Page 84 of Broken Vows

I stop walking, considering the question that will shape the next generation's understanding of justice and mercy.

"That Uncle Marco made choices that put family at risk. That forgiveness doesn't mean forgetting. That sometimes the greatest punishment is having to live with the consequences of your actions." I resume walking toward the NICU, repeating the idea to Max, "Exile to Argentina. Stripped of all assets, all connections, all power. But alive."

"You know that this is a dangerous precedent. Some might see mercy as weakness."

"Let them. I'd rather be seen as weak for showing mercy than strong for showing none." We reach the NICU, where my daughter continues her fight for survival. "Besides, dead martyrs inspire revenge. Broken exiles inspire pity."

Through the window, I watch the tiny chest rise and fall, each breath a victory against impossible odds. This child will inherit a different world than the one I grew up in. Cleaner, if I can manage it. More strategic. Less driven by ancient hatreds and reflexive violence.

"She's beautiful," Max says quietly, studying his niece through the glass. "Strong, like her mother."

"Smart, like her father," I reply. "At least, I hope so. Intelligence is the only thing that's kept me alive this long."

"Intelligence and ruthlessness. Don't forget the ruthlessness."

27

Melinda

Six weeks old, and Maria already has her father's dark eyes, my stubborn chin.

She's gained weight steadily since leaving the NICU, her tiny fists now strong enough to grip Vincent's finger with surprising determination.

"She's perfect," I murmur, moving to adjust the blackout curtains.

Even here, in our fortress disguised as a family home, I'm hyperaware of sight lines, potential vulnerabilities.

The windows look normal—energy-efficient triple-pane glass according to the specs—but I know they're rated to stop rifle rounds. Our version of childproofing.

Vincent looks up from the rocking chair, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "She's got your fight in her. Nurses said she was the most determined preemie they'd seen."

"Good. She'll need it." I settle onto the window seat, studying the grounds below. Rolling lawns, decorative hedges, a playground already installed despite Maria being months away from using it. To any observer, we look like wealthy young parents creating their suburban dream. They can't see the panic room behind the bookshelf, the armory disguised as a wine cellar, the security cameras hidden in every light fixture.

The location took months to find—twenty minutes from both family compounds, close enough for protection but far enough to establish our independence. Vincent insisted on buying the surrounding properties too, creating a buffer zone he could monitor and control. I suggested the medical suite in the basement, complete with surgical equipment and enough supplies for emergency procedures. We both planned for the worst while hoping for better.

My phone buzzes with a text from Elena at the hospital:Missing you in trauma. It’s not the same here without you. Part-time position still open when you're ready.

I've been considering it. Six weeks of domestic bliss has me restless, my hands itching for scalpels instead of baby bottles. But every instinct screams that leaving Maria, even for a few hours, invites disaster.

"You should go back," Vincent says, reading my expression with uncomfortable accuracy. "Part-time, like we discussed. Maria will be safe here."

"Will she?" I gesture toward the monitors displaying security feeds. "We've got enough firepower to defend a small country, but someone still managed to breach the perimeter twice last week."

"False alarms. Delivery trucks with outdated clearance codes." His voice carries the patience of someone who's explained this before. "Tony's adjusting protocols. No one gets within a mile without authorization."

Before I can respond, the intercom crackles. Tony's voice, professional but alert says, "Mr. Russo, Max Mastroni at the gate. He's alone, but armed."

Vincent and I exchange glances. Max rarely visits unannounced, and never without Maya or Cara as buffers. "Let him through," Vincent says. "Standard escort protocol."

I hand Maria to Vincent and move to the window. Max's black Mercedes winds up the drive, flanked by our security vehicles like a motorcade. The choreography is careful, respectful—acknowledging his status as family while maintaining our territorial boundaries.

"Uncle Max wants to see his niece again," I say, though something in my brother's posture suggests this isn't purely social.

Max enters the nursery like he's sweeping for threats, those obsidian eyes cataloging exits and angles before focusing on his niece. When Vincent places Maria in his arms, something shifts in Max's expression—a softness I haven't seen since before our mother died.

"Jesus, Mel. She's beautiful." Max's voice drops to a whisper, the hardest man I know rendered speechless by eight pounds of sleeping baby. "She looks like you did at this age."

"God help her," I mutter, but I'm smiling. Watching Max with Maria reminds me why I came back, why family matters despite everything we've endured.

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