Page 93 of Broken Vows

"Vincent." I turn to face him, letting him see the steel in my spine. "I just performed surgery in a fucking chapel while my wedding dress caught fire from votive candles. Dangerous doesn't scare me."

His expression shifts, recognition flickering in those dark eyes. He's seeing me clearly for the first time—not the woman who tried to escape this world, but the one who's learned to wield it like a weapon.

"Together then," he says finally.

"Together." I slip my hand into his, feeling the calluses from years of violence, the strength that's kept him alive. "But we do this smart. Combined security, coordinated strike, no heroic bullshit."

Max moves to my other side, his presence solid and reassuring. "The Mastroni-Russo alliance officially begins with hunting down the bastard who interrupted my sister's wedding."

As we prepare to leave the chapel, I catch my reflection in a shard of broken stained glass. Blood in my hair, surgical precision in my movements, surrounded by armed men who'd die for me. I barely recognize the woman staring back.

Dr. Melinda Mason is gone. In her place stands someone new. A woman who stitches wounds and plans wars with equal skill, who can save lives and take them when necessary.

Marco Russo has no idea what he's unleashed.

32

Vincent

The war room in my penthouse has been transformed into something resembling a military command center.

Maps cover every surface, marked with red pins showing Marco's known associates and safe houses.

Digital screens display surveillance feeds from across the city—my men and Max's working together for the first time in generations, their coordination surprisingly efficient.

"Financial tracking shows three withdrawals from offshore accounts in the past six hours," Adrian reports, fingers flying across his keyboard. "All coded to shell companies we've never seen before."

I lean over his shoulder, studying the data streams. My brother's always been cunning, but desperation makes people careless. "Cross-reference those companies with property records. Marco needs somewhere secure to hole up."

"Already on it, boss," Tony says from across the room. He's coordinating with Maya's team, their usual hostility replacedby professional respect. "We've got eyes on fifteen locations, rotating surveillance every hour."

The scope of this operation would have been impossible without Mastroni resources. Max's network of informants covers areas my men could never infiltrate, while Maya's connections in the underground provide intelligence on movements we'd never detect. It's exactly the kind of cooperation that's making Marco desperate enough to escalate.

My secure phone buzzes. Melinda's name on the screen makes my chest tighten—she should be resting, not worrying about this hunt.

"Vincent." Her voice carries that clinical steadiness she uses in the OR. "Any updates?"

"We're closing in. Financial algorithms picked up his movement patterns." I step away from the others, lowering my voice. "How's Maria?"

"Perfect. Sleeping like she owns the world." There's warmth in her tone when she talks about our son, but underneath I hear the tension. "When you find Marco, promise me you'll be careful."

"Always am."

"Bullshit." Her laugh is sharp. "You're planning something stupidly heroic, aren't you?"

Before I can answer, Adrian's voice cuts across the room. "Boss, we got him."

I return to the screens, phone still pressed to my ear. "What do you have?"

"Security cameras picked up his car at the old estate. Your childhood home." Adrian's fingers pause on the keyboard. "He's been there for at least two hours."

The information hits like ice water. The Russo family estate sits on twenty acres in Westchester—a sprawling compound where three generations of my family learned the business. It's been maintained as usual since Dad's death. Marco choosing that location isn't coincidental.

"He's gone home," I tell Melinda quietly.

"Vincent, that place has defensive positions built into every wall. Your grandfather designed it to withstand sieges." Her medical training extends to tactical knowledge—another reminder of what world she was born into. "It's a trap."

"Maybe. Or he's having a breakdown." I study the estate's blueprints, memories flooding back. Hidden passages, reinforced walls, weapons caches in every room. "Either way, this ends tonight."

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