrick corrects gently. "And yes, you can be our ring bearer."

"Can Guardian come too?"

"Guardian can come too."

Dante climbs into my lap, still warm from sleep. "Rosa, will your family come to the wedding?"

"You're my family," I tell him. "You and Daddy and Uncle Korrin and Uncle Cyrus. That's all the family I need."

He nods, satisfied, then looks at the wedding planner's book. "That cake is too white. Rosa likes chocolate."

The wedding planner looks scandalized at the idea of a chocolate wedding cake, but Varrick just says, "Then we'll have chocolate."

That night, after Dante's asleep, Varrick finds me on the balcony.

The city spreads below us, glittering and dangerous.

He doesn't get on his knees—that's not us.

Instead, he presses me against the window, the same window where we've shared so many moments, where we've built our truth in the space between violence and tenderness.

"You know, I never officially gave you this," he says against my neck as he slides the ring on my finger. "I hope you love it.."

"I love everything you give to me, Varrick."

I glance down and see it in all its glory.

It's not traditional—black diamond surrounded by smaller white ones, set in platinum. It's perfect. It's us.

“It’s amazing."

He kisses me like it's the first time and the last time all at once before I even finish speaking.

"Gross," comes a small voice from the doorway. Dante's standing there with Guardian, trying not to smile. "Are you getting married right now?"

"Not right now," I tell him. "But soon, remember?"

"Good. I need time to practice with the rings." He pads over to us, inserting himself between us naturally. "Can we do something normal tomorrow? Like go to the park? Or get ice cream?"

"We can do both," Varrick promises. “Did something wake you up?”

"No, I just woke up and wanted you both." Dante shrugs.

Later, as we're tangled in bed with Dante sprawled between us, Varrick shows me the final custody papers.

It’s all official, finalized, stamped by a judge who knew better than to question Varrick Bane's fitness as a father.

"There's something else," he says, pulling out an envelope. "From Sienna's lawyers. Her will."

My blood cools. "What does she want from beyond the grave?"

"Nothing. She left everything to Dante. But there was this, addressed to you."

It's not a letter. It's a photo—Dante as a baby, maybe three months old. On the back, in Sienna's handwriting: "He was always meant for better. Maybe that's you."

For a split second I think maybe she wasn’t as awful as I thought, but if I know anything about Sienna, it’s that there is always a game to play, and a dirty one at that.

I stare at it for a long moment, then walk to the fireplace.

The photo burns quickly, Sienna's last attempt at manipulation turning to smoke.

"No ghosts," I tell Varrick. "No shadows. Just us."

He pulls me back to bed, where Dante has fallen asleep, sprawled between us.

"Rosa?" Dante mumbles sleepily.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Will you be my mama now? For real?"

I look at Varrick over Dante's head, see the same love reflected there.

"For real," I promise. "Forever, as long as you want me to be."

"Good," he sighs, already drifting back to sleep. "Mama Rosa sounds nice."

"You know what else sounds nice?" Varrick asks quietly. "Rosalynn Bane. Dante Bane. The Bane family."

"It sure does," I agree.

I hated my life before Varrick, but now, all I feel is power pulsing through my veins.

He turned me from a broken mouse, into a queen, and for that I’ll forever be grateful.