Page 87 of Broken Vows

"And they're agreeing to this because...?"

"Because the alternative is watching the Russo-Mastroni alliance absorb their operations piece by piece." I can't keep the satisfaction out of my voice. "Cooperation is profitable. War is expensive. Even these old dinosaurs understand math."

Melinda joins me at the window, her hand settling on my back. "Your father would hate this approach."

"My father was an anachronism. Effective in his time, but his time is over." I shift Maria to my other arm, noting how she's already grown since last month. "This is about building something sustainable. Something our child can inherit without it destroying her."

"Vincent..." Her voice carries that particular softness that means she's about to say something important. "Do you ever regret it? Killing Antonio?"

The question should bother me more than it does. "No. He was going to hurt you. Hurt Maria. Family loyalty only extends so far." I turn to meet her eyes. "He taught me that family comes first. He just never understood that you and our daughter are my family now."

She's quiet for a moment, processing. "I have something for you."

She disappears into our bedroom, returning with a small velvet box. When she opens it, I see my mother's wedding ring, the one I gave her the night I proposed. But beside it sits something new—a simple platinum band.

"Marriage isn't supposed to be a business arrangement," she says, voice steady but eyes uncertain. "I want to do this again. Authentically this time."

My throat tightens. "Melinda..."

"Vincent Russo," she continues, taking the ring from the box, "will you marry me? Not because it's strategic, not because of the baby, but because I love you. Because you're the most dangerous, complicated, impossible man I've ever met, and I choose you anyway."

I stare at her, this fierce woman who walked into my life and rewrote every rule I thought I understood. The proposal is perfect—direct, honest, completely like her.

"Yes," I manage, voice rougher than intended. "Christ, yes."

She slides the ring onto my finger, and something settles into place. Not ownership or obligation, but partnership. Choice.

Maria squirms in my arms, making that soft sound that means she's about to demand food. The moment is ordinary and extraordinary—my wife, my child, my life rebuilt around love instead of power.

29

Melinda

The ER at Mount Sinai feels different when there’s armed security in the parking garage—and backup waiting two minutes away.

Elena pulled strings with admin. On paper, I was on unpaid leave. Off the record, they let me back quietly—and I didn’t ask questions.

A few months into motherhood, and I'm back to stitching up the city's damage while my own scars are still healing.

The irony isn't lost on me—saving lives while belonging to a family that ends them.

"Dr. Russo," Elena calls out, still adjusting to my married name. She approaches with a trauma bay assignment, her expression carefully neutral. "MVA victim, multiple GSWs. ETA three minutes."

The name change threw everyone off. Half the staff whispers about my sudden marriage to Vincent Russo, the other half pretends they don't know exactly what that means. But there's anew respect in their voices, a wariness that wasn't there before. They've figured out that the quiet trauma surgeon has teeth.

"Prep bay two," I tell her, pulling on fresh gloves. "And Elena? Make sure housekeeping clears the hallway. This could get messy."

She nods, already moving. Six months ago, she would've questioned my authority. Now she follows orders without hesitation. Power has its own gravity, and everyone feels the pull.

The ambulance screams through the rain outside, and I meet the paramedics at the door. "What've we got?"

"Twenty-three-year-old male, three gunshot wounds—chest, abdomen, left thigh. Vitals are holding but he's lost significant blood volume."

I glance at the victim's face as we transfer him to the gurney. Young, olive-skinned, expensive clothes despite the bullet holes. The kind of patient that makes smart doctors ask fewer questions.

"OR prep, now," I call out, but my hands are already moving, checking pulse points, assessing damage. Professional autopilot kicks in even as my mind catalogs the familiar pattern of wounds.

In the trauma bay, I cut away his blood-soaked shirt and freeze. Three entry wounds, precise placement—chest shot to disable, abdominal wound to cause pain without immediate fatality, thigh shot to prevent running. This isn't random street violence. This is an interrogation that went wrong.

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