Page 91 of Broken Vows

When she produces my simple platinum ring, it’s as elegant as everything about her. My chest tightens with emotions I don't have names for.

"By the power vested in me," Benedetto begins, but his words are cut short by the sharp crack of gunfire outside.

The chapel erupts.

Guests dive for cover as my security team springs into action, weapons appearing from beneath formal wear with practiced efficiency.

Tony's voice cuts through the chaos. "Multiple hostiles, automatic weapons, north and east approaches!"

I wrap my arms around Melinda, pulling her behind the altar as bullets shatter stained glass windows. She moves with me perfectly, no panic, trusting me completely even as our wedding transforms into a war zone.

"Marco," she says, not a question.

"Yeah." I draw my Glock, checking the chamber. "Stupid bastard couldn't let us have one fucking day."

Max appears beside us, rifle materializing from beneath his tuxedo jacket. "Perimeter's holding, but barely. They came heavy."

Another burst of gunfire rattles the walls. Through the broken windows, I catch a glimpse of muzzle flashes, tactical movement. Professional work—Marco's learned something since I last saw him.

"Stay down," I tell Melinda, but she's already reaching into her purse, producing the Beretta I know she carries. Even on our wedding day, my wife comes armed.

"Like hell," she replies, amber eyes blazing. "This is our day, Vincent. Let's end this."

That's when I see him.

Marco's face in the doorway, wild-eyed and grinning like a fucking maniac. Our eyes meet across the chaos, and I see everything I feared.

My brother has crossed the line from calculated violence into pure madness.

The game just changed. Again.

31

Melinda

Blood doesn't bother me anymore.

It should—I'm supposed to be a surgeon who saves lives, not someone kneeling in a chapel sanctuary that's been converted into a makeshift trauma center while my wedding dress soaks up crimson.

But as I press gauze against Father Benedetto's shoulder wound, my hands are steady as stone.

"Through and through," I tell Tony, who's supporting the priest's weight. "Clean entry and exit. He'll live if we can stop the bleeding."

"Doc, I got three more wounded by the altar," one of Max's men calls out, his voice tight with urgency.

I don't look up from my work. "Triage by severity. Gunshots to the torso first, then limbs. If someone's conscious and cursing, they can fucking wait."

The chapel has become a war zone medical unit. Overturned pews serve as stretchers, silk altar cloths as bandages, and the holy water font as a sterile rinse basin. I move between casualties with clinical efficiency, my ruined wedding dress trailing blood across marble floors.

Vincent appears at my elbow, gun still in his hand, eyes scanning for threats. "Melinda, we need to move you?—"

"I'm not going anywhere." I tie off a tourniquet around a security guard's thigh, noting the way his pupils respond to light. "This man needs surgery within the hour or he loses the leg."

"The hospital's compromised. Marco could have people there."

"Then we improvise." I stand, surveying the chaos. Eight wounded, four critical. In the ER, I'd have a full surgical team and unlimited supplies. Here, I've got wedding decorations and pure fucking determination. "Max, I need your men to clear the vestry. We're setting up an operating room."

My brother materializes from the shadows, Cara close behind him. Both are splattered with blood that isn't theirs—evidence of how efficiently they handled Marco's attackers.

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