Page 51 of Broken Vows

"Vincent, coordinate with Tony. I want a full sweep of all properties. Marco, put our crews on alert but no movement without my direct order. Anyone who acts without authorization answers to me personally."

The brothers move with practiced precision, phones already out, voices low and urgent as they coordinate with their respective teams. I watch the Russo machine kick into gear—more corporate than my family's approach, but equally lethal.

"What about me?" I ask.

Antonio studies me with those calculating eyes. "You stay close to Vincent. Until we know who's behind this, you're a target."

"I can protect myself."

"I'm sure you can. But humor an old man's paranoia."

There's a command beneath his polite words. This isn't a request.

Vincent appears at my elbow, phone still pressed to his ear. "Tony's sending a car. We're moving to the penthouse—better security protocols there."

"I need to get some things from my apartment?—"

"Already handled. Maya's packing a bag for you."

My sister. Always ready.

And probably going through my drawers and judging my underwear choices while she's at it.

"Vincent," Antonio's voice stops us at the dining room door. "Find out who did this. But be smart about it. If this is what I think it is..."

“They’ve been laying groundwork for months,” I say. “Perezzi sent men after Melinda in Italy before we even knew what Marco was up to. That was just the opening shot.”

Antonio studies me for a beat. “You think it’s internal?”

“I think someone knows too much about our operations—and Mastroni security protocols. That kind of intelligence doesn’t come from the outside.”

A traitor. Someone close enough to both families to orchestrate this perfectly.

Twenty minutes later, I'm back in Vincent's penthouse, staring out at the city lights while he coordinates security measures. The space feels different now—less like a luxurious sanctuary, more like an elegant prison.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. I almost ignore it, but something makes me open the message.

The image that loads makes my blood freeze.

It's an ultrasound photo. My ultrasound photo. The one from last week's appointment, complete with the clinic's header and my name clearly visible. Below it, a simple message: "Beautiful baby. Be a shame if something happened."

"Vincent." My voice comes out steady despite the terror clawing at my throat.

He's beside me in seconds, taking the phone from my trembling hands. I watch his face go white as he processes what he's seeing.

"How did they get this?" I whisper.

"Medical records are supposed to be secure?—"

"Nothing's secure." The words come out harsher than I intended. "Not the hospital, not your penthouse, not anywhere. Someone's been watching me, tracking my appointments, accessing my private medical information."

Vincent's already dialing his security chief, barking orders about digital forensics and medical facility sweeps. But I barely hear him. A cold clarity is settling over me, the same detachment I feel when a trauma patient arrives in the ER beyond saving.

Someone threatened my child. My baby. The innocent life growing inside me that never asked to be born into this world of blood and bullets.

I think about the man in the parking garage, the professional precision of tonight's murder, the way someone has been watching and planning and waiting. These aren't random attacks or family disputes. This is war, and my child is the target.

"We need Maya," I say quietly.

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