Page 30 of Broken Vows

I consider this, testing the ring on my finger. "Ask me in thirty years," I reply with a small smile.

He laughs, pulling me close again.

10

Vincent

I leave Melinda sleeping in the guest room and retreat to my office, closing the door behind me.

The adrenaline from the parking garage incident is wearing off, replaced by cold calculation.

Someone endeavored to assassinate my future wife tonight. Someone is going to pay for that mistake.

I pour three fingers of bourbon and settle behind my desk, opening secure communication channels.

My fingers move across the keyboard, pulling up surveillance footage, financial records, personnel files.

The attack was too coordinated to be random, too precise to be amateur.

The first call goes to Tony. "Status report."

"Three shooters down, one wounded and secured. We're moving him to the warehouse on Pier 47 for questioning." His voice is clipped, professional. "Boss, these weren't street thugs.Professional grade weapons, coordinated positions, clean escape routes."

"IDs?"

"Working on it. But the tattoos, the methodology—looks like the Perezzi family."

I pause, bourbon halfway to my lips. The Perezzis are mid-tier, ambitious but usually smart enough to avoid direct conflict with major families. They've had grievances with both Russos and Mastronis for years, but nothing worth starting a war over.

"Why would the Perezzis want Melinda dead?"

"Maybe they don't know she's carrying your kid. Maybe they just see an opportunity to hurt the Mastronis."

"Or maybe someone's paying them to take both of us out at once." I pull up financial records on my screen, following money trails that lead through shell companies and offshore accounts. "Someone knew we'd be there today, Tony. Someone knew exactly where and when."

"You want me to start looking at leaks?"

"Yeah. And run deep backgrounds on everyone who had access to today's location. Staff, security personnel, even the fucking parking attendants."

I end the call and immediately dial my technical specialist. Adrian, a genius with computers who's kept our digital operations invisible for five years.

"I need surveillance footage from Mount Sinai's parking garage, going back forty-eight hours," I tell him. "And trafficcameras from every intersection within six blocks. Someone was watching Melinda, learning her patterns."

"How deep you want me to dig?"

"Deep enough to find out who's been tracking her movements. Hospital security, parking logs, credit card transactions—everything."

While Adrian works his magic, I study the tactical breakdown of tonight's attack. The positioning was textbook—multiple angles, overlapping fields of fire, escape routes planned. Professional work, which means professional money behind it.

My phone rings. Dad, again. This time I answer.

"Vincent." His voice carries that familiar edge of controlled impatience. "Where the hell have you been? I've been calling for hours."

"Handling business. What do you need?"

"We need to talk. Face to face. There are developments you need to know about."

I check the time—nearly midnight. "Can't it wait until morning?"