Page 92 of Broken Vows

"Mel, this is insane," Max says, but he's already signaling his men. "You can't perform surgery in a chapel."

"Watch me." I'm already moving toward the wounded guard, calculating what I'll need. "Cara, can you assist? You've got steady hands."

She nods without hesitation. "Tell me what to do."

"Sterilize everything you can find in the sacristy. Alcohol, candles, anything that burns hot and clean." I kneel beside my patient, checking his pulse. Weak but present. "Vincent,I need someone to call Dr. Chen. Tell her it's an emergency consultation."

"Melinda—"

"Do it." My voice cuts through his protest like a scalpel. "This is what I do. This is who I am."

For the next two hours, I become someone I've never been before—a Mastroni woman using violence to save rather than destroy. My medical knowledge, learned in sterile classrooms and pristine hospitals, adapts to this blood-soaked reality with terrifying ease.

The vestry transforms into an operating theater. Votive candles provide supplemental lighting while I work by the glow of smartphone flashlights. Vincent's men hold makeshift retractors while I repair severed arteries with thread stolen from the altar cloth.

"Pressure here," I tell Cara, guiding her hands to the proper position. "Feel that pulse? That's what we're protecting."

She doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate. Her manicured fingers press exactly where I've shown her, blue eyes focused with laser intensity. "Like this?"

"Perfect." I continue suturing, my movements automatic. "You're a natural at this."

"Maya always said I had potential for violence," Cara says with dark humor. "Guess she was right."

Maya chooses that moment to appear in the doorway, still wearing her bridesmaid dress but now armed with two pistols. "Perimeter's secure. No sign of Marco, but we found four more of his men trying to breach the eastern wall."

"Dead?" Vincent asks without looking up from where he's monitoring vitals on another patient.

"Very." Maya's smile is sharp as broken glass. "Want me to start hunting the bastard down?"

"Not yet." I finish the final suture and step back. "I need to understand how he thinks first."

Max raises an eyebrow. "You barely know him."

"I know enough." I strip off bloodied surgical gloves, my mind already analyzing patterns. "The attack was sloppy. Emotional rather than strategic. Marco's deteriorating mentally—his obsession with Vincent has consumed whatever tactical ability he once had."

Vincent moves closer, his presence both protective and possessive. "What does that tell us?"

"That he's becoming predictable. Obsession creates patterns." I walk to the chapel's windows, studying the damage. "Look at the attack vectors. He focused on disrupting the ceremony rather than eliminating targets efficiently. This was about humiliation, not execution."

"So where does he go next?" Vincent's question is quiet, deadly.

I close my eyes, thinking through the psychology. "Somewhere that holds significance. Somewhere connected to his failures." I open my eyes, certainty crystallizing. "He'll target something personal to you. Your childhood home, your mother's grave, the place where you first outshone him."

Vincent's face goes stone cold. "It could be the warehouse where Dad first put me in charge of an operation."

"How old were you?"

"Sixteen." His jaw clenches. "Marco was supposed to lead, but he fucked up. Dad gave me the job instead."

Max nods grimly. "Do you think that's where he'll be? Making a statement."

“There or the family home,” I say thoughtfully.

"Wherever he is, that’s where we end this." Vincent checks his weapon, reloads. "Melinda, you stay here with security?—"

"Like hell." I'm already moving toward the vestry where my emergency medical kit waits. "If you're walking into Marco's trap, you need someone who can keep you breathing when it goes sideways."

"It's too dangerous?—"

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