Page 74 of Broken Vows

A Perezzi enforcer appears around the edge of our table, weapon raised toward Max. Without thinking, I grab a fallen pistol from one of the bodies, my hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system.

I sight down the barrel, careful in my aim. Not center mass—that could be fatal. Shoulder joint, disable the gun arm. I squeeze the trigger.

The bullet catches the enforcer in the shoulder, spinning him around as his weapon clatters away. He drops, screaming, clutching the wound.

"Jesus, Mel," Max stares at me in shock.

But I'm already moving because Marco has broken free from Vincent and is raising his gun with clear intent to end this once and for all.

I don't hesitate. Second shot, Marco's gun arm. The bullet tears through muscle and bone, sending his weapon flying as he staggers backward.

"You fucking bitch!" Marco screams, clutching his shattered shoulder.

That's when Antonio moves—not toward his wounded son, but toward me. Pure murderous rage twists his features as he realizes I've just eliminated his chosen heir's advantage.

Vincent intercepts him mid-lunge, father and son colliding with brutal force. They crash into the bar, bottles exploding around them as they fight with decades of suppressed conflict finally boiling over.

"Enough!" Don Colombo's voice cuts through the gunfire like a whip. "This is neutral ground!"

The shooting stops, but the tension remains thick as blood. Marco slumps against the wall, my bullet having done exactly what I intended—disabled him without killing him. Vincent and Antonio separate, both breathing hard, both looking like they want to finish what they started.

"The meeting is over," Colombo declares. "All families will withdraw. Now."

Max helps me to my feet, his hand steady at my elbow. "Can you walk?"

I nod, though my legs feel shaky. The baby's moving frantically now, reacting to my stress. "I'm fine."

Vincent appears at my other side, blood trickling from a cut above his eye. "We're leaving. Now."

As we move toward the exit, Marco's voice follows us, thick with pain and hatred. "This isn't over, Vincent. You think you've won, but you have no idea what's coming."

Vincent doesn't respond, but his hand tightens protectively on my back as we disappear into the night.

***

The safe house is a penthouse overlooking the Hudson, all steel and glass and bulletproof everything. Vincent's men sweep the perimeter while we're escorted inside, the weight of what just happened settling over me like lead.

I sink onto the leather couch, finally allowing myself to tremble. Seven months pregnant and I just shot two men. My hands are steady—surgeon's hands, trained not to shake—but inside I'm coming apart.

"You saved my life," Vincent says quietly, pouring himself three fingers of bourbon. His shirt is torn, blood from his cut eye dried on his cheek. "Marco would have killed me."

"I know." My voice comes out hoarse. "I saw his intent in his eyes. The way he held the gun—he wasn't planning to wound."

Vincent moves to sit beside me, close enough that I can smell gunpowder mixed with his cologne. "You don't regret it?"

I consider this, hand moving automatically to my belly where our daughter kicks restlessly. "No. He made his choice when he brought guns to a negotiation." I meet his dark eyes. "Your father knows about Marco's betrayal. His autonomic responses were textbook deception."

"I know." Vincent's jaw clenches. "The way he looked at me after Marco whispered in his ear—pure hatred. My own father wants me dead."

The reality of it hits us both. Vincent Russo, heir apparent, now has a target on his back from his own blood. And I'm carrying his child.

"We're alone in this," I whisper.

"No." His hand covers mine where it rests on my stomach. "We're together in this."

The simple words break something inside me. All the adrenaline and fear from tonight transforms into desperate need. I turn toward him, my swollen belly making the movement awkward, but I don't care.

"Vincent," I breathe.

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