Page 81 of Broken Vows

Vincent steps away and answers, voice clipped. "Sal."

I can't hear the other end of the conversation, but I watch Vincent's face change—surprise, then something that might be relief or satisfaction. I fight the rush of panic that floods my system, robbing me of the peace this moment has carried.

Something big just happened.

“You’re certain?” Vincent asks, his voice ice. A pause. “Good. Then clean it up and wait for my orders.”

He exhales, slow and deliberate. “If he’s dead, I want to see the body. No loose ends.”

He hangs up. Whatever softness was there a second ago is gone for now.

26

Vincent

Through the NICU window, I watch nurses tend to my child with practiced care.

Their movements remind me of my own soldiers—controlled, purposeful, life-or-death precision.

But these people save lives instead of taking them.

My phone rings. Max's name on the screen.

"Vincent." His voice carries the weight of leadership I recognize in my own. "How's the baby?"

"Fighting. Like her mother." I lean against the wall, exhaustion finally hitting me. "You coming to meet your niece?"

"Already here. Maya's with me—she insisted on seeing her sister’s daughter." A pause. "We need to talk. About what happens now."

What happens now.

My father is dead. Marco is neutralized. Three captains who might have challenged my authority are permanently removed from the equation. The Russo organization is mine, bought with blood and strategy in equal measure.

"Meet me in the family conference room," I say. "Third floor."

The conference room overlooks the hospital's gardens, a peaceful view that contrasts sharply with the violence that brought us here. Max enters alone, his movements careful, deliberate. This is the first time we've been face-to-face since everything changed.

"Congratulations," he says, settling into the chair across from me. "On becoming a father. And... other recent developments."

We both know what he means. Antonio Russo's death during what appeared to be a Perezzi ambush has already hit the streets. The story is clean, believable—the old don eliminated by rivals while his son fought desperately to save him. Only my most trusted lieutenants know the truth.

"Thank you." I pour two glasses of water from the pitcher on the table. "How's Melinda handling everything?"

"She's worried about the baby. Exhausted. Asking questions about what really happened tonight." Max's dark eyes study my face. "I told her the official version. For now."

"Smart." I meet his gaze directly. "She doesn't need to carry that weight. Not yet."

"But she'll figure it out eventually. Melinda's too fucking smart to believe in convenient coincidences." He leans back in his chair. "The question is whether you're prepared for her to know what you're capable of."

I think about Melinda resting in the recovery room, her hand protectively curved over her healing incision. She married me knowing I was dangerous. She just doesn't know how dangerous yet.

"I'll handle that when the time comes," I say. "Right now, our priority is consolidating power while maintaining the appearance of external threat."

Max nods slowly. "The Perezzi family's convenient destruction helps with that narrative. I assume there were no survivors to contradict the story?"

"None." The Perezzis had outlived their usefulness the moment they agreed to work with Marco against me. Eliminating them served multiple purposes—removing witnesses, providing a scapegoat for my father's death, and sending a message to other families about the cost of betraying the Russos.

"Good." Max reaches into his jacket, producing a thick envelope. "Financial records from the Perezzi operations. Thought you might want to see where the money was coming from."

---