Page 34 of Broken Vows

The prisoner's good eye focuses on me with sudden terror. There's something about medical assessments that cut deeper than raw violence. I step closer, studying him like a particularly interesting case study.

"You're experiencing stage two hemorrhagic shock," I tell him conversationally. "Blood pressure dropping, heart rate elevated, confused thinking. Stage three is when organ failure begins. That's usually irreversible."

"What the fuck are you?" he whispers.

"I'm a trauma surgeon." I pull latex gloves from my medical kit, snapping them on without breaking eye contact with the man. "I know exactly how much damage a human body can sustain before it stops functioning. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

Vincent watches me with a mix of shock and respect. Even Tony takes a step back.

I move to examine the man's injuries as if he’s just another trauma victim in the ER, probing the swollen areas around his ribs. He screams when I press against what's obviously a fracture.

"Broken ribs can puncture lungs," I explain matter-of-factly. "Causes pneumothorax—essentially, your lung collapses and you drown in your own blood. Very painful way to die. Takes about fifteen minutes."

"Jesus Christ," the prisoner gasps. "You're fucking insane."

"She’s the reason you’re still breathing. Remember that," Vincent says.

"I'm practical." I select a scalpel from my kit, testing the edge against my gloved thumb. "For instance, there's a nervecluster right here—" I trace the blade along his inner thigh, not cutting but making my point clear. "Severing it won't kill you immediately, but the pain will be... extraordinary. And it won't heal properly. You'll walk with a limp for the rest of your life."

"The order came through Salvatore," he blurts out suddenly. "Salvatore Perezzi. But he said it was a rush job, premium pay, and the client wanted it done that specific night."

Vincent leans forward. "What client?"

"I don't know! Sal just said someone with connections, someone who knew both families' schedules. They knew about the meeting at the restaurant, knew she'd be at the hospital, knew her routines."

My blood chills. Someone had been watching me, tracking my movements, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. "How long had they been planning this?"

"No clue, lady. A day? Maybe more. Sal said,” the man starts sweating and shivering, coughing as he catches his breath, “the client knew hospital schedules, security rotations. Professional level intel."

Vincent and I exchange glances. This wasn't random violence—it was a carefully orchestrated hit by someone with access to inside information.

"Who in your organization has connections to the Russos?" I ask.

The man's remaining eye looks defeated, as if he knows no matter what he says, his fate is likely sealed. "I told you everything I know. Please, I got kids?—"

"Answer the question." My voice is ice.

"Nobody talks about that shit directly. But... but there's rumors. Someone high up in the Perezzi family's been taking meetings with Russo lieutenants. Money changing hands, information getting passed around."

Vincent's jaw tightens. Internal betrayal—the worst kind of threat to any family operation.

I step back, removing my gloves with sharp, efficient movements. "He's telling the truth. Stress responses, pupil dilation, cardiovascular indicators—all consistent with honesty under duress."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because lying under extreme stress produces specific physiological responses. I've seen enough trauma patients lie about how they got their injuries to recognize the patterns." I pack my medical kit away, hands perfectly steady. "He's not hiding anything else."

Vincent nods to Tony, who produces a pistol. The prisoner begins sobbing, begging, promising information he doesn't have. I don't look away when Tony pulls the trigger. The sound echoes off concrete walls like thunder.

In the sudden silence, I realize I feel nothing. No horror, no guilt, no satisfaction. Just the cold understanding that this was necessary. This man would have killed me, killed my child, without a second thought.

"You okay?" Vincent asks quietly.

"I'm fine." And surprisingly, I am. "We should go. The police response time to this area is approximately twelve minutes. We've been here eight."

In the car, Vincent studies me with concern and softness. "I've never seen anything like that. You were more terrifying than any of my enforcers."

"Medical training," I reply simply. "Understanding anatomy, physiology, pain responses—it's all just data. Applied correctly, it's more effective than brute force."

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