Chapter 6 - THE NIGHT VINCENT CHOSE HER OVER REVENGE
The gunmen escaped.
Frankie captured one near the alley, but the man carried no identification and refused to speak.
Vincent could have stayed.
He could have interrogated him.
Could have chased Gabriel.
Could have demanded twenty years of answers from Julian.
Instead, Vincent returned to the hospital.
Clara noticed immediately.
“You came back.”
He looked confused by the statement.
“Of course.”
“No.”
She watched him remove his raincoat.
“The old you would have stayed.”
Vincent understood.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing worth missing this for.”
His eyes moved toward her stomach.
The baby kicked almost on cue.
Clara looked away.
“Don’t make this romantic.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Good.”
He sat.
“Julian says Gabriel is my half-brother.”
“I heard.”
“You listened?”
“You gave me the phone.”
A faint smile.
“Right.”
She studied him.
“Do you believe him?”
“I believe pieces.”
“Which pieces?”
“That my father lied.”
“That Julian manipulated us.”
“Yes.”
“That Gabriel exists?”
Vincent paused.
“Frankie remembers him.”
“How?”
“Not as Gabriel Rossy. As Gabriel Serra.”
Clara understood.
“Serrano.”
“Yes.”
Vincent rubbed his jaw.
“Frankie saw him years ago at a negotiation. He noticed the resemblance but thought nothing of it.”
“Do they look alike?”
“Apparently enough to become disturbing now.”
Clara was quiet.
“What do you want to do?”
“Find him.”
“Then?”
Vincent looked at her.
“That answer used to be easier.”
The admission surprised her.
“Would you kill him?”
“Eight months ago?”
“Yes.”
“Probably.”
“And now?”
He stared at the monitor beside her bed.
“Now I would rather know why my father let two sons grow up believing they were enemies.”
That was when Clara felt the first dangerous spark of hope.
Not because Vincent had become safe overnight.
Because for once curiosity had replaced violence.
At noon, the obstetrician discharged Clara with strict instructions.
Rest.
No more overnight diner shifts.
Hydration.
Immediate return if contractions resumed.
Vincent heard every word.
Clara glared at him.
“Don't.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“Your face did.”
“I was going to ask where you're staying.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“You don't get my address.”
“Someone shot at the diner.”
“Then the address is safer unknown.”
He took a breath.
“What do you suggest?”
That stopped her.
Again.
A question.
“I don't know.”
Vincent nodded.
“All right.”
He called Frankie.
“Find three secure places.”
Clara interrupted.
“Not yours.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Not mine.”
“Not controlled by Rossy companies.”
“Fine.”
“No staff I don't choose.”
“Fine.”
“No cameras inside.”
His jaw tightened.
Then:
“Fine.”
She almost smiled.
Frankie looked shocked enough for everyone.
They settled on a furnished house owned by a retired judge who sometimes assisted witness-protection arrangements.
Detective Shaw approved the location.
Two plainclothes officers monitored the street.
Vincent’s men remained two blocks away.
Clara chose who entered.
It was the first secure place Vincent had ever arranged where security did not feel like ownership.
That evening, Clara slept for four uninterrupted hours.
When she woke, she smelled tomato sauce.
She walked into the kitchen.
Vincent was standing over a pot.
She stared.
“What are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
“You cannot cook.”
“That is unnecessarily insulting.”
“You once burned water.”
“That story has been exaggerated.”
“It was water.”
Vincent looked into the pot.
“I ordered food.”
She laughed.
He looked offended.
“I transferred it to a pan.”
“Remarkable growth.”
The laughter died slowly.
For a moment they stood like the married couple they had once been.
Then Clara remembered why they were divorced.
Vincent did too.
He set down the spoon.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“If there had been no photograph, would you still have left?”
Clara did not answer immediately.
“Yes.”
He absorbed it.
“Why?”
“Because I had stopped knowing where you ended and your power began.”
His expression tightened.
“When you bought me jewelry, I wondered whether it came from a legitimate company.”
He looked away.
“When you sent guards with me, I wondered whether they protected me or reported on me.”
“Yes.”
“When you said no to going somewhere, I couldn't tell whether you were being a husband or a boss.”
Vincent nodded.
“That's fair.”
“And I hated myself for getting used to it.”
He looked back.
“That part isn't on you.”
“Some of it is.”
“No.”
She almost argued.
Vincent continued.
“I made control feel like love.”
The sentence silenced her.
“I learned that from my father.”
He looked toward the dark kitchen window.
“I don't want my child learning it from me.”
Clara's throat tightened.
The baby moved.
Vincent noticed.
“Can I?”
His hand hovered.
Clara looked down.
Eight months.
Eight months of feeling every kick alone.
No one had put a hand there except doctors.
She nodded.
Vincent approached slowly.
His palm rested against the side of her stomach.
Nothing happened.
He waited.
Then the baby kicked hard.
Vincent froze.
His eyes widened.
Clara almost laughed.
Again.
A second kick.
He whispered:
“Hello.”
The word was so gentle she barely recognized his voice.
Clara looked away because tears had suddenly filled her eyes.
Then something slammed into the front window.
Vincent moved instantly.
He pulled Clara down.
But no gunshot followed.
A brick lay on the floor.
Wrapped around it was a photograph.
Frankie and the police rushed from outside.
Vincent unfolded the picture.
A grainy image of Clara leaving the prenatal clinic six weeks earlier.
On the back:
YOU CAN’T BUILD A FAMILY ON A GRAVE.
Vincent’s expression changed.
Frankie examined the street.
“No vehicle.”
Detective Shaw arrived minutes later.
She looked at the photograph.
“Gabriel?”
Vincent nodded.
Clara stared at the words.
“You can't build a family on a grave.”
Something bothered her.
“This isn't just a threat.”
Vincent looked at her.
“What?”
“It sounds personal.”
Shaw nodded.
“Like accusation.”
Vincent understood.
“Gabriel thinks I killed someone.”
“Who?”
Nobody knew.
Then Frankie’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“The man we caught outside the church finally talked.”
“Name?”
“He says Gabriel hired him.”
“No surprise.”
Frankie swallowed.
“But he says Gabriel didn't order Clara killed.”
Vincent went still.
“What?”
“The instruction was to scare you away from Julian.”
Clara stared.
“Then who shot at the diner?”
Frankie looked grim.
“According to him, Julian.”
The room exploded into silence.
Vincent's face became unreadable.
Two enemies.
Two competing agendas.
Gabriel wanted Vincent separated from Julian.
Julian wanted everyone to believe Gabriel wanted the unborn child dead.
Clara whispered:
“So Julian planted the Serrano token.”
“Yes.”
Vincent's voice was cold.
“And he tried to kill my child.”
A car engine screamed outside.
Police shouted.
Then gunfire erupted.
The front window shattered.
Vincent threw Clara behind the kitchen island.
A bullet tore through his shoulder.
He grunted.
“Vincent!”
Blood spread across his shirt.
Frankie fired toward the street.
Dino dragged the wounded Vincent behind cover.
Clara pressed both hands over the bleeding wound.
“Stay with me.”
“It’s through-and-through.”
“Shut up.”
He almost smiled.
Then Clara’s face changed.
Another pain seized her abdomen.
Much stronger than before.
She gasped.
Vincent saw.
“No.”
Warm fluid suddenly spread beneath her dress.
Clara looked down.
Her water had broken.
She was thirty-four weeks and six days pregnant.
Outside, armed men were firing at the house.
Inside, Vincent was bleeding beneath her hands.
And their child had chosen that exact moment to come into the world.
Vincent grabbed her hand.
“Go with Shaw.”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“You’re shot.”
“And you're in labor.”
Another contraction struck.
She cried out.
Vincent’s face went pale.
Frankie shouted from the hallway.
“Ambulance is three minutes!”
Vincent pressed his forehead to Clara’s.
“Listen to me.”
She was crying now.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Vincent—”
“I have spent my entire life making people stay when they wanted to go.”
His hand tightened around hers.
“I am asking you to go because our child needs you.”
Clara stopped.
The words cut straight through everything.
Vincent looked toward Detective Shaw.
“Take her.”
Clara stared at him.
“What will you do?”
“Come after you.”
“Promise?”
His eyes held hers.
May you like
“Yes.”
It was the first promise from Vincent Rossy she allowed herself to believe.
