Page 89 of Broken Vows

"Forty-eight hours. Maybe more." He moves closer, each step deliberate. "I didn't want you to worry?—"

"Bullshit." I spin to face him, still holding the reports. "This affects me. It affects our child. You don't get to protect me from information anymore."

His jaw clenches, but he nods. "You're right. I should have told you immediately."

"Yes, you fucking should have." I toss the papers on the table. "What's the plan?"

"Enhanced security protocols. Tony's tripling the detail. We're moving the wedding up—public confirmation of our alliance makes direct action more complicated for Marco."

"And after the wedding?"

"We hunt him down and eliminate the threat permanently." Vincent's voice carries the cold certainty of a man who's solved problems with violence before. "But I need to know you're on board with accelerating the timeline."

I think about the patient upstairs, about Elena's questions, about the way my hands stayed steady while extracting bullets that might have been fired by my brother-in-law. About the choice between the clean life I wanted and the protected life my daughter needs.

"How soon?" I ask.

"This weekend. Private ceremony, minimal exposure."

"Do it."

Three days later, I stand in Woodlawn Cemetery as rain patters against my umbrella. Antonio Russo's grave is modest for a man who ruled half of New York—simple granite, elegant inscription, no mention of the empire he built with blood and bullets.

Vincent would lose his fucking mind if he knew I was here alone, but some conversations require privacy. I kneel on the wet grass, placing white lilies on the headstone.

"You tried to kill me," I tell the marble. "Your own grandchild. Because tradition mattered more than family."

The rain intensifies, drumming against my umbrella like distant gunfire.

"But your son—he's different. Stronger. Smart enough to see that power without purpose is just destruction." I trace Antonio's name with my finger. "Your organization protects my baby now. The same machine that would have destroyed us both keeps us safe. There's poetry in that, don't you think?"

Wind whips through the cemetery, bending trees and scattering leaves across the headstones. In the distance, I can see Vincent's security team maintaining discreet positions. They don't know I spotted them, but I appreciate their presence.

"I'm not the woman you thought I was," I continue. "I'm not weak. I'm not afraid. And I'm not going anywhere." I stand, brushing dirt from my knees. "Your legacy lives on, Antonio. But it's going to look different than you planned."

The walk back to the car feels like crossing a threshold. Tomorrow I'll marry Vincent officially, making our alliance formal and permanent. Tonight, I'll rock my daughter to sleep in a house protected by the very forces that once hunted me.

I am Dr. Melinda Russo, trauma surgeon, mother, and guardian of a bloodline that will bridge two worlds. The woman who stitches wounds by day and plans strategic marriages by night. The daughter who honors her oath to do no harm while accepting that sometimes harm is the only thing that keeps innocence alive.

30

Vincent

The chapel sits on neutral ground like a diplomatic embassy, its weathered stone walls hiding enough firepower to level a city block.

I adjust my cufflinks for the third time, watching Tony's reflection in the antique mirror as he coordinates security through his earpiece.

Every server, every photographer, every fucking flower arrangement has been vetted twice.

Today, I marry Melinda Mastroni in front of our bloodiest enemies, and I'll be damned if my psychotic brother ruins it.

"Boss," Tony murmurs, stepping closer. "Perimeter's locked down. Snipers positioned on three rooftops, exit routes clear. But we've got a problem."

My jaw tightens. "Marco?"

"Confirmed sighting twenty minutes ago. East Village, traveling with six men. Former Perezzi soldiers." Tony's voice carriesthat flat tone he uses when delivering death sentences. "They're armed and moving this direction."

I study my reflection—immaculate tuxedo, mother's ring secure in my pocket, face carved from stone. Today I bind myself to the mother of my child, the woman who's crawled under my skin and rewired my fucking DNA. Marco can go to hell.

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