Page 23 of Broken Vows

"It's complicated but essential."

"No shit." He moves to the window, watching the street below. "She came with protection. Max's men, positioned throughout the restaurant. Professional setup—two cars, at least six men, rotating positions every fifteen minutes."

I'm not surprised, but I am impressed. Melinda Mastroni doesn't take unnecessary risks, even when meeting the father of her child.

I pull out my wallet and leave cash on the table, more than enough to cover both meals and ensure the staff's continued discretion. Marcello's has served the Russo family for three generations. They know how to keep secrets.

"What's the play now, boss?" Tony asks as we head for the exit.

"We wait. And we watch. And we prepare for whatever choice she makes."

"And if she says no to the marriage?"

I think about that as we walk toward the car. If Melinda refuses my proposal, if she tries to navigate this alone, she'll be vulnerable. Her family will protect her, but they can't be everywhere. And there are too many people in this city who would see a Russo-Mastroni child as the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Then we find another way to keep her safe," I say finally.

"Even if she doesn't want our protection?"

"Especially then," I tell Tony.

8

Melinda

The emergency room at Mount Sinai is chaos tonight, which is what I really need.

Unlike the rest of my life, where marriage proposals come disguised as business deals and the father of my unborn child treats emotions like fatal diseases.

I'm setting a compound fracture for a sixteen-year-old who tried to impress his girlfriend by jumping off a fire escape. His mother hovers nearby, clutching a rosary and muttering prayers in Spanish. The kid keeps apologizing, tears streaming down his face as I align the bone fragments.

"It's going to be fine," I tell him, injecting lidocaine around the break. "Six weeks in a cast, physical therapy, and you'll be good as new. But no more Spider-Man stunts, okay?"

He nods miserably. His girlfriend sits in the corner, looking guilty and terrified. Young love. So simple, so innocent. I wonder if I ever felt that way about anyone, before I learned that love was just another word for leverage.

Vincent's proposal replays in my head as I work. Marriage as a business arrangement. Protection through alliance. A child legitimized by contract rather than affection. The pragmatic part of me—the part that watched my father conduct negotiations over breakfast—sees the logic. The independent woman who built a life outside family politics wants to burn the proposal and run.

But running isn't really an option anymore. The attack two weeks ago proved that. Someone wants me dead, and pregnancy has made me vulnerable in ways I never imagined. Every morning when I wake up, I check for blood. Every night, I count kicks and measure growth. This baby is becoming real, and real things can be destroyed.

"Dr. Mason?" The kid's mother touches my arm gently. "Thank you. For taking care of my son."

I manage a smile. "It's what I do."

If only it were that simple with everything else.

Elena Santos appears at my elbow as I finish the cast. "Coffee break? You look like you need caffeine. Or alcohol. Maybe both."

Elena is one of the few people here who knows a little bit about my family connections, though she's never made it an issue. Forty years old, divorced, completely dedicated to her work—she's become something like a mentor to me.

"Coffee sounds perfect," I say, peeling off my gloves.

We head to the break room, a cramped space with fluorescent lighting and coffee so strong it could strip paint. Elena pours two cups and adds enough sugar to mine to make it barely drinkable.

"So," she says, settling into the plastic chair across from me. "Want to talk about whatever's eating you alive? You've been distracted all shift."

I wrap my hands around the warm mug, buying time. "It's complicated."

"It always is. Guy trouble?"

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