Page 20 of Vows in Sin

R eign

The Morettis. They may be young, but they’re not naive. Even as babies in their mother’s womb, innocence didn’t run through their tiny veins.

Unlike my sweet Seraphina, they wouldn’t go back to the same place twice.

They’re new. Fast. Unpredictable.

A chill traces the base of my skull as the pieces click together.

What if there isn’t one place where the Morettis are operating from? What if they don’t need a lair—because they’ve already moved beyond that way of thinking?

The Bachman empire was built in a world where secrets traveled by foot, by whisper, by blood-soaked letters slipped under doors. We built our places brick by brick, the brownstones to hide us, gates to keep others out, and surveillance equipment to watch it all.

None of that matters. I think of the Village. Tucked behind that square of brownstone buildings. Hidden in plain sight.

In this day and age, everyone in the city knows we’re there.

We’ve done the most dangerous thing of all.

We’ve essentially put everyone in one place, Seven homes to a street. Seven streets.

All filled with people I love. All are vulnerable to attack.

One good blow and you wipe us all out at once.

My chest seizes. Acid claws up my throat. I move fast, adrenaline hitting like a switch flipped inside me. The engine growls under me, but the roar in my head is louder.

It’s just as Seraphina said that day we had coffee.

They’ve not only been born into the code.

They know how to code.

They’re fluid. Decentralized. Hidden in the glow of screens and encrypted apps, scattered across the city like ghosts with guns. The city stretches before me, glittering, alive.

The apartment lights flicker. Offices hum. Cars weave through the city streets as I speed by them.

The Morettis—they don’t need fortresses.

Spread across encrypted networks. Phantoms with SIM cards.

I used to think we ruled New York from the shadows.

They don’t need walls.

They’re not in hiding.

They’re everywhere .

For the first time in forever, she’s the furthest thing from my mind. I’ve made a mistake. I’ve been too focused on her to see the threat that surrounds us.

Last week, rumors circulated in the neighborhood.

Blaze’s former informant from the Morrettis, a childhood friend, gave us a cryptic warning.

A tiny piece of information that almost slipped past me in my distracted state.

Word is that he told someone who told someone else, who told someone to pass a message to Blaze. A vague baseball reference.

One strike and they’re out.

Somehow, it all comes to the front at once, forming a tight fist in the center of my gut. I’m already dialing Rockland by the time I hit the turnoff. “I need you to trust me,” I say. He knows by my tone—no argument. “We need to evacuate the Village.”

A digital monster with a thousand heads and no central core to target.

And while we have incredible tech, it has evolved, growing as we do. Not them. Over the past ten years, we’ve been expanding our physical territory; they’ve been doing the same.

Quiet. Ruthless. Untraceable. One block. One byte. One burner text at a time.

They’ve created an untouchable empire.

God help us…

We’ve been fighting an old war.

And they’ve already started a new one.

Please don’t let it be too late.

I rev the engine and tear towards the Village.

Bachman Avenue is deceptively peaceful beneath the glow of streetlights and ivy-covered walls. Rows of brownstone stores, windows darkened for the night, guard our precious secret, protect the elegant lines of townhomes hidden behind them.

It all looks so perfect. So safe. And so terribly, terribly vulnerable.

In minutes, the serene facade shatters like glass.

As I reach the gates, families are spilling out of them into the night, carrying silver-framed photos, crying children, loaded pistols. Phones light up like a thousand fireflies as our alert system broadcasts the evacuation order.

A chorus of the pre-recorded warning speaks calmly on repeat.

Leave the Village. Find your way to the Gates. Go to Bachman Avenue. There will be cars waiting to escort you to the tarmac. Please account for immediate family. Report back if any members are unaccounted for. Leave the Village. Find your way to the gates. Go to Bachman Ave ? —

Black sedans line up in the cobblestone streets like a funeral procession.

By the time I ride through the gate and onto the streets of the Village, my pulse is hammering like a war drum. Doubt claws at my throat, nearly choking me. If I’m wrong, I’ve caused mass panic for nothing.

But if I’m right—I’ll save everyone.

Sideburns rushes to my side. His team looms behind him, restless with energy to act. “I’ve finished securing the underground locker,” he fills me in. “Where do you want me next?”

“Get to Seventh Street. Clear everyone out. Now.”

“On it,” he barks, already turning to rally his team. He doesn’t question me. He hears the urgency. Instantly, he’s shouting orders, directing people.

Bachmans flood the cobbled streets. Doors slam. Engines roar. Children cling desperately to their parents, eyes wide and bewildered, clutching hastily grabbed toys and heirlooms. Front doors are left wide open, bright lights flooding their neatly swept front stoops.

Voices collide, panic rising in a chorus of fear.

Someone grabs my arm, tearing my gaze away from the horrible scene. “Is it another drill?” a blue-eyed woman asks me, hope trembling in her voice.

We’ve run many drills since the Morettis became ambitious.

“No,” I answer, voice clipped. “This is real. Go. Quickly.”

I catch sight of little Eloise, wide-eyed, pale as snow, coming down the sidewalk clutching her mother’s hand. “Mr. Renan,” she says—she’s the only one who insists on using my proper name. “Where are we going?”

I drop to a knee. Resting my hands on her shoulders, I hold her gaze. “We’re going somewhere safe. A little adventure. I need you to be brave and listen to your mum. Can you do that for me?”

She nods, lip trembling.

“Good girl. Let’s get you to the car.”

I guide them both through a gate, pointing them toward a waiting sedan. “Be brave, Eloise,” I say. “Listen to mum.”

“Okay.” She nods again, silent tears glimmering in her eyes, and slips into the back seat beside her mother.

As soon as she settles in, she screams. “Mommy. My bear!”

From where I stand, I can’t hear what her mother says as she consoles her daughter. It pains me, yet there’s too much at stake to go searching for one toy bear.

A young boy in cloud print sky-blue pajamas sleepily follows his father, a tall man with a worried face, who wears a shoe from a different pair on each foot.

Dad struggles with the heavy stack of black security boxes he carries.

"Almost there, Tyler,” he groans, a vein bulging in his neck. “Can you see the cars?”

The little boy stands where he stops, immobile. His mouth stretches as he lets out an exhausted yawn. “I’m tired, Da-da.”

“Keep going. Mama and Macy will be waiting for us.” Dad shoots his son a desperate look.

I run over, taking the cases from the father. “I’ve got these. You two get a move on.”

“Come here, baby.” He scoops the little boy up into his arms, shooting me a grateful smile, “Thanks, Reign. You’re a good guy,” before taking off into a run to a sedan with a waiting, open door.

His wife peeks her head out, beckoning them with tears in her eyes and outstretched arms. “There you are! Come quickly, you two!”

Fuck. These are heavy. Or I’m old.

“Give those to me boss. I’ll take them to the truck.” A younger man grabs the stack, easily taking off in a jog.

I’m old.

Hunter comes swaggering through the gate, brown western boots stomping. A group of people trails behind him, their arms loaded with whatever they could grab. He grips the handle of a long black gun case in one hand. In his other hand, he holds a well-loved yellow bear.

He holds the plush up to the crowd. “Someone missing this?”

“Over there,” I say, pointing to the sedan with Eloise.

He throws me a wink. “Thanks.” He sidles over to the car.

Even though he came to us from the Navy, he’s our sniper, a god behind a scope. Ladies are disarmed by his charm, and this little girl is no different, kissing him on his cheek in thanks for the bear.

Budgie’s green jeep storms down the road, squealing onto the curb. He’s come straight from the club. Running to me, he grabs my arm with an iron grip, his voice sharp with urgency. “Reign—what the hell’s going on? Why the evacuation?”

“No time to explain.” I point toward the road. “Start loading the cars.”

He searches my face for more—then nods, sharp and final. “Understood.”

Budgie smiles—his usual way—while helping women into black sedans.

He has a calmness that eases the tension.

His quiet steadiness helps settle the crowd.

A casserole-cooking Beauty asks, “What about you, Budgie?” to which he replies, “Single men will go last, but we’ll be right behind you, darlin’. Don’t you worry.”

Cars peel away one after another, headlights slicing the night like blades. I remain rooted, adrenaline surging through my blood, counting every person, every face, making sure no one’s left behind.

The younger brothers are sweeping through every floor of every home, or running security tech, ammo, and rifles to the underground bunker. One by one, they inspect buildings and confirm clearance.

Bachman Enterprises is the tall, metal, and glass building located toward the back of our Village. It’s where we keep our offices, our accountants, and the paperwork for our legitimate business. From where I stand, I can only see the side lot, the manicured grass, and the corner of the building.

A brief, heart-stopping thought takes my breath.

Could it be hit? We were weeks away from forming an evacuation plan for the contents of the offices. It’s dark, closed hours ago. Even the cleaning team has gone. There’s no one inside, but what about everything else? The links to our fortunes?

I can’t spare another thought for the building because the brothers are looking at me. They meet me on the street, forming a weary army of battered, dirty, but clear-eyed men. I’m proud of the care they’ve taken, the care and devotion they’ve shown our people tonight.

“Round up the last of the brothers. Start getting into cars.”

An explosion tears through the silence, shaking the ground like a vengeful god.

Windows burst outward, shattering glass like frozen rain. The bakery erupts in flames, flames leaping skyward, smoke curling like black snakes into the night sky. The blast reverberates in our ears, a deafening sound.

Screams rip through the night.

“Move!” I roar, lunging for a younger man standing frozen in shock. I shove him toward Budgie, who catches him without missing a beat, ushering him into a car with calm, practiced hands.

The poor kid is in shock, yet he’s apologizing to Budgie. “I shouldn’t have froze.” Budgie reassures the young man, closes the door and with two taps on the roof, sends the car away.

I watch the car as it goes. It’s rounding the corner on Bachman Ave as the second blast follows. Closer. Fiercer. Bricks rain down like mortar fire. The brownstone storefronts collapse, the clothing store crumbling like a child’s block town. And there it is.

Our home.

Our haven.

The exterior fortress is gone, revealing the secret we’ve kept hidden but now our beautiful townhomes are fully exposed.

No longer hidden. No longer safe.

“Reign!” A guard staggers forward, blood streaking down his youthful face. “My wife! Cary was grading papers late in the schoolhouse. She always goes offline when she’s working.”

Cary has hearing loss and wears hearing aids when she teaches and runs a sign language club in the afternoons. “I’ll find her and bring her to you!” I shout. “Get to the cars!”

I plunge into the choking smoke, lungs burning, eyes on fire as I push past the gates. The smoke hasn’t reached the square yet. I run through it to the white one-room schoolhouse. She hates wearing her aids. Now, working, she’s bathed in peace, no idea of the world collapsing around her.

I startle her, pointing to her hearing aids on the desk. She quickly puts them in, and I fill her in as quickly as possible. She calls her husband’s name, taking off for the gates. I run with her, covering her body with mine as we make our way through the smoke and rubble.

“I’ve got you,” I say. She tries to argue, to tell me to save myself, but I don’t listen. The flames crackle, licking at us as we make our way through the smoke and debris, to the hands of her waiting husband.

He holds her in a way that makes a lump hit my throat, despite the chaos. “Cary!”

Another blast detonates. The most explosive yet.

The brownstones erupt in a roaring crescendo. Flames claw the night sky. Glass shatters. Stone crumbles. The ground jolts beneath me. I stumble, catching myself on a streetlamp as debris rains down. My ears ring.

Still, I don’t stop. Not until the last man is in a vehicle, cars roaring past me, tires squealing, red taillights vanishing into the dark.

And then?—

A blast hits.

Not one.

Three.

From inside the walls. Sirens scream, too late. Too late.

I’m thrown back, the shockwave slamming me into a pile of scorched debris. My vision swims.

But when I look up?—

The Village is burning. And my family?

They’re alive.

Because I listened to instinct. Because I followed a lead. Because she made me see what I’d missed.

Seraphina.

Her chaos. Her light. Thoughts of her pushing me toward the truth. I know it makes no sense—that she has nothing to do with the Morrettis; that my dreams of her are as meaningless as the conclusions I’ve reached through her today.

Yet…

She was there all the same.

I push myself up from the ground, standing on painful joints. Ash rains down like snow, soft and deadly. It coats my shoulders, clings to my skin, settles in my hair like a crown of dust.

I’m shoved into the back of a car. The door closes, pulling away.

This isn’t the end.

It’s just the beginning.

They’ve declared war.