Page 60 of Broken Vows

"Someone's been asking questions about you," she whispers, pressing a folded piece of paper into my hand. "Administrator types, but not hospital administration. They wanted to know your schedule, which patients you've treated, when you take breaks."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing. But they offered money, Dr. Mason. A lot of money." Her voice drops even lower. "I wrote down what I could remember about them. License plate numbers, descriptions. I thought you should know."

I unfold the paper, scanning her careful handwriting. Three men, expensive suits, one with a distinctive scar across his left cheek. The license plate number means nothing to me, but Maya will be able to trace it.

"Thank you," I tell her. "And Lisa? Be careful. These people don't appreciate witnesses."

She nods, fear flickering in her young eyes. Another innocent person drawn into our world of violence and secrets.

I call Maya from the parking garage, keeping my voice low as I scan for threats. "I need pickup. Now."

"What's wrong?"

"Someone's been surveilling the hospital. Asking questions, offering bribes." I climb into my car but don't start the engine. "I'm not safe here anymore."

"Shit. Stay where you are. I'm ten minutes out."

While I wait, I think about the child on the operating table, about Lisa's frightened face, about Elena's accusation that my presence endangers everyone around me.

The pregnancy has made me vulnerable in ways I never anticipated—not just physically, but emotionally. Every threat feels amplified, every risk magnified by the life growing inside me.

Maya arrives in a black Mercedes with tinted windows, flanked by two SUVs carrying Mastroni security. She slides out of the passenger seat wearing leather pants and a jacket that doesn't quite conceal the weapons underneath.

"Get out," she commands, scanning the garage for threats. "We're switching cars."

I follow her instructions without argument, transferring to the Mercedes while her men sweep my Honda for tracking devices. The efficiency of the operation reminds me why Maya has survived—no, thrived—this long in a world that chews up and spits out the weak.

"Talk to me," she says as we pull out of the garage, security vehicles boxing us in front and behind.

I hand her Lisa's note and explain the situation at the hospital, watching her face darken with each detail.

"Marco's people," she concludes after reading the descriptions. "That scar matches one of his enforcers—Tommy Benedetto's nephew."

"Vincent said the Perezzi family was involved?—"

"Vincent's been saying a lot of things." Maya's voice carries an edge I don't like. "Question is, how much of it is true and how much is him protecting his psychotic brother?"

"What do you mean?"

She glances at me in the rearview mirror. "I mean maybe it's time we stopped waiting for the Russo family to clean house and started handling this ourselves."

"I'm talking about eliminating a threat to my sister and my nephew." Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. "The question is whether you're ready to do what's necessary to protect your child."

"Vincent's trying to handle this internally," I say, though the words feel hollow even to me.

"Vincent's trying to protect his brother while keeping you safe. Those two goals are mutually exclusive." Maya takes a corner faster than necessary, her driving reflecting the controlled violence that defines our family. "How long are you willing to wait while Marco escalates?"

I think about the child in the ER, about Lisa's frightened face, about the ultrasound photo sent to my phone like a death threat. "What kind of case have you built?"

"The kind that proves Marco Russo is a clear and present danger to both families. Financial records, surveillance photos, testimony from people he's bought or threatened." Her smile in the mirror is sharp as a blade. "Enough evidence to justify any action we might take."

We arrive at Vincent's penthouse to find the building crawling with additional security. Men in expensive suits who carry themselves like soldiers, positioned at every entrance and exit. The lobby feels like a fortress preparing for siege.

In the elevator, Maya hands me an encrypted phone. "Vincent doesn't need to know about our conversation. Some things are better handled by women who understand the stakes."

The elevator opens to reveal Vincent's penthouse transformed into a command center. Maps and photographs cover every surface, secure communication equipment hums with constantactivity, and the coffee table is buried under intelligence reports and financial documents.

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