Page 86 of Broken Vows

Little time has passed since I ordered Salvatore to put a bullet in my father's head, and I'm finally seeing the organization he built through clear eyes.

The old man thought violence was currency. I'm proving him wrong with spreadsheets and strategy.

"The pharmaceutical distribution network is up thirty percent," Tony reports, sliding quarterly projections across the mahogany table. "Mastroni medical connections opened doors we've been trying to kick down for years."

I study the numbers, allowing myself a moment of satisfaction. Clean money flowing through legitimate channels, digital security protocols that would make the FBI weep, and enough technological advantages to stay ahead of traditional law enforcement.

This is what power looks like when you use your fucking brain instead of just your trigger finger.

"What about federal attention?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Down sixty percent since we eliminated the warehouse murders and street-level violence," Adrian chimes in from his laptop. "Our digital footprint looks like any other multinational corporation. They're chasing shadows while we're building an empire."

My phone buzzes with a text from Melinda:Maria's awake and asking for Daddy. Also, I've finished the security analysis you wanted.

I can't help the smile that tugs at my mouth. Three months of fatherhood, and I'm still amazed by how completely that tiny human has rewired my priorities. Every decision gets filtered through a simple question: what kind of world am I building for my child?

"Gentlemen, we're done here," I announce, standing. "Send the final proposals to all family heads. Meeting's set for tomorrow night."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "You sure about this approach, boss? Some of these old bastards still think with their fists."

"Then they'll learn to think with their bank accounts instead." I straighten my tie, already planning the drive home. "The families who adapt will prosper. The ones who don't..." I shrug. "Natural selection."

***

The nursery smells like baby powder and that clean, sweet scent that belongs only to Maria. I find Melinda in the rocking chair, our daughter cradled against her chest, her laptop balanced on the armrest. Even at three months old, she's got my dark eyes and her stubborn chin—a dangerous combination.

"There's my girl," I murmur, crossing to kiss the top of her head. Her tiny hand immediately grabs for my finger, grip surprisingly strong. "And there's my brilliant wife."

Melinda looks up, amber eyes bright with the kind of sharp intelligence that still takes my breath away. "Your daughter has perfect timing. She napped through my entire analysis and woke up the moment I finished."

"What's the verdict, Dr. Russo?"

She shifts the laptop so I can see her work—detailed security schematics overlaid with medical emergency protocols, escape routes plotted with surgical precision. "Your perimeter defense is solid, but you're thinking like a soldier, not a surgeon. You need redundant systems for medical emergencies, clean rooms for quarantine scenarios, and..." She pauses, studying my face. "Are you actually listening, or just staring at my mouth?"

"Can't I do both?" I lean down to kiss her deeply, tasting coffee and something sweet. "Sorry. Continue with your brilliant analysis."

"Vincent Russo, pay attention when I'm talking about keeping our daughter alive."

The edge in her voice snaps me back to professional focus. This is what I love about her—Melinda doesn't just adapt to my world, she improves it. Her medical training and Mastroni tactical knowledge create insights I'd never reach alone.

"The safe room needs its own medical suite," she continues, highlighting sections of the blueprint. "Not just first aid—full surgical capability. If we're under siege and someone gets hurt..." She doesn't need to finish. We both know how quickly blood loss can kill.

"What else?"

"Communication redundancy. If our primary systems go down, I need to be able to contact medical facilities directly. And Vincent?" Her voice drops to that tone that means she's about to say something I won't like. "I want Maria to have a pediatric surgeon on permanent retainer. Someone who doesn't ask questions."

I study her face, noting the tension around her eyes. "You're expecting trouble."

"I'm expecting reality. Our daughter carries two of the most dangerous names in New York. Someone will eventually try to use that against us." She adjusts Maria against her shoulder, protective instincts written in every line of her body. "I won't let her pay for our choices."

Maria chooses that moment to gurgle, a sound somewhere between contentment and demand. I take her from Melinda, settling her tiny weight against my chest. Three months, and I still can't believe something this perfect came from people like us.

"She won't," I say quietly. "Pay for our choices, I mean. The meeting tomorrow—that's about building something better. Cleaner."

"Tell me."

I walk to the window, Maria's heartbeat steady against my chest. "Five family heads, all agreeing to coordinate instead of compete. Shared intelligence networks, combined pharmaceutical operations, digital security that keeps us ahead of federal oversight. No more territory wars, no more street violence."

---