Chapter 17 - The Broken Vow
The corridor went eerily quiet, save for the crackle of burning drywall and the groaning of twisted metal.
Dr. Evans’s trembling hands re-taped the catheter to Lily’s arm, his fingers slick with sweat. "Forty percent left," he whispered, staring up at the amber marrow fluid. "Twenty minutes. If we move her before it finishes, the graft fails. Her immune system is completely wiped out from the conditioning chemo, Claire. She has zero white blood cells. A common dust particle could kill her in hours."
"We aren't moving," I said, my voice dead and cold.
I picked up the discarded nine-millimeter pistol Vincent had left on the bedside table before charging out. I had never fired a weapon in my life until five days ago, but the weight of the steel felt natural now. Survival has a way of stripping away civilized hesitation.
A heavy boot struck the splintered wood of the bedroom door.
"Claire."
It was Vincent. His voice was ragged, thick with dust and blood.
I rushed to the door, releasing the internal deadbolt. Vincent slipped inside, instantly throwing his broad shoulder against the heavy wood to shut it behind him before re-engaging the lock.
He looked like a ghost carved from violence. His tactical vest was torn, bullet gouges running across the ceramic chest plate, and blood trickled from a jagged cut across his temple, dripping into his dark beard. Yet his gray eyes burned with a clear, terrifying lucidity.
He dropped an empty magazine to the floor and clicked a fresh one into his rifle without looking down.
"How much is left?" he demanded, looking straight at Dr. Evans.
"Fifteen minutes, Mr. Moretti," Evans stammered. "Maybe twelve if I open the roller clamp slightly, but that risks overloading her pulmonary circuit."
"Keep it steady," Vincent ordered softly. He turned and walked toward Lily.
The little girl reached up, her small, pale fingers catching his bloody sleeve. "Daddy... you're hurt."
Vincent’s entire posture softened. The predatory monster who had just slaughtered half a dozen men in the hall vanished, replaced by a father whose throat worked against a swell of raw grief. He knelt, taking her tiny hand in his calloused, trembling palm, pressing his lips to her knuckles.
"It's not my blood, baby," he whispered, his voice trembling for the first time since this nightmare began. "Daddy’s fine. You’re being so brave. The bravest girl in the world."
A sudden crunch of glass in the courtyard drew his gaze back toward the breached windows. Dante’s voice drifted up through the smoke once more, closer this time—he was on the ground floor, inside the grand foyer.
"Did you tell her, Vincent?" Dante called out, his laughter echoing off the high ceilings below. "Did you tell Claire why Carmela put a bounty on the girl’s head before she took that bottle of pills? Did you tell your little runaway that the Commission doesn't care about your bloodline—they care about the treaty you signed in blood five years ago?"
I froze, looking up from Lily to Vincent.
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Vincent’s jaw tightened until the muscle twitched beneath his skin. He didn't turn around to face me.
"Vincent," I whispered, the cold fear pooling in my stomach having nothing to do with bullets. "What treaty is he talking about?"
