Page 24 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

The emergency room feels different today.

I notice it the second I walk in. Conversations pause. Eyes drop. No one meets my gaze.

Word has gotten out about who I’m tied to and now they all see me as a problem.

"Dr. Mastroni."

Elena’s voice slices through the ER noise.

She grips a clipboard to her chest, expression blank.

"I need to speak with you."

I follow her into the break room, noting how she positions herself near the door—ready to run if necessary. The woman who used to share coffee and gossip with me now looks at me like I'm carrying a contagious disease.

"Elena, whatever you've heard?—"

"Is it true?" she interrupts, her voice sharp with accusation. "Are you involved with Vincent Russo?"

I could lie, deflect, give her the same sanitized version of the truth she already has a hint of. Instead, I meet her stare directly.

"Yes."

She flinches as if I'd slapped her. "Jesus Christ, Melinda. Do you have any idea what you've brought into this hospital?"

"I've brought nothing?—"

"Bullshit." Her voice rises, then drops to a harsh whisper when she remembers where we are.

"Two weeks ago, Joey Castellano shows up in our ER with bullet holes. Yesterday, security found three men in the parking garage with no legitimate reason to be here. This morning, I had FBI agents asking about your schedule and patient load."

My stomach drops.

FBI involvement means this situation has escalated beyond family politics into federal territory. "What did you tell them?"

"Nothing. Yet." Elena sets down her clipboard with deliberate force. "But I can't protect you if you're putting patients at risk."

"I would never?—"

“I understand that. But your very presence here could put everyone at risk.” Her voice carries the weight of friendship dying in real time. "These people, your families—they don't distinguish between combatants and civilians."

Before I can respond, the trauma alert sounds. Multiple casualties incoming, ETA three minutes.

Elena and I exchange a look that carries too much professional partnership for us to continue this discussion now, then move toward the ambulance bay.

The first stretcher through the doors carries a child—maybe seven years old, unconscious, blood soaking through makeshift bandages around his chest. The paramedic's report cuts through me like glass.

"GSW to the chest, possible lung involvement. Kid was playing in a playground when shooting started. Territorial dispute between local crews."

I take control immediately, professional instincts overriding everything else. "Trauma bay two. Get me chest X-ray, type and cross for four units, and call surgery."

As we work, cutting away the child's Spider-Man t-shirt, starting IVs, assessing damage, I can't stop thinking about my own baby. Four months from now, this could be my child caught in the crossfire between families who value territory more than innocent lives.

"Pneumothorax," I announce, studying the X-ray. "Prep for chest tube insertion."

Elena assists with mechanical precision, but I feel the distance between us—professional courtesy replacing genuine partnership.

The child's mother arrives, screaming in Spanish, demanding answers I can't give her. How do you explain that her son was shot because men like my father and Vincent's family can't resolve disputes without violence?

"He's stable," I tell her after the chest tube is placed and monitors show improving oxygen saturation. "The surgery will repair the damage, but he's going to be okay."

She collapses against the wall, sobbing with relief. I want to comfort her, to promise that this won't happen again, but the words stick in my throat. In my world, it always happens again.

The rest of my shift passes in a blur of routine cases—heart attacks, overdoses, minor traumas that seem insignificant after the shooting victim.

But I notice things I've never paid attention to before: which staff members avoid me, who whispers when I pass, how many of my colleagues suddenly have urgent business elsewhere when I approach.

By six p.m., I'm exhausted and emotionally drained. I'm changing out of my scrubs when Lisa, one of the newer nurses, approaches hesitantly.

"Dr. Mason? Can I speak with you privately?"

I follow her into the supply closet, noting her nervous glances toward the door. She's young, maybe twenty-five, with the earnest dedication of someone who still believes medicine can save the world.

"Someone's been asking questions about you," she whispers, pressing a folded piece of paper into my hand. "Administrator types, but not hospital administration. They wanted to know your schedule, which patients you've treated, when you take breaks."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing. But they offered money, Dr. Mason. A lot of money." Her voice drops even lower. "I wrote down what I could remember about them. License plate numbers, descriptions. I thought you should know."

I unfold the paper, scanning her careful handwriting. Three men, expensive suits, one with a distinctive scar across his left cheek. The license plate number means nothing to me, but Maya will be able to trace it.

"Thank you," I tell her. "And Lisa? Be careful. These people don't appreciate witnesses."

She nods, fear flickering in her young eyes. Another innocent person drawn into our world of violence and secrets.

I call Maya from the parking garage, keeping my voice low as I scan for threats. "I need pickup. Now."

"What's wrong?"

"Someone's been surveilling the hospital. Asking questions, offering bribes." I climb into my car but don't start the engine. "I'm not safe here anymore."

"Shit. Stay where you are. I'm ten minutes out."

While I wait, I think about the child on the operating table, about Lisa's frightened face, about Elena's accusation that my presence endangers everyone around me.

The pregnancy has made me vulnerable in ways I never anticipated—not just physically, but emotionally. Every threat feels amplified, every risk magnified by the life growing inside me.

Maya arrives in a black Mercedes with tinted windows, flanked by two SUVs carrying Mastroni security. She slides out of the passenger seat wearing leather pants and a jacket that doesn't quite conceal the weapons underneath.

"Get out," she commands, scanning the garage for threats. "We're switching cars."

I follow her instructions without argument, transferring to the Mercedes while her men sweep my Honda for tracking devices. The efficiency of the operation reminds me why Maya has survived—no, thrived—this long in a world that chews up and spits out the weak.

"Talk to me," she says as we pull out of the garage, security vehicles boxing us in front and behind.

I hand her Lisa's note and explain the situation at the hospital, watching her face darken with each detail.

"Marco's people," she concludes after reading the descriptions. "That scar matches one of his enforcers—Tommy Benedetto's nephew."

"Vincent said the Perezzi family was involved?—"

"Vincent's been saying a lot of things." Maya's voice carries an edge I don't like. "Question is, how much of it is true and how much is him protecting his psychotic brother?"

"What do you mean?"

She glances at me in the rearview mirror. "I mean maybe it's time we stopped waiting for the Russo family to clean house and started handling this ourselves."

"I'm talking about eliminating a threat to my sister and my nephew." Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. "The question is whether you're ready to do what's necessary to protect your child."

"Vincent's trying to handle this internally," I say, though the words feel hollow even to me.

"Vincent's trying to protect his brother while keeping you safe. Those two goals are mutually exclusive." Maya takes a corner faster than necessary, her driving reflecting the controlled violence that defines our family. "How long are you willing to wait while Marco escalates?"

I think about the child in the ER, about Lisa's frightened face, about the ultrasound photo sent to my phone like a death threat. "What kind of case have you built?"

"The kind that proves Marco Russo is a clear and present danger to both families. Financial records, surveillance photos, testimony from people he's bought or threatened." Her smile in the mirror is sharp as a blade. "Enough evidence to justify any action we might take."

We arrive at Vincent's penthouse to find the building crawling with additional security. Men in expensive suits who carry themselves like soldiers, positioned at every entrance and exit. The lobby feels like a fortress preparing for siege.

In the elevator, Maya hands me an encrypted phone. "Vincent doesn't need to know about our conversation. Some things are better handled by women who understand the stakes."

The elevator opens to reveal Vincent's penthouse transformed into a command center. Maps and photographs cover every surface, secure communication equipment hums with constant activity, and the coffee table is buried under intelligence reports and financial documents.

But it's what I don't see that makes my blood run cold. No evidence of the investigation Maya described. No comprehensive case against Marco. Just the controlled chaos of a man trying to manage a crisis without decisive action.

I find the surveillance photos tucked into a folder marked "Family Business"—images of Marco meeting with Perezzi operatives, financial transfers, evidence of the betrayal Vincent's been tracking. But the timestamps show this information was only compiled in the last few hours. Still, it’s not enough—and Vincent hasn’t acted on it.

"Find what you're looking for?"

I turn to find Vincent standing in the doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, exhaustion written in the lines around his eyes. He looks like a man carrying the weight of impossible choices.

"You've known about Marco for days," I say, holding up the photos. "Why haven't you acted on this?"

"It's complicated."

"Bullshit." I set the folder down with deliberate force. "Your brother is financing operations against me, against our child, and you're protecting him."

"I'm not protecting him. I'm trying to handle this without starting a war that destroys both our families."

"While he destroys us first?" My voice rises, months of fear and frustration finally boiling over. "He accessed my medical records, Vincent. He sent me pictures of our baby as a threat. How much more escalation are you waiting for?"

Vincent moves closer, hands reaching for me, but I step back. The distance between us feels like a chasm filled with secrets and divided loyalties.

"Marco is family," he says quietly. "Blood. You understand what that means."

"I understand that family doesn't threaten innocent children." My hand moves automatically to my stomach, protective and fierce. "I understand that blood can be poison when it's twisted by jealousy and ambition."

"If I move against him, it needs to be final. Permanent. There's no coming back from that kind of decision."

"And if you don't move against him?" I challenge. "What happens to us? To our child? How many more people get hurt while you wrestle with family loyalty?"

The question hits him like a physical blow. I see it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw clenches, the flicker of pain in his dark eyes.

"I've killed for this family," he says, voice rough with emotion I've never heard before. "I've buried bodies, eliminated threats, done things that should have damned my soul years ago. But this... this is different."

"Why?"

"Because it's Marco." The admission comes out broken, vulnerable in a way that transforms him from dangerous crime lord to grieving brother.

"Because we used to be close. Because I remember when we were kids, before power-lust corrupted him, before he started seeing me as competition instead of family. "

For the first time since I've known him, Vincent Russo looks lost. The man who controls everything, who plans for every contingency, who moves through the world with absolute confidence—reduced to a brother struggling with an impossible choice.

"Vincent," I say softly, moving closer. "I'm sorry. I know this is killing you."

"I can't save him," he whispers. "I've tried. God knows I've tried. But he's too far gone, too consumed by hatred and resentment."

"Then save us instead."