Page 96 of Broken Vows

But calling means potentially compromising their operation. It means admitting that I can't handle the waiting, can't trust my husband to come home alive from cleaning up his family's mess.

Maria's soft cry echoes through the baby monitor, and I'm moving before conscious thought kicks in. In the nursery, she'sstirring in her crib, tiny fists waving as she transitions between sleep cycles. I lift her carefully, her familiar weight grounding me in the present moment.

"Daddy's going to be fine," I whisper against her dark hair. "He's too stubborn to let Uncle Marco win."

That's when I hear it—the rumble of Vincent's armored Mercedes in the driveway below. Relief floods through me so intensely that I nearly collapse, clutching Maria closer as my nervous system registers safety.

He's alive. He's home.

I make it to the window in time to see him climb out of the passenger seat, Tony supporting his weight. Even from three stories up, I can see the blood soaking through his shirt, the careful way he moves that speaks of injury trying to hide itself.

My medical instincts override everything else. I settle Maria back in her crib. She's already drifting back to sleep and I know the nanny will take perfect care of her tonight.

I grab my emergency kit from the closet, cataloging what supplies I'll need based on the visible evidence of trauma.

The elevator seems to take forever. When the doors finally open to reveal Vincent, my heart stops.

His face is granite—carved and cold and absolutely empty. Blood stains his shirt collar, and there's a gash across his left temple that's still seeping. But it's his eyes that terrify me. They're not the eyes of a man who's survived a fight.

They're the eyes of a man who's lost everything.

"Oh my God, Vincent." I guide him toward the living room, professional assessment taking priority over emotional reaction. "Sit down. Let me see."

He complies without argument, which tells me more about his condition than any visible wound could. Vincent Russo doesn't submit to medical care unless he's too damaged to resist.

I strip away his ruined shirt with efficient movements, revealing bruised ribs and a shallow knife wound across his shoulder. The injuries aren't life-threatening, but they're evidence of a fight that got personal.

"Where else?" I ask, hands already probing for hidden damage.

"Nowhere that matters." His voice is hollow, distant. "It's finished, Melinda. It's over."

I pause in my examination, meeting his eyes. "Marco?"

He nods once, sharp and final. "He's dead."

The words hit like a physical blow. Not because I cared about Marco—the bastard tried to kill me and our daughter. But because I can see what it's cost Vincent to end his own brother's life.

"Vincent—"

"Don't." He catches my wrist, not gently. "Don't say you're sorry. Don't say it had to be done. Don't fucking say anything."

I see the grief beneath his anger, the self-loathing he's trying to bury under cold professionalism. In our world, family loyalty is everything—until it becomes the thing that destroys you.

"I need to clean these wounds," I say instead, focusing on what I can fix. "The temple cut needs stitches."

He releases my wrist, settling back into the couch. "Do whatever you need to do."

I work in silence, cleaning blood and debris with antiseptic that makes him hiss between his teeth. The knife wound is clean—defensive, probably from when Marco made his last desperate play. The head injury is messier, but superficial.

"Hold still," I murmur, threading a needle. "This is going to sting."

"Everything stings tonight." But he doesn't move as I begin suturing, his breathing steady despite the pain.

The repetitive motion of stitching calms me, grounds me in the familiar rhythm of healing. This is what I do—I fix what's broken, save what can be saved.

"He was my brother," Vincent says suddenly, voice rough with suppressed emotion.

I don't stop suturing, but my touch gentles. "I know."

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