Page 7 of Vows in Sin

R eign

Mud squelches under the thick soles of my boots as I move through the clearing. What’s left of the grass is sparse, worn foot paths are trampled over the field. I kick away a rusty can with my toe. It lands by the frame of what was once a sofa.

There’s a group of us Bachmans who like to get rowdy from time to time, putting our posh status on pause for a night. We’re in the Bronx in the muddy clearing where the locals dumped their brush and old furniture.

Our monthly bonfire. A throwback to another time. One for remembering our roots.

The family’s gotten used to my late entrances and early exits from their fancy social events—basically anything that calls for a suit jacket—but this, this is my kind of thing.

I’m right on time.

The younger brothers are carousing as if it were summer and we’re invincible. A thick blanket of smoke hangs in the air. The bonfire crackles and sways, its glow flickering across our faces.

Brothers whoop as they drink beer, the younger ones even doing keg stands, sloshing the cheap brew down the fronts of their hundred-dollar t-shirts, while the others cheer them on.

We older men stick to our whiskey, except in Rockland’s case.

He’s recently hit the big five-oh and is currently imbibing a flavored seltzer water.

His loving, redhead teetotaler wife Tess sent him with a cooler full, insisting he take care of his liver, and after a round of good-natured ribbing and laughter, he confesses he’s grateful to her.

He was once the leader of the Village but has since retired, turning the place over to Cash, a man younger than us with power, vision, and a hint of ruthlessness.

Cash is on vacation with his family, and Rockland is standing in. He fits right in at our bonfire. He prefers driving a beat-up monster truck over a Ferrari and feels more comfortable in ripped jeans than tailored suits.

Blaze, our primary connection to the Morrettis, stands next to me, lean and quiet, his eyes steady and sharp like a hawk. If I’m going to lay any more traps, I’m going to need all the inside information I can get.

Blaze grew up here, where we party. On the other side of the field, if you cross the road, you’ll find the brick buildings of government-subsidized housing that he called home.

He was more than happy when he found out his trip coincided with the bonfire.

The bonds of poverty and desperation tie this community tightly together.

One of the Moretti boys ran with his crowd, and he and Blaze stayed close while the rest of us turned on each other.

The two of them are young but wise beyond their years. They secured us a truce, a shaky one, but enough to give us some peace.

But now, with the Morettis encroaching on our territory, that hard-won peace feels like nothing but a trap, an excuse for us to lower our guard so they can strike when we’re not looking. The time for allies has passed, and our plan to share the city seems like a fantasy meant for another world.

“Tell me everything you know,” I say, my voice barely above the roar of the fire and the din of our brothers. “I want to be ready, Blaze.”

He looks at me, the flicker of hesitation in his eyes revealing more than I expected. I wonder if he's still loyal to the Moretti family or if he’s torn now that it's come down to breaking ties completely.

“The Morettis have something new going on, opening a club,” Blaze says, hunching closer to me as if the fire might be listening in.

“Right outside Manhattan. They’re putting everything into it.

To make a statement.” His eyes dart to the pack of brothers, then back to me.

“I am holding onto hope that something would grow from our truce.” He shakes his head sadly.

“But I found out about the club through someone else.”

“Your inside man’s gone quiet,” I say.

“Yeah.” His tone goes tight with the pain of failed loyalty. “Yeah.”

I nod, absorbing the weight of the situation. The news settles heavily on my shoulders. The Morettis’ opening a club without considering us is a bold move, a direct challenge to our authority on the Westside. It feels like a declaration of war, cloaked in neon lights and thumping bass.

“They underestimate us if they think we will cower in the shadows while they make their power play,” I finally say.

Blaze stares at the fire, flames casting shadows on his face. His voice is low. Decided. “We need to find a way to use that to our advantage.”

“Let them think they’re invincible in their new club.” I turn to Blaze, locking eyes with him. “We need to strike first, catch them off guard before they solidify their hold on the territory.”

Blaze nods in agreement, a flicker of determination crossing his face. He understands what’s at stake, as do I.

Our Village.

Bachmans began buying up the land in the late 1800s. Once the entire block was procured, they gradually built the businesses along the streets. Strong, proud brownstones now house the family’s legitimate businesses. Bachman’s Jewelers, Daughtry’s clothing store, cafes, and the list goes on.

Those storefronts create a barrier, functioning as an exterior wall similar to a castle's fortress.

Creating a protected area behind.

The rows of homes were built in the early nineteen hundreds.

The homes are tall, beautiful row homes, three stories apiece. Seven homes to a street.

Seven streets.

All filled with people I love.

As the night wears on, the bonfire dies down to glowing embers.

Blaze and I sit on the edge of a fallen tree, our shoulders pressed together, plotting our next move in hushed tones.

The air is thick with tension, anticipation crackling like electricity between us.

Our brothers stumble around in varying stages of drunkenness, their voices fading into a distant murmur as we focus on the task at hand.

The Morettis may have their new club, attempting to stake a claim on the west side of Manhattan. We have decades old connections. Our deep-rooted loyalty binds us stronger than family.

Our family has been around for a century, whereas they’ve only been organized for a decade or so.

I run a hand over my beard. “I can’t believe we still haven’t found out where they’re operating from.”

“No luck with the traps you set?” he asks.

“No.” I think of the prey I did catch.

The curly-haired spitfire in a silver dress and hot-pink heels.

I need to protect our turf, our land, our homes. I owe these men better than locking myself in the office. Kissing a girl who was searching for a brother.

It’s my responsibility to sniff out the Morrettis’ den. And I will.

“Leave that to me,” I say.

We stand in silence, each reflecting on our thoughts, occasionally sipping our drinks.

She hasn't left my mind since the moment I saw her.

The image of her standing in the storeroom, both terrified and brave, all of her breathtakingly beautiful, is burned into my memory.

I fucked up. Got distracted. I won’t let that happen again.

Can’t let her… happen again.