Vowed (Heart on Fire #2)

Chapter 1

Brian

I'd spent five years trying to outrun a ghost. Carmen's voice still rattled around in my head.

I want someone who's going somewhere.

The FDNY's Annual Medal Day ceremony filled City Hall's Council Chamber with dress uniforms and polished brass. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching on medals and buttons, on the flags flanking the podium where the Commissioner stood reading citations.

The room smelled like wood polish and tradition and the particular nervous sweat of firefighters who'd rather be running into burning buildings than sitting still in formal dress.

My name was next on the list.

"For exceptional bravery and quick thinking during the Maple Street apartment fire," the Commissioner read, his voice carrying through the chamber, "demonstrating the highest standards of the FDNY... Firefighter Brian Torres, Engine 295."

I stood, tugging at my collar, and made my way to the podium. Five hundred people were in this room. Brass, politicians, families, other crews from across the city. I could feel every single pair of eyes.

The rescue was last month. A family trapped on the fourth floor, smoke so thick I was working by touch alone.

I found the kids first, handed them off to Garrett, then went back for the parents.

Standard work. Terrifying work. The kind of thing you don't think about until it's over and your hands won't stop shaking.

The Commissioner pinned the medal on my chest and shook my hand. Cameras flashed. Applause filled the chamber.

I looked out at the crowd.

My parents had driven in from the Bronx.

My mom was crying, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she'd probably been clutching since we left the house.

My dad sat rigid beside her, jaw tight, trying to hold it together.

Failing. I caught his eye, and he gave me a single nod, gruff and proud, and I had to look away before I lost it too.

Captain Rodriguez beamed from the Engine 295 section, Maria beside him, with Lucia and Marco fidgeting in their seats. Rodriguez had put me up for this medal. He’d probably fought for it, knowing him. Twenty-eight years on the job, and he still showed up for his crew like it was day one.

Shane sat with Maya and Zoe, all three of them grinning at me. Shane and Maya had gotten married just a month ago, and yet they looked at each other like they'd been doing this forever. Like the fit was so natural, it erased any sense of newness.

Garrett sat beside Shane, arms crossed but smiling. When I caught his eye, he mouthed something that looked suspiciously like about time.

This was my family. Blood and chosen. The people who showed up.

I returned to my seat as the Commissioner moved to the next citation, the next hero, the next round of applause. The ceremony continued. More medals, more handshakes, more cameras. But my mind had already drifted.

I want someone who's going somewhere.

Carmen's voice. Five years, and it still cut through everything.

I watched Rodriguez wrap his arm around Maria's shoulders. Shane's hand found Maya's like it was automatic, like breathing. Zoe leaned into her stepfather's side, comfortable and claimed.

I wanted this. Not just the medal—all of it. The wife in the audience. The kids who squirmed through ceremonies. The partnership that made hard days survivable and good days better.

I was thirty-two years old, and I wanted what Captain Rodriguez had. What Shane had.

After the ceremony, the crowd spilled into the rotunda for the reception. Crystal chandeliers. White-gloved servers carrying trays of champagne. The kind of elegance that made firefighters tug at their collars and stick close to people they knew.

I was trying to escape a Deputy Chief who wanted to talk about "leadership potential" when I spotted the cluster of suits near the mayor's circle. City officials, photographers, and, at the center, a man I recognized from campaign signs and news coverage.

Councilman Richard Lang. Silver hair, expensive suit, the kind of smile that looked like it had been perfected in front of cameras.

He was working the room with practiced ease, shaking hands, touching elbows, laughing at jokes that probably weren't funny. Every movement was calculated. Every interaction a transaction.

Then his eyes found mine across the room, and he started toward me.

"Firefighter Torres." He extended his hand, a photographer materializing at his shoulder. "Congratulations. The city is grateful for your service."

His handshake was firm, practiced. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Thank you, sir."

"Four lives saved. That's remarkable." He held the handshake a beat too long, giving the photographer time to frame the shot. "You're exactly the kind of hero New York needs."

The camera flashed.

"I'm pushing a new public safety initiative through the council," Lang continued, his voice dropping to something more intimate, like we were old friends sharing secrets.

"More funding for first responders, better equipment, and the support you all deserve.

I hope I can count on the FDNY's support. "

"We appreciate anything that helps us do our jobs, sir."

Another photo. Another smile. Then an aide appeared at Lang's elbow, murmuring something about the borough president, and he was gone. Moving on to the next handshake, the next photo op, the next vote to secure.

I watched him go.

"Torres." Garrett appeared beside me, two glasses of champagne in hand. He offered one. "Looked like you needed a rescue."

"My hero." I took the glass. "What'd you think of him?"

Garrett's eyes tracked Lang across the rotunda. Something in his expression sharpened. That analytical focus he got when he was processing information, seeing patterns others missed.

"I think," he said slowly, "that man smiles like someone who's never heard no."

Before I could respond, Shane joined us, Maya and Zoe in tow. My parents weren't far behind, my mom already pulling me into another hug, my dad shaking hands with Rodriguez.

"Proud of you, mijo," my mom whispered against my chest. She smelled like the kitchen I grew up in. Sofrito and comfort and thirty-two years of love.

The firehouse celebration was louder, warmer, and involved significantly more beer than City Hall.

Someone had hung a banner across the engine bay: TORRES — FINALLY GETTING THE RECOGNITION WE'VE BEEN GIVING HIM FOR YEARS.

The sheet cake Maya had brought said Not Bad For A Rookie in blue frosting, which was either a joke about the medal or a dig at the fact that Shane still called me a rookie when he wanted to annoy me.

Probably both.

Zoe had claimed the corner piece and was showing Lucia Rodriguez something on her phone while Marco tried to peek. Shane and my parents were laughing about something by the engine, my dad actually smiling, which happened about three times a year.

Garrett was talking with one of the guys from Ladder 118, the kind of low, focused conversation that meant they were either solving a problem or planning three steps ahead. With Garrett, it was usually both.

Captain Rodriguez found me by the coffee maker, hiding from the attention.

"You did good work, Torres. Quick thinking. That family is alive because of you."

"Just doing the job, Cap."

"You're doing more than the job." He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching the chaos of the celebration with the easy satisfaction of a man who'd built something good. "That's why I want to talk to you about something."

When Rodriguez talked, I listened. Twenty-eight years as a firefighter, twelve as captain. He'd seen it all, survived it, built a life and a family around this work. If anyone knew what was possible in this job, it was him.

"You ever think about getting your paramedic license?"

I had thought about it. Late nights scrolling through program requirements, imagining what it would mean to be on the other side of that certification.

"I've thought about it."

"You should do more than think. You've got instincts, Torres. Good hands, calm head. The kind of firefighter who could run a medical scene, not just assist on one."

He paused, let that land.

"EMT-Basic is fine. It's solid. But Paramedic? That's the next level. That's leadership material."

"I'll think about it, Cap."

"Don't just think. Do." He clapped me on the shoulder. "You've got more in you. Time to stop selling yourself short."

That night, I looked up paramedic certification programs.

Twelve hundred hours of training. A year, maybe more, on top of full shifts. Expensive. Exhausting.

Worth it.

But Rodriguez's words echoed: Time to stop selling yourself short.

I didn’t tell anyone about Carmen. Not Shane. Not my family. Not Ava. I still couldn't talk about it without feeling like the floor had dropped out.

Carmen. We were together for four years. Lived together for two.

I was going to propose. The ring was hidden in my sock drawer. I was going to ask her on our anniversary. But she left three weeks before then.

I came home from a shift, and her closet was empty. Half the furniture was gone. She was sitting on the couch, waiting for me, and the look on her face told me everything.

"I can't do this anymore, Brian."

"Do what? What are you talking about?"

"This life. The shifts, the danger, never knowing if you're going to come home." Her voice was steady. Rehearsed. She'd been practicing this. "I love you, but I want someone who's going somewhere. You're always going to be running into burning buildings."

"That's my job. That's who I am."

"I know." She'd picked up her purse, her keys. "That's the problem."

She'd met someone else. A finance guy. Corner office, six-figure salary, the kind of man who wore suits instead of turnout gear. The kind of man who fit where she wanted to go.

Her voice still lived in my head. I want someone who's going somewhere. As if saving lives wasn’t going somewhere. As if running toward danger every day didn’t count as ambition.