Page 13 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

I follow Vincent through the maze of containers. Our footsteps echoes off the steel, sharp and impossible to ignore.

"You don't have to do this," Vincent says without turning around, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "You can wait in the car."

"I'm not waiting anywhere." I adjust my grip on the small medical kit I insisted on bringing. "If you want answers, you need him conscious and coherent. Blood loss and shock won't help your interrogation."

He stops, turns to study my face in the harsh fluorescent lighting. "This isn't a hospital, Melinda. What happens here?—"

"What happens here is business." The words taste like copper pennies on my tongue. "I grew up watching my father conduct meetings in places like this. I know what you do to people who cross the family."

His voice drops, rough with interest. "Standing your ground, huh?"

I think about the man who tried to kill me tonight, who would have put a bullet through my skull without hesitation. Who would have murdered my unborn child.

"I’ll do whatever it takes to keep us alive."

Vincent's mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it weren't so cold. "Good. Because this is going to get ugly."

The room is tighter than I expected, barely big enough to pace in.

He’s slumped in the lone chair, limbs bound with thick rope.

But it’s the spreading bloodstain across his chest that catches my attention—deep, dark, and fresh.

Whatever they asked, he didn’t answer fast enough.

"Marco got here first," Vincent explains, noting my gaze. "He has his own methods."

The prisoner looks up when we enter—late thirties, maybe, with the kind of face that's seen too many fights. His left eye is swollen shut, and blood runs from his nose in a steady stream. When he sees me, his pulse kicks. I see it in his throat.

"What the fuck is this?" he spits. "Bringing your lady friend to watch?"

Vincent doesn't respond. Instead, he nods to Tony, who steps forward with a set of brass knuckles. The first punch lands with a wet crunch that makes my stomach turn, but I don't look away. I can't afford to show weakness here.

"Let's try this again," Vincent says conversationally. "Who paid you to kill Melinda Mastroni?"

It’s clear the man doesn’t recognize me, though I was his target. I guess I look different in scrubs.

The man spits blood onto the concrete floor. "Go fuck yourself, Russo."

Tony hits him again, this time in the ribs. The sound of bone cracking echoes through the room like breaking kindling. The prisoner doubles over, gasping, but his eyes remain defiant.

"I don't know shit," he wheezes. "Order came through channels. Anonymous payment. That's how these things work."

"Bullshit." Vincent's voice remains perfectly calm. "The Perezzi family doesn't take anonymous contracts for hits this significant. Someone wanted her dead specifically, and they paid premium rates for it."

Another punch, this one to the solar plexus. The man retches, dry heaving onto his own shoes. I watch his pupils dilate, note the way his breathing becomes shallow and rapid. Shock is setting in.

"Vincent," I say quietly. "He's going into shock. Much more of this and you'll lose him entirely."

“Then he better talk fast—before I stop caring if he lives.”

"Pain threshold varies by individual," I continue, my voice taking on the measured tone I use during medical consultations.

"But based on his current condition—concussion, probable fractured ribs, internal bleeding—he has maybe twenty minutes before unconsciousness. After that, he's useless to you."

The prisoner's good eye focuses on me with sudden terror. There's something about medical assessments that cut deeper than raw violence. I step closer, studying him like a particularly interesting case study.

"You're experiencing stage two hemorrhagic shock," I tell him conversationally. "Blood pressure dropping, heart rate elevated, confused thinking. Stage three is when organ failure begins. That's usually irreversible."

"What the fuck are you?" he whispers.

"I'm a trauma surgeon." I pull latex gloves from my medical kit, snapping them on without breaking eye contact with the man. "I know exactly how much damage a human body can sustain before it stops functioning. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

Vincent watches me with a mix of shock and respect. Even Tony takes a step back.

I move to examine the man's injuries as if he’s just another trauma victim in the ER, probing the swollen areas around his ribs. He screams when I press against what's obviously a fracture.

"Broken ribs can puncture lungs," I explain matter-of-factly. "Causes pneumothorax—essentially, your lung collapses and you drown in your own blood. Very painful way to die. Takes about fifteen minutes."

"Jesus Christ," the prisoner gasps. "You're fucking insane."

"She’s the reason you’re still breathing. Remember that," Vincent says.

"I'm practical." I select a scalpel from my kit, testing the edge against my gloved thumb.

"For instance, there's a nerve cluster right here—" I trace the blade along his inner thigh, not cutting but making my point clear.

"Severing it won't kill you immediately, but the pain will be.

.. extraordinary. And it won't heal properly.

You'll walk with a limp for the rest of your life. "

"The order came through Salvatore," he blurts out suddenly. "Salvatore Perezzi. But he said it was a rush job, premium pay, and the client wanted it done that specific night."

Vincent leans forward. "What client?"

"I don't know! Sal just said someone with connections, someone who knew both families' schedules. They knew about the meeting at the restaurant, knew she'd be at the hospital, knew her routines."

My blood chills. Someone had been watching me, tracking my movements, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. "How long had they been planning this?"

"No clue, lady. A day? Maybe more. Sal said,” the man starts sweating and shivering, coughing as he catches his breath, “the client knew hospital schedules, security rotations. Professional level intel."

Vincent and I exchange glances. This wasn't random violence—it was a carefully orchestrated hit by someone with access to inside information.

"Who in your organization has connections to the Russos?" I ask.

The man's remaining eye looks defeated, as if he knows no matter what he says, his fate is likely sealed. "I told you everything I know. Please, I got kids?—"

"Answer the question." My voice is ice.

"Nobody talks about that shit directly. But... but there's rumors. Someone high up in the Perezzi family's been taking meetings with Russo lieutenants. Money changing hands, information getting passed around."

Vincent's jaw tightens. Internal betrayal—the worst kind of threat to any family operation.

I step back, removing my gloves with sharp, efficient movements. "He's telling the truth. Stress responses, pupil dilation, cardiovascular indicators—all consistent with honesty under duress."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because lying under extreme stress produces specific physiological responses. I've seen enough trauma patients lie about how they got their injuries to recognize the patterns." I pack my medical kit away, hands perfectly steady. "He's not hiding anything else."

Vincent nods to Tony, who produces a pistol. The prisoner begins sobbing, begging, promising information he doesn't have. I don't look away when Tony pulls the trigger. The sound echoes off concrete walls like thunder.

In the sudden silence, I realize I feel nothing. No horror, no guilt, no satisfaction. Just the cold understanding that this was necessary. This man would have killed me, killed my child, without a second thought.

"You okay?" Vincent asks quietly.

"I'm fine." And surprisingly, I am. "We should go. The police response time to this area is approximately twelve minutes. We've been here eight."

In the car, Vincent studies me with concern and softness. "I've never seen anything like that. You were more terrifying than any of my enforcers."

"Medical training," I reply simply. "Understanding anatomy, physiology, pain responses—it's all just data. Applied correctly, it's more effective than brute force."

"Most people would be traumatized by what just happened."

I think about this. "Most people didn't grow up watching their father's enemies disappear in the night. Most people haven't spent years stitching up gunshot wounds without asking questions. Violence doesn't shock me, Vincent. It's just another tool."

He reaches over, takes my hand. His thumb traces over my knuckles, surprisingly gentle. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A victim. Someone who needed protecting." His dark eyes meet mine. "You're not a victim, are you?"

"No," I say quietly. "I'm a Mastroni. We don't break. We break other people."

My phone buzzes. Max, probably wondering where I am. I answer on the second ring.

"Mel? Where the hell are you? Maya said you left the compound with Russo."

"I'm handling family business."

"What family business? You're not supposed to?—"

"Max." I cut him off. "I'm marrying Vincent Russo."

Dead silence on the other end. Then: "How did you convince him?"

"There’s no convincing. It's the practical solution. Our child will be protected, both families benefit from the alliance, and it prevents a war that would destroy us all."

"This doesn’t sound like the agreement we discussed, Mel." His voice turns deadly quiet.

I close my eyes. I'd hoped to break this news more gently. "We didn’t discuss it. You tried to bully me, Max, on your terms. I’m doing this my way."

The explosion of Italian curses that follows is so vicious I have to hold the phone away from my ear. When Max finally runs out of creative ways to vent about this loss of power over me and over this decision, I speak again.

"Are you finished?"