Page 6 of Oath of Protection (Blood Oath Bargains #1)

SIX

brEAKING POINT

Rain drummed against the windows of St. Anthony's Church like bullets on glass.

Cam stood at the back of the sanctuary, scanning faces while organ music filled the space with what might have been peace if he didn't know better.

Marco Santangelo's funeral was standing room only—family, friends, and enough people in expensive suits to staff a small corporation.

Including several who shouldn't be here.

"Two o'clock," Cam murmured into his sleeve mic. "Gray suit, no tie. He's been watching the family section for ten minutes."

"Copy that," came the reply in his earpiece. "Visual confirmed. We're tracking."

Nico sat in the front pew between his father and Bianca, wearing the same black suit he'd had on when they first met. But he seemed different today. His posture was too rigid, hands motionless in his lap. Twenty minutes without moving except to breathe.

Grief, maybe. Or guilt.

The priest's voice echoed off stone walls, talking about sacrifice and service, about good men who died protecting others.

Pretty words that probably helped the living sleep at night.

They wouldn't help Marco's wife, who sobbed quietly into tissues while her daughters—teenagers who looked enough alike to be twins—sat beside her like statues.

Cam had been to too many funerals like this. Men in boxes who'd died doing jobs that other people couldn't or wouldn't do. The ritual was always the same—flowers, prayers, and promises that the sacrifice meant something.

"Movement, three o'clock," his earpiece crackled. "Black sedan, tinted windows. Been circling the block."

Cam's hand moved to his weapon automatically. "Plates?"

"Obscured. We're getting a closer look."

The service dragged on—eulogies from family members, stories about Marco's devotion to his daughters, his loyalty to the Valentes.

Sal spoke briefly, his voice carrying the weight of a man who'd buried too many soldiers.

Tony said nothing, his jaw tight and his eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for enemies.

Smart man.

When the priest finished, the crowd began to move toward the exits in practiced choreography—people who knew they were being watched. Cam tracked the suspicious gray suit, noting how he stayed close to the family section, how his eyes never left Nico.

"Gray suit's moving," Cam reported. "Heading for the side exit. Intercept?"

"Negative. Let him go. We follow."

The burial was private—family only, which made Cam's job easier. Fewer variables, controlled access, and enough armed men positioned around the cemetery to handle most problems. But easier didn't mean safe, especially when Nico decided to walk away from the graveside service.

"Where are you going?" Cam fell into step beside him, noting how Nico's breathing had changed, how his hands were clenched into fists.

"I need a minute."

"You need to stay with the group."

"I need—" Nico stopped walking and turned to face him. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale. "I need to not watch them put another good man in the ground because of me."

There it was. The guilt that had been eating at him since the shooting, the weight of responsibility that made men do dangerous things.

"Marco knew the risks," Cam said carefully.

"Did he? Did he really know that working for my family meant dying for my mistakes?

" Nico's voice was rough, strained. "Eight years he kept me alive.

Eight years of watching my back, checking my food, sleeping with one eye open.

And for what? So some Russian asshole could put a bullet in his chest? "

"So you could live."

"For what? So I can make more money? So I can sit in more meetings and pretend I'm not a walking target?" Nico turned away, staring at the rows of headstones. "Maybe everyone would be better off if I just let them finish what they started. Maybe I'm the problem."

Every alarm bell in Cam's head started ringing. He'd heard that tone before, in voices of men who'd decided they were done fighting. Men who made choices that got everyone around them killed.

"That's enough."

"Is it? Because from where I'm standing?—"

"You're standing in a cemetery talking about giving up while Marco's daughters—Anna and Elena, sixteen years old, honor students who want to be doctors—are burying their father.

" Cam stepped closer, his voice low and fierce.

"You think they want to hear about how guilty you feel?

You think Sofia wants to bury another son because you decided you weren't worth saving? "

Nico's breath caught. "You don't understand?—"

"I understand that you're feeling sorry for yourself while good people who believe in you are fighting to keep you alive.

" Cam moved closer still, close enough that he could see the tears Nico was holding back.

"I've lost soldiers, Nico. Good men who died because I made the wrong call.

And you know what I learned? Getting yourself killed doesn't honor their sacrifice. It just makes it meaningless."

Emotion shifted in Nico's expression—surprise, maybe, or anger. Good. Anger was better than resignation.

"They deserve better than?—"

"They deserve the man their father died protecting. Not the coward who wants to quit because it's hard."

Nico took a step forward, close enough that Cam could see the intensity in his green eyes, could smell expensive cologne mixed with grief and rage. "Careful, Cam."

"Or what? You'll fire me? You'll walk away and let the next assassin finish the job?" Cam didn't back down. "Go ahead. Make Marco's death meaningless. I'm sure his wife will understand."

For a moment, Cam thought Nico might swing at him. His hands were shaking, his breathing ragged, and anger flickered across his face. Then something broke inside him, his shoulders sagging as he turned away.

"Everyone who gets close to me dies," Nico said quietly. "My bodyguards, my drivers, anyone who?—"

"Stop." Cam caught his arm, turning him back around. The touch was gentle but firm, crossing every professional line he'd drawn. "That's not on you. That's on the people pulling triggers."

"Is it? Because I'm starting to think?—"

"You're not just a client anymore." The words came out before Cam could stop them, raw and honest. "You're not just some job I took for the money. And I'll be damned if I let you give up because some Russian bastards want you dead."

Nico stared at him, something shifting in his expression. "Cam..."

"I've been where you are. After Kandahar, after I lost my squad leader—Rodriguez, twenty-three, two kids, wanted to be a teacher when he got out.

I thought maybe the world would be better without me in it.

" Cam's voice was steady but his eyes were fierce.

"You know what stopped me? Realizing that killing myself wouldn't bring him back.

It would just waste everything he died trying to protect. "

"This is different."

"No, it's not. You think Marco died for nothing? You think he'd want you to quit?" Cam stepped closer, his hand still on Nico's arm. "Then I guess we're both taking that risk. Because I'm not walking away from this. Not from you."

The words hung between them in the cemetery air, heavy with implications that had nothing to do with professional protection. Nico's eyes searched his face, looking for something—reassurance, maybe, or permission to keep fighting.

"Why?" Nico asked quietly.

"Because you're worth it." Cam's voice was rough with honesty. "Because good men believe in you. Because giving up means they all died for nothing."

Nico's breath hitched, and for a moment Cam thought he might break down completely. Instead, he straightened his shoulders, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"The Kozlovs sent flowers," he said, his voice steady again.

"I saw. Classy."

"It's a message. They're not done with us."

"Then we better make sure we're ready for them."

Cam felt the shift in Nico—from despair to determination, from victim to fighter. It wasn't complete, and it wouldn't last without reinforcement. But it was enough. For now.

"Territory. Respect. A piece of everything we've built." Nico's voice was steady again, businesslike. "They think we're weak. Think losing Marco means we're vulnerable."

"Are we?"

"Depends how you define vulnerable." Nico turned to face him. "They're right about one thing—we can't keep bleeding good people. Every man who dies protecting me is a father, a son, a brother. How many families get destroyed before I admit I can't do this alone?"

It wasn't a question Cam could answer. He'd spent eight years keeping people alive, and he'd learned that sometimes the best you could do was make sure the right people survived. The math was brutal but simple—one life weighed against dozens, hundreds, thousands.

"We should head back," Cam said. "Your family's waiting."

The ride back to the compound was quiet except for the rain on the windows and the occasional check-in from security teams. Nico stared out at the city, his reflection ghostlike in the bulletproof glass.

"Marco's replacement starts tomorrow," he said without turning around.

"Good. What's his background?"

"Ex-police. Fifteen years on the force, five in narcotics. Tony vouched for him."

Cam felt unease settle in his stomach. "Tony chose him?"

"Tony handles personnel decisions for family security." Nico glanced at him. "Problem?"

"Just want to make sure we're all on the same page about protocols."

What Cam wanted to say was that Tony Valente gave him a bad feeling, that the man's ambition was visible from orbit, that putting him in charge of his brother's security was like handing a loaded gun to someone who might have reasons to use it.

But client family dynamics weren't his job. Keeping Nico alive was.

"We'll need to coordinate," Cam said instead. "Make sure your new man understands how this works."

"His name's Vincent Torrino. He'll be briefed."

The name hit Cam like a physical blow. Vincent Torrino—dirty cop, suspected of taking money from the Kozlov organization, forced into early retirement when Internal Affairs started asking questions. The kind of man who'd sell information to the highest bidder.

"You know him?" Nico was watching him carefully.

"Know of him. His reputation's complicated."

"Complicated how?"

Cam weighed his options. Tell Nico the truth and risk appearing paranoid? Or stay quiet and hope Vincent Torrino had actually reformed? Neither choice felt safe.

"He took early retirement under questionable circumstances. Money problems, gambling debts. The kind of pressure that makes men flexible about their loyalties."

Nico was quiet for a long moment. "You think Tony made a mistake?"

"I think your brother might have different priorities than keeping you alive."

The words hung between them like smoke, heavy with implications neither man wanted to examine too closely. Family loyalty was complicated enough without adding suspicion and paranoia to the mix.

"We're here," Cam said as they pulled through the compound gates.

The Valente house was ablaze with lights, every window glowing against the storm. Family members were arriving for the traditional post-funeral gathering—food, wine, and hushed conversations that happened when dangerous people took stock of their enemies.

"Cam." Nico's voice stopped him as they reached the front door. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not letting me give up back there. For reminding me what I owe to the people who believe in me." Nico's eyes were steady, clear. "I won't forget that."

As they walked into the house together, Cam realized the dynamic had changed. Not just between them, but in Nico himself. The guilt was still there, the fear, the weight of responsibility. But underneath it all was resolve, more determined.

What looked like the will to survive.

Now he just had to make sure Nico lived long enough to use it.