Chapter Thirteen: Vows of Fire
Rain fell in thick sheets over the Jersey coastline, washing away the scent of gunpowder but not the blood.
Ronnie crouched in the sniper's nest, eyes locked on the chaos unfolding below. Her rifle was still in her hands, un-fired—but someone else had pulled the trigger. Someone else had aimed through her scope. And Tommy was bleeding.
Cass's voice echoed through her earpiece. "Ronnie, someone's inside our perimeter. That's your backup rifle. Stolen from the Red Hook stash last week."
Ronnie's heart pounded in her ears. Below, Tommy struggled to stand, clutching his side. Valentina had vanished into the shadows of the masquerade. But it wasn't over.
A second shot rang out.
Not at Tommy.
At her.
The bullet chipped the concrete beside her head, sending her diving. She rolled behind cover, breath ragged. The shooter was close—within two rooftops. And whoever they were, they wanted her out of the game.
Ronnie didn't wait.
She snapped up her rifle and sprinted, weaving across the rooftop, silent as the rain. At the edge of the building, she launched across the alley, landed hard, and rolled. She kept moving.
In the distance, sirens wailed.
---
Scene: Rooftop Duel
She found the shooter five buildings down—a lithe figure in dark tactical gear, face masked.
They didn't speak.
Just turned and opened fire.
Ronnie ducked, bullets tearing past her as she dove behind a vent.
She recognized the movements. The way they held the rifle. The stance.
And then, a flash of memory:
Flashback: Training Grounds
Her father's estate, five years ago.
A private field. Tommy and her, back to back.
He adjusted her grip, his breath warm against her ear.
"If you ever meet someone who moves like me, run. Because they trained where I trained. And we don't miss."
---
Ronnie fired. Missed.
The shooter dropped a flash grenade and vanished into the shadows.
Cass's voice cut back in. "Ronnie. You need to see this. Red Hook was breached. Files are gone. And we just ID'd the shooter."
"Who?"
"His name's Damien. Black Ops. Ex-Russian Spetsnaz. He's not working for Valentina."
"Then who the hell is he working for?"
"We think… your uncle."
Ronnie froze.
"My uncle's dead."
Cass hesitated.
"Not anymore."
---
Scene: The Funeral That Wasn't
Back at the safe house, Ronnie dug into the old files. Her mother's brother—Victor Salerno—had supposedly died in a car bomb six years ago. No body was ever recovered. Just a burned-out shell and a closed casket.
"Victor was the original heir," Luca said. "Before your dad took over the coast."
Ronnie's hands trembled. "He was excommunicated."
"For starting a splinter group. He didn't believe in alliances. Just control."
She stared at the documents. Offshore accounts. Shell corps. Recent movements in the Balkans.
And photos. Victor. Older now. Scarred. Alive.
"Why come back now?" she whispered.
Cass handed her a flash drive. "He's building something. A syndicate. Using the chaos you and Valentina caused to recruit every disavowed enforcer in the city."
Ronnie clicked through files. Intercepts. Calls. Contracts.
And there it was.
A picture of Damien shaking hands… with Tommy.
---
Scene: The Confrontation
Ronnie found Tommy two days later, recovering in a secure suite Cass had prepped.
He looked up at her, eyes pained, shoulder bandaged.
"You didn't shoot me."
"No," she said. "But someone else tried. With my weapon."
He didn't flinch.
"Why was Damien using your name?" she asked.
Tommy exhaled slowly.
"Because I knew he'd find me. I needed a way in."
"You worked with him."
"I infiltrated Victor's crew. Months ago. Before your father died. I tried to warn you, but after Florence, after the fire—"
"You lied."
"I had to. I didn't know who I could trust."
Ronnie stared at him. The boy she'd loved. The man who'd broken her. The spy who might still be playing both sides.
"I should kill you."
"You should. But you won't."
"Why?"
"Because Victor's next move is to wipe the board. He doesn't want to rule the city. He wants to erase it."
---
Scene: The Pact
Ronnie met Valentina at the edge of the East River, beneath the rusted bones of the old pier. No guards. No games.
"I want him dead," Valentina said, tossing Victor's file across the table.
Ronnie lit a cigarette. "Then we do this together."
Valentina raised an eyebrow. "You're trusting me?"
"No," Ronnie said. "But I trust that you hate him more."
Valentina laughed, a sharp sound.
"Truce?"
"Temporary."
They shook hands.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracked.
---
Scene: Blood Oaths
That night, under neon lights and bulletproof glass, Ronnie summoned her top captains. Irish. Cuban. Ex-DEA.
They met in the shell of an abandoned cathedral turned war room.
Ronnie stood at the altar.
"We face something older than vendetta. Colder than profit. Victor doesn't want the throne. He wants the fire. All of it. So we do what our fathers never could."
She held up a blade.
"We bleed together."
One by one, the captains stepped forward, slicing their palms and pressing blood into the bowl.
Vows were spoken in Spanish, Gaelic, Russian.
Ronnie raised the blade.
"This city belongs to us. And we will not bury another generation beneath its ashes."
---
Ending: The New War Begins
As the city's skyline blinked behind stormclouds, a ship entered the harbor—unmarked, quiet, heavy.
On its deck stood Victor Salerno.
Alive.
Watching.
Waiting.
And smiling.
To be continued in Chapter Fourteen: The Devil's Chessboard