Page 10 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

The emergency room at Mount Sinai is chaos tonight, which is what I really need.

Unlike the rest of my life, where marriage proposals come disguised as business deals and the father of my unborn child treats emotions like fatal diseases.

I'm setting a compound fracture for a sixteen-year-old who tried to impress his girlfriend by jumping off a fire escape. His mother hovers nearby, clutching a rosary and muttering prayers in Spanish. The kid keeps apologizing, tears streaming down his face as I align the bone fragments.

"It's going to be fine," I tell him, injecting lidocaine around the break. "Six weeks in a cast, physical therapy, and you'll be good as new. But no more Spider-Man stunts, okay?"

He nods miserably. His girlfriend sits in the corner, looking guilty and terrified. Young love. So simple, so innocent. I wonder if I ever felt that way about anyone, before I learned that love was just another word for leverage.

Vincent's proposal replays in my head as I work.

Marriage as a business arrangement. Protection through alliance.

A child legitimized by contract rather than affection.

The pragmatic part of me—the part that watched my father conduct negotiations over breakfast—sees the logic.

The independent woman who built a life outside family politics wants to burn the proposal and run.

But running isn't really an option anymore.

The attack two weeks ago proved that. Someone wants me dead, and pregnancy has made me vulnerable in ways I never imagined.

Every morning when I wake up, I check for blood.

Every night, I count kicks and measure growth.

This baby is becoming real, and real things can be destroyed.

"Dr. Mason?" The kid's mother touches my arm gently. "Thank you. For taking care of my son."

I manage a smile. "It's what I do."

If only it were that simple with everything else.

Elena Santos appears at my elbow as I finish the cast. "Coffee break? You look like you need caffeine. Or alcohol. Maybe both."

Elena is one of the few people here who knows a little bit about my family connections, though she's never made it an issue. Forty years old, divorced, completely dedicated to her work—she's become something like a mentor to me.

"Coffee sounds perfect," I say, peeling off my gloves.

We head to the break room, a cramped space with fluorescent lighting and coffee so strong it could strip paint. Elena pours two cups and adds enough sugar to mine to make it barely drinkable.

"So," she says, settling into the plastic chair across from me. "Want to talk about whatever's eating you alive? You've been distracted all shift."

I wrap my hands around the warm mug, buying time. "It's complicated."

"It always is. Guy trouble?"

"Among other things." I take a sip, grimacing at the bittersweet taste. "How do you know when you're making the right choice versus just the practical one?"

Elena raises an eyebrow. "That's a loaded question. We talking about your career or your personal life?"

"Personal." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "Say someone offered you security, protection, everything you needed for your future. But it meant giving up your independence, your autonomy. Would you take it?"

"Depends on what I was being protected from."

"People who want to hurt you. People who see you as a means to an end."

She studies my face with the same intensity she brings to trauma cases. "Melinda, are you in some kind of danger?"

Before I can answer, the doors burst open. Two paramedics wheel in a gurney, blood soaking through the sheets. "GSW to the chest and abdomen," one shouts. "Lost consciousness en route but vitals are stable."

Elena and I spring into action, professional instincts taking over.

But as we transfer the patient to the table, I freeze.

The face is familiar—Joey Castellano, a low-level soldier from one of the minor families under my father.

I haven’t seen him in almost a decade. But he knows me.

He looks directly at me, recognition flickering in his pain-filled eyes.

This isn’t good. I’ve been lucky here, working as a regular doctor without a mafia past. But Joey being here feels like wearing a banner over my head that announces I am connected to the mafia.

"You," he whispers hoarsely. "Didn't expect to see a Mastroni here." His eyes rake down my body in a calculating way. “Your brother never said his sister left the family business for something legit.”

I thrust the oxygen mask on the man’s weathered face, glaring at him as discreetly as I can.

My blood turns to ice as I tear my eyes off of Joey.

Elena watches the exchange but doesn't comment, too focused on keeping him alive. We work in silence, removing bullets, stopping bleeding, stabilizing vitals. Professional, efficient, saving a life. But all I can think about is how quickly word will spread. A Mastroni was seen wearing scrubs and playing at a legitimate doctor here today. By tomorrow, every family in the city will know exactly where to find me, my father’s missing daughter who so recently made an appearance at a family event.

Shit. My privacy as Doctor Mason is ruined.

Three hours later, my shift ends with Joey stable and transferred to surgery. All he managed to say to me around the strong pain meds was again that Max never said a word that his big sis was a doctor. Jackass needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.

Elena walks me to the elevator, her expression troubled.

"That patient knew you," she says quietly. “He looked like he’d been in a gang shootout, Mel. How do you know a man like that?”

"Old family friend."

"Melinda." She stops, facing me directly. "Whatever's going on in your life, whatever danger you're worried about—maybe it's time to accept help. Even if it comes with strings attached."

The elevator arrives before I can respond. As the doors close, I see her watching me with concern and something like understanding. Elena's seen enough violence in this ER to recognize the signs of gang related violence, much of it being mafia, too.

My ankles feel swollen. My breasts feel tender.

I can’t wait to get home and just relax.

The parking garage is dimly lit, shadows stretching between concrete pillars.

My footsteps echo as I walk toward my car, keys ready.

I'm almost there when I see him—Vince, leaning against my nondescript Honda like he owns it. Like he owns everything.

"We need to talk," he says without preamble.

"I told you I needed time to think."

"Time's up." He pushes off from the car, moving toward me with that predatory grace I remember.

My stomach drops but I jut my chin at him. "You don’t own me, Vince."

"I own that child inside you. I have a right to you through it."

He's right in a mafia alpha male way, and I hate him for it. "What do you want?" I ask.

"Come with me. Now. My penthouse is more secure than anywhere else in the city."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Melinda." His voice drops, urgent and commanding. "Look around. Really look. Tell me what you see."

I scan the garage, noting details I should have caught immediately. A black sedan with tinted windows parked near the exit. Two men in suits who don't belong in a hospital parking structure. Movement in the shadows that suggests more watchers.

"How long have they been here?" I groan, more annoyed than scared. I did so much to avoid this mafia bullshit, the constant vigilance, the danger, the adrenaline rush. But one week back with Max and here I am, being outed by Joey to my colleagues and being watched by god knows who.

"Twenty minutes. My men spotted them before I came down." Vincent steps closer, his hand moving to something under his jacket. "We can do this easy or hard. Your choice."

The screech of tires echoes through the garage. A white van rounds the corner, accelerating toward us. Vincent doesn't hesitate—he tackles me to the ground as gunfire erupts, bullets sparking off concrete and shattering car windows.

I hit the pavement hard, Vincent's body covering mine, his weight pressing me into the cold floor. Above us, automatic weapons chatter like deadly typewriters. Glass rains down from shot-out light fixtures.

Vincent rolls, pulling a gun from his shoulder holster, returning fire with deadly accuracy.

Each shot finds its target—I can tell by the way the attackers' weapons fall silent one by one.

The attack lasts maybe ninety seconds. When the silence settles, Vincent is still covering me, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline that must be flooding his system.

"You hit?" he asks.

I take inventory—scraped palms, bruised ribs, but nothing serious. "No. You?"

"I'm fine." He pulls me to my feet, scanning for threats. "But we need to move. Now."

His car appears as if by magic—a black Mercedes with security glass and armor plating. Tony behind the wheel, engine running. Vincent pushes me into the back seat and slides in beside me.

"Where to?" Tony asks.

"Penthouse," Vincent replies. "And make sure we're not followed."

As we speed through Manhattan traffic, Vincent keeps one hand on his gun and the other on his phone, coordinating with his security team. I sit in shocked silence, my hands trembling slightly as the adrenaline begins to fade.

"They were professionals," I say finally.

"Yeah."

"Not a warning. They were trying to kill me."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Vincent looks at me, his dark eyes unreadable.

"Because someone's decided you're more valuable dead than alive.

Could be about the pregnancy, too. If someone has already found out about it…

a Russo-Mastroni baby threatens the power dynamic.

Some people would rather eliminate the threat than adapt to it. "

The penthouse is exactly as I remember—glass and steel and city lights, a fortress suspended above the chaos below. But now I notice details I missed before: reinforced windows, hidden cameras, multiple exit routes. This isn't just a home. It's a bunker.

Vincent's men sweep the apartment while he pours himself a drink. I stand by the windows, looking down at the city that wants me dead, my reflection ghostlike in the bulletproof glass.

"You can't go back to the hospital," Vincent says. "Not now."

"I have patients. Responsibilities."

"You have a baby to protect."

My hand moves automatically to my stomach, a small bump beneath my scrubs. Four and a half months now. The size of a sweet potato, according to the app. Growing stronger every day, more vulnerable with each week that passes.

"This is insane," I whisper.

"This is our world." He sets down his glass and moves toward me, each step deliberate and controlled. "The proposal still stands, Melinda. Marriage, protection, legitimacy. Everything your child needs to survive."

"Our child."

"Our child." He stops just close enough that I can feel his body heat, smell his cologne mixed with gunpowder. "Say yes."

I should say no. Should fight for my independence, my autonomy, my right to choose my own path. But staring down at the city lights, knowing there are people down there who want me dead, I feel something break inside me.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with gunpowder and unspoken truths. Vincent waits, patient as a predator, while I wage war with myself. Independence versus survival. Pride versus pragmatism. The woman I built myself into versus the reality of what I am.

"If I say yes," I begin quietly, "what happens to who I am? To my career, my choices, my life?"

"You become Vincent Russo's wife. Everything else we figure out together."

"That's not an answer."

He moves closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "It's the only answer I can give you. This world doesn't come with guarantees, Melinda. Only probabilities."

My reflection stares back at me—pale, shaken, a woman who thought she could outrun her blood. Behind it, the city glitters like scattered diamonds, beautiful and deadly.

"I need a shower," I say suddenly. "I can smell gunpowder in my hair."

Vincent sets down his glass and moves toward me. "Come on. I'll show you to the guest suite. You can clean up there."

He leads me down a hallway I don't remember from that night together, past abstract paintings and floor-to-ceiling windows. The guest suite is smaller than the master bedroom but still luxurious—cream walls, a king-sized bed, and an en-suite bathroom with marble finishes.

"There should be everything you need," he says, opening a dresser drawer and pulling out a set of silk pajamas—women's, in soft gray. "These should fit."

I take the pajamas, our fingers brushing briefly. "You keep women's clothes on hand?"

"They were my sister's. She stays here sometimes when she's in the city." His expression is unreadable. "The bathroom has fresh towels, soap, whatever else you need."

"Thank you."

I close the bathroom door and strip off my scrubs, noting the concrete dust and glass fragments that cling to the fabric. Evidence of how close I came to dying tonight.

The hot water cascades over me, washing away the chaos of the night.

The emergency room, the gunshots, the fear—it all starts to fade as the steam envelops me.

I stand under the showerhead, letting the water pound against my skin, trying to rinse away the adrenaline and the lingering scent of gunpowder.

I scrub myself meticulously, feeling every scrape and bruise from the garage floor.

The soap lathers into a rich foam, and I watch as the suds swirl down the drain, carrying with them the remnants of the night's terror.

Steam fills the bathroom, creating a temporary sanctuary from the chaos that follows me everywhere.

I close my eyes and let my mind drift. Four months ago, I never would have imagined standing in Vincent Russo's shower, carrying his child, contemplating his proposal.

Four months ago, I was Dr. Melinda Mason, trauma surgeon, a woman who had successfully escaped her family's bloody legacy.

Now I'm back where I started, except with even higher stakes.

The water begins to cool, signaling the end of my temporary reprieve.

I turn off the faucet reluctantly and step out onto the marble floor, reaching for one of the plush towels on the warming rack.

Only then do I realize I've forgotten to bring clean clothes into the bathroom with me.

I wrap the towel securely around my body, tucking the edge between my breasts to hold it in place.

The mirror has fogged over completely, obscuring my reflection. I wipe a small circle clear with my palm and stare at myself. My eyes look back at me, haunted yet determined.

Great. Doctor by day, mafia bride by night. Just what I wanted.