Page 33 of Broken Vows

11

Melinda

The warehouse on Pier 47 is exactly what you'd expect—cold, gritty, and dangerous.

I follow Vincent through the maze of containers. Our footsteps echoes off the steel, sharp and impossible to ignore.

"You don't have to do this," Vincent says without turning around, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "You can wait in the car."

"I'm not waiting anywhere." I adjust my grip on the small medical kit I insisted on bringing. "If you want answers, you need him conscious and coherent. Blood loss and shock won't help your interrogation."

He stops, turns to study my face in the harsh fluorescent lighting. "This isn't a hospital, Melinda. What happens here?—"

"What happens here is business." The words taste like copper pennies on my tongue. "I grew up watching my father conduct meetings in places like this. I know what you do to people who cross the family."

His voice drops, rough with interest. "Standing your ground, huh?"

I think about the man who tried to kill me tonight, who would have put a bullet through my skull without hesitation. Who would have murdered my unborn child.

"I’ll do whatever it takes to keep us alive."

Vincent's mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it weren't so cold. "Good. Because this is going to get ugly."

The room is tighter than I expected, barely big enough to pace in.

He’s slumped in the lone chair, limbs bound with thick rope.

But it’s the spreading bloodstain across his chest that catches my attention—deep, dark, and fresh.

Whatever they asked, he didn’t answer fast enough.

"Marco got here first," Vincent explains, noting my gaze. "He has his own methods."

The prisoner looks up when we enter—late thirties, maybe, with the kind of face that's seen too many fights. His left eye is swollen shut, and blood runs from his nose in a steady stream. When he sees me, his pulse kicks. I see it in his throat.

"What the fuck is this?" he spits. "Bringing your lady friend to watch?"

Vincent doesn't respond. Instead, he nods to Tony, who steps forward with a set of brass knuckles. The first punch lands with a wet crunch that makes my stomach turn, but I don't look away. I can't afford to show weakness here.

"Let's try this again," Vincent says conversationally. "Who paid you to kill Melinda Mastroni?"

It’s clear the man doesn’t recognize me, though I was his target. I guess I look different in scrubs.

The man spits blood onto the concrete floor. "Go fuck yourself, Russo."

Tony hits him again, this time in the ribs. The sound of bone cracking echoes through the room like breaking kindling. The prisoner doubles over, gasping, but his eyes remain defiant.

"I don't know shit," he wheezes. "Order came through channels. Anonymous payment. That's how these things work."

"Bullshit." Vincent's voice remains perfectly calm. "The Perezzi family doesn't take anonymous contracts for hits this significant. Someone wanted her dead specifically, and they paid premium rates for it."

Another punch, this one to the solar plexus. The man retches, dry heaving onto his own shoes. I watch his pupils dilate, note the way his breathing becomes shallow and rapid. Shock is setting in.

"Vincent," I say quietly. "He's going into shock. Much more of this and you'll lose him entirely."

“Then he better talk fast—before I stop caring if he lives.”

"Pain threshold varies by individual," I continue, my voice taking on the measured tone I use during medical consultations. "But based on his current condition—concussion, probable fractured ribs, internal bleeding—he has maybe twenty minutes before unconsciousness. After that, he's useless to you."

---