Page 68 of Broken Vows

After everything with the hospital, I didn’t expect to be invited to speak here. But when Dr. Chen—the trauma OB Vincent hired for my delivery—pulled strings to get me on the conference roster, I couldn’t say no.

She thinks the field techniques I’ve developed are “innovative.” I just think they work.

"The key to penetrating chest wounds," I say, clicking to the next slide, "is recognizing that field conditions rarely mirror textbook scenarios. You work with what you have—improvised instruments, inadequate lighting, patients who may be uncooperative due to... external pressures."

A hand shoots up. Dr. Morrison from Johns Hopkins, pretentious bastard who's never treated a gunshot wound outside a pristine OR. "Dr. Mason, these scenarios seem unusually specific. What's your experience with such extreme field conditions?"

I smile, the practiced expression I've perfected for hiding truth. "Medical missions abroad. War zones. You'd be surprised how creative you become when someone's bleeding out and the nearest hospital is fifty miles away."

True enough, if you consider the warehouse district a war zone.

"Field amputations," I continue, "require decisive action. Hesitation costs lives." I demonstrate the proper angle for severing arteries, muscle memory guiding my hands. The audience leans forward, fascinated by my precision. They have no idea I'm showing them exactly how to disable someone permanently.

That's when I see him. Third row, left side. Dark suit, predatory stillness, eyes locked on me with laser focus. Not taking notes like the others. Not here for medical education.

My pulse kicks up, but I maintain my presentation rhythm. "Of course, the psychological aspect cannot be ignored. Patients in extreme trauma often become combative. Restraint techniques..."

The man's phone buzzes. He checks it, then his gaze returns to me with renewed intensity. Fuck. Whatever message he received, it wasn't good news for me.

I catch the eye of Rodriguez, Vincent's man positioned near the exit. A slight nod toward the stranger. Rodriguez follows my gaze, straightens. Good. He sees it too.

"That concludes my presentation," I say, advancing the slides to my contact information. "Questions?"

Hands shoot up, but I focus on the stranger. He's moving, heading for the side exit. Not toward me—around me. Flanking maneuver.

"I'm afraid I need to step out briefly," I announce to the room. "My colleague Dr. Chen will handle questions." I gesture to the moderator, already moving toward the rear exit where Maya's man Santino waits.

The conference room empties slowly, doctors clustering around the coffee station, discussing techniques they'll never need. I slip into the service corridor, Santino a shadow behind me.

"Doc," he murmurs, "we got a problem. Two more men spotted in the lobby. Vincent's orders are to extract if there's any sign of?—"

"Where's the nearest exit?" I interrupt.

"Service elevator, end of the hall. But?—"

"Move. Now."

We reach the elevator bank just as two men emerge from the stairwell. Not hotel staff—their suits are too expensive, their movements too coordinated. One reaches inside his jacket.

"Dr. Mason," the larger one calls out, voice carrying the kind of Boston accent that usually comes with buried bodies. "We just want to talk."

"I'm sure you do." My hand slides into my medical bag, fingers closing around the scalpel handle. Six months ofliving in Vincent's world has refined my old family training. "Unfortunately, I'm not in a chatty mood."

Santino moves to intercept, but the second man produces a knife—eight inches of steel that says this conversation was never meant to end well for me.

"The thing about doctors," the first man continues, advancing slowly, "is they know how to hurt people without killing them. Makes interrogation... educational."

I map his anatomy with ease. Carotid artery, three inches below his left ear. Femoral artery, inside thigh where his stance leaves him exposed. The soft spot below his sternum where a blade would slide between ribs.

"The thing about trauma surgeons," I reply, scalpel now visible in my grip, "is we know exactly where to cut so you bleed out in under two minutes."

The larger man laughs coldly. "Feisty. Marco said you had fight in you. I told him there’d be nothing left of that once we’re done with you." He sneers

Marco. The name fills me with rage. Vincent's psychotic brother. The puzzle pieces click into place—Marco is every bit as conniving as Vincent and I believed he was.

This is family politics played with my life as the stakes.

"Unfortunately for Marco," a familiar voice cuts through the tension, "he's about to learn what happens when he threatens my wife."

---