Page 25 of Broken Vows

"How long have they been here?" I groan, more annoyed than scared. I did so much to avoid this mafia bullshit, the constant vigilance, the danger, the adrenaline rush. But one week back with Max and here I am, being outed by Joey to my colleagues and being watched by god knows who.

"Twenty minutes. My men spotted them before I came down." Vincent steps closer, his hand moving to something under his jacket. "We can do this easy or hard. Your choice."

The screech of tires echoes through the garage. A white van rounds the corner, accelerating toward us. Vincent doesn't hesitate—he tackles me to the ground as gunfire erupts, bullets sparking off concrete and shattering car windows.

I hit the pavement hard, Vincent's body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the cold floor. Above us, automatic weapons chatter like deadly typewriters. Glass rains down from shot-out light fixtures.

Vincent rolls, pulling a gun from his shoulder holster, returning fire with deadly accuracy. Each shot finds its target—I can tell bythe way the attackers' weapons fall silent one by one. The attack lasts maybe ninety seconds. When the silence settles, Vincent is still covering me, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline that must be flooding his system.

"You hit?" he asks.

I take inventory—scraped palms, bruised ribs, but nothing serious. "No. You?"

"I'm fine." He pulls me to my feet, scanning for threats. "But we need to move. Now."

His car appears as if by magic—a black Mercedes with security glass and armor plating. Tony behind the wheel, engine running. Vincent pushes me into the back seat and slides in beside me.

"Where to?" Tony asks.

"Penthouse," Vincent replies. "And make sure we're not followed."

As we speed through Manhattan traffic, Vincent keeps one hand on his gun and the other on his phone, coordinating with his security team. I sit in shocked silence, my hands trembling slightly as the adrenaline begins to fade.

"They were professionals," I say finally.

"Yeah."

"Not a warning. They were trying to kill me."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Vincent looks at me, his dark eyes unreadable. "Because someone's decided you're more valuable dead than alive. Could be about the pregnancy, too. If someone has already found out about it… a Russo-Mastroni baby threatens the power dynamic. Some people would rather eliminate the threat than adapt to it."

The penthouse is exactly as I remember—glass and steel and city lights, a fortress suspended above the chaos below. But now I notice details I missed before: reinforced windows, hidden cameras, multiple exit routes. This isn't just a home. It's a bunker.

Vincent's men sweep the apartment while he pours himself a drink. I stand by the windows, looking down at the city that wants me dead, my reflection ghostlike in the bulletproof glass.

"You can't go back to the hospital," Vincent says. "Not now."

"I have patients. Responsibilities."

"You have a baby to protect."

My hand moves automatically to my stomach, a small bump beneath my scrubs. Four and a half months now. The size of a sweet potato, according to the app. Growing stronger every day, more vulnerable with each week that passes.

"This is insane," I whisper.

"This is our world." He sets down his glass and moves toward me, each step deliberate and controlled. "The proposal still stands, Melinda. Marriage, protection, legitimacy. Everything your child needs to survive."

"Our child."

"Our child." He stops just close enough that I can feel his body heat, smell his cologne mixed with gunpowder. "Say yes."

I should say no. Should fight for my independence, my autonomy, my right to choose my own path. But staring down at the city lights, knowing there are people down there who want me dead, I feel something break inside me.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with gunpowder and unspoken truths. Vincent waits, patient as a predator, while I wage war with myself. Independence versus survival. Pride versus pragmatism. The woman I built myself into versus the reality of what I am.

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