Page 73 of Broken Vows

Melinda steps between us, her voice cutting through the testosterone. "Enough. We're not enemies anymore. We're family, whether we like it or not."

As if summoned by her words, Cara appears with coffee and that serene smile that hides a calculating mind. "Well," she says cheerfully, "this should be interesting. Maya, clear the conference room. We've got a war to prevent."

23

Melinda

The Colombo family's restaurant feels ominous tonight. Its dark wood making the heavy silence feel oppressive.

I sit between Vincent and Max at the circular table, my seven-months-pregnant belly making the chair uncomfortable no matter how I position myself.

The baby's been restless all day, kicking like she senses the tension radiating from every man in this room.

Antonio Russo presides across from us, silver hair perfect despite the late hour, those calculating eyes moving between faces like he's tallying assets and liabilities.

Representatives from four other families fill the remaining seats—neutral parties here to witness whatever deal gets struck or whatever war gets declared.

"The situation has become untenable," Don Colombo says, his ancient voice carrying the weight of decades. "Blood in the streets is bad for everyone's business."

I study Antonio's micro-expressions as he responds, cataloging every tell my medical training taught me to recognize. "The Russo family has no interest in unnecessary conflict. We seek only to protect our legitimate interests."

Liar. His pupils dilate slightly when he mentions "legitimate," and there's a barely perceptible tremor in his left hand—autonomic responses to deception. I lean closer to Vincent, my lips brushing his ear as I whisper, "He's lying about something. Watch his left hand."

Vincent's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he nods. He's learning to trust my observations, especially when they confirm his own suspicions.

Max speaks up, voice deadly calm. "Someone's been financing operations against both our families. Someone with access to inside information." His obsidian eyes never leave Antonio's face. "We want to know who."

"The Perezzi family has always been ambitious," Antonio replies smoothly. "Perhaps they've found new benefactors."

Another lie. The same tells—pupil dilation, hand tremor. He knows exactly who's been funding the Perezzis, and it's not some outside benefactor.

The baby kicks hard against my ribs, making me wince. Vincent's hand immediately moves to cover mine, thumb tracing soothing circles. Even in the middle of a negotiation that could determine whether we all walk out alive, he's watching for signs of distress.

"The question," says DiMarco, the head of another minor family, "is whether this can be resolved without further bloodshed."

That's when the restaurant doors explode inward.

Marco strides in with six Perezzi enforcers, all armed, all ready for violence. The room erupts in controlled chaos—chairs scraping, hands moving toward weapons, quiet commands barked in Italian and English.

"Brother!" Marco calls out, blue eyes gleaming with something that might be madness. "Hope I'm not too late for the family meeting."

Vincent rises slowly, positioning himself between Marco and me. "You weren't invited."

"Wasn't I?" Marco's smile is razor-sharp. He moves through the room like he owns it, Perezzi soldiers flanking him. "Dad, didn't you want me here?"

Antonio's expression shifts—a micro-expression of rage directed not at Marco, but at Vincent. For just a second, his mask slips completely.

"Interesting," I breathe, but before I can analyze further, Marco leans down to whisper something in his father's ear.

Whatever he says makes Antonio's face go white with fury. His eyes lock on Vincent with pure hatred, and I realize with clarity that we've been walking into a trap.

"Vincent," I warn, but it's too late.

Marco's hand moves toward his jacket. Vincent lunges forward, tackling his brother as gunfire erupts throughout the restaurant. Max grabs my arm, hauling me behind an overturned table as bullets splinter wood and shatter glass around us.

"Stay down," Max growls, drawing his own weapon. He rises just enough to sight down the barrel, firing twice in quick succession. Two Perezzi soldiers drop with headshots.

Through the chaos, I watch Vincent grappling with Marco, both men fighting for control of a gun. Vincent's movements are controlled, efficient—every strike calculated for maximum damage. Marco fights like a rabid animal, all rage and desperation.

---