Page 77 of Broken Vows

24

Vincent

The armored convoy cuts through Manhattan at three in the morning .

Six black SUVs, every window bulletproof, every man inside carrying enough firepower to level a city block. I'm in the center vehicle with Melinda, my hand gripping hers as another contraction tears through her body.

"Fuck," she gasps, nails digging into my palm hard enough to draw blood. "Vincent, something's wrong. It's too early."

Seven months. Our daughter isn't supposed to arrive for another two months, but apparently she's as impatient as her mother. "Dr. Chen is waiting at the clinic," I tell her, keeping my voice steady despite the ice in my veins. "Best neonatal team on the East Coast."

"Private facility," Tony's voice crackles through my earpiece. "Perimeter secure. No hostile movement detected."

The clinic I've prepared sits in the heart of neutral territory—a converted mansion in the Upper East Side that serves clients who value discretion above all else.

Every staff member has been vetted by both families, their backgrounds scrubbed cleaner than a surgeon's hands.

Tonight, it's an island of cooperation in a city about to tear itself apart.

"Jesus Christ," Melinda breathes as we pull up to the clinic's entrance. Medical personnel rush out with a wheelchair, but she waves them off. "I can fucking walk."

Even in labor, she's defiant. It's one of the things I love about her, even if it drives me insane. "Let them help you," I growl, scanning the rooftops through my window.

"Don't tell me what to do," she snaps back, then immediately softens as another contraction hits. "Sorry. I just—fuck, Vincent, I'm scared."

Melinda’s not the kind of woman who scares easily.

Not when a bullet missed her head by inches in Italy.

Not when she married into my world without flinching.

But tonight, there’s fear in her voice.

And I’d burn the whole damn city down just to take it away.

Inside the clinic, controlled chaos reigns.

Dr. Chen—the doctor I flew in specifically for tonight—immediately takes charge. She used to run emergency OB at Johns Hopkins. Now she works private contracts—off the grid, no questions asked.

I paid triple her usual rate. Worth every cent.

"How far apart are the contractions?"

"Three minutes," Melinda pants, allowing herself to be helped onto the examination table. "They started two hours ago, but they're getting stronger."

Dr. Chen's hands move with practiced efficiency, checking vitals, positioning monitors. The baby's heartbeat fills the room—rapid, irregular, distressed. My own heart clenches in response.

"We need to move fast," Dr. Chen announces. "The baby's in distress, and at thirty weeks, every minute counts."

"What does that mean?" I ask, though part of me already knows.

"Emergency C-section. Now." She's already calling for her team, nurses flowing into the room like a choreographed dance. "Mr. Russo, you'll need to scrub in if you want to be present."

Melinda's hand finds mine again. "Don't leave me," she whispers, and the vulnerability in her voice nearly breaks me.

"Never," I promise, pressing my lips to her forehead. "I'll be right here."

The next hour blurs together—surgical scrubs, sterile hallways, the antiseptic smell that always makes me think of violence and healing in equal measure. I stand beside Melinda's head as Dr. Chen works, her hands steady despite the complexity of the situation.

---