Page 27 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

I stand at the podium, laser pointer steady in my hand, looking out at two hundred trauma surgeons who think they've seen everything.

If only they knew the woman presenting "Advanced Field Trauma Protocols" learned half these techniques stitching up her own family members in basement safe houses.

After everything with the hospital, I didn’t expect to be invited to speak here. But when Dr. Chen—the trauma OB Vincent hired for my delivery — pulled strings to get me on the conference roster, I couldn’t say no.

She thinks the field techniques I’ve developed are “innovative.” I just think they work.

"The key to penetrating chest wounds," I say, clicking to the next slide, "is recognizing that field conditions rarely mirror textbook scenarios. You work with what you have—improvised instruments, inadequate lighting, patients who may be uncooperative due to... external pressures."

A hand shoots up. Dr. Morrison from Johns Hopkins, pretentious bastard who's never treated a gunshot wound outside a pristine OR. "Dr. Mason, these scenarios seem unusually specific. What's your experience with such extreme field conditions?"

I smile, the practiced expression I've perfected for hiding truth. "Medical missions abroad. War zones. You'd be surprised how creative you become when someone's bleeding out and the nearest hospital is fifty miles away."

True enough, if you consider the warehouse district a war zone.

"Field amputations," I continue, "require decisive action.

Hesitation costs lives." I demonstrate the proper angle for severing arteries, muscle memory guiding my hands.

The audience leans forward, fascinated by my precision.

They have no idea I'm showing them exactly how to disable someone permanently.

That's when I see him. Third row, left side. Dark suit, predatory stillness, eyes locked on me with laser focus. Not taking notes like the others. Not here for medical education.

My pulse kicks up, but I maintain my presentation rhythm. "Of course, the psychological aspect cannot be ignored. Patients in extreme trauma often become combative. Restraint techniques..."

The man's phone buzzes. He checks it, then his gaze returns to me with renewed intensity. Fuck. Whatever message he received, it wasn't good news for me.

I catch the eye of Rodriguez, Vincent's man positioned near the exit. A slight nod toward the stranger. Rodriguez follows my gaze, straightens. Good. He sees it too.

"That concludes my presentation," I say, advancing the slides to my contact information. "Questions?"

Hands shoot up, but I focus on the stranger. He's moving, heading for the side exit. Not toward me—around me. Flanking maneuver.

"I'm afraid I need to step out briefly," I announce to the room. "My colleague Dr. Chen will handle questions." I gesture to the moderator, already moving toward the rear exit where Maya's man Santino waits.

The conference room empties slowly, doctors clustering around the coffee station, discussing techniques they'll never need. I slip into the service corridor, Santino a shadow behind me.

"Doc," he murmurs, "we got a problem. Two more men spotted in the lobby. Vincent's orders are to extract if there's any sign of?—"

"Where's the nearest exit?" I interrupt.

"Service elevator, end of the hall. But?—"

"Move. Now."

We reach the elevator bank just as two men emerge from the stairwell. Not hotel staff—their suits are too expensive, their movements too coordinated. One reaches inside his jacket.

"Dr. Mason," the larger one calls out, voice carrying the kind of Boston accent that usually comes with buried bodies. "We just want to talk."

"I'm sure you do." My hand slides into my medical bag, fingers closing around the scalpel handle. Six months of living in Vincent's world has refined my old family training. "Unfortunately, I'm not in a chatty mood."

Santino moves to intercept, but the second man produces a knife—eight inches of steel that says this conversation was never meant to end well for me.

"The thing about doctors," the first man continues, advancing slowly, "is they know how to hurt people without killing them. Makes interrogation... educational."

I map his anatomy with ease. Carotid artery, three inches below his left ear. Femoral artery, inside thigh where his stance leaves him exposed. The soft spot below his sternum where a blade would slide between ribs.

"The thing about trauma surgeons," I reply, scalpel now visible in my grip, "is we know exactly where to cut so you bleed out in under two minutes."

The larger man laughs coldly. "Feisty. Marco said you had fight in you. I told him there’d be nothing left of that once we’re done with you." He sneers

Marco. The name fills me with rage. Vincent's psychotic brother. The puzzle pieces click into place—Marco is every bit as conniving as Vincent and I believed he was.

This is family politics played with my life as the stakes.

"Unfortunately for Marco," a familiar voice cuts through the tension, "he's about to learn what happens when he threatens my wife."

My grip on the scalpel remains tight even as my mental turmoil eases. Vincent is playing the role of my savior today. And as I feel movement in my belly—my stress is impacting the baby—I couldn’t be more glad to see him. I try to calm myself.

Vincent steps out of the service elevator, gun already drawn. His movements are fluid, practiced—the kind of control that comes from killing often and well.

"Two choices," he says conversationally. "Walk away now, or bleed out in this hallway. Either way, Dr. Mason comes with me."

The knife-wielding man makes his choice, lunging toward me with steel extended. Vincent's first shot takes him center mass, the impact spinning him sideways into the wall. The second man draws his gun, but Vincent's already adjusting aim.

The sound in the enclosed hallway is deafening. Two shots, close together, both finding their targets with extreme accuracy. The men drop, blood spreading across industrial carpeting that's probably seen worse.

"Are you hurt?" Vincent's beside me immediately, hands checking for wounds with the same control he used to eliminate threats.

"I'm fine." My voice comes out steadier than expected. "How did you?—"

"Marco's been making calls to Boston associates. I flew up the moment I heard." His dark eyes scan my face, looking for signs of trauma. "You shouldn't have come here alone."

"I had security?—"

"You had targets on your back." He holsters his weapon, already coordinating cleanup through his earpiece. "Tony, we need a cleaning crew. Service corridor, level three. Two packages."

Santino emerges from where he'd taken cover, looking sheepish. "Boss, I?—"

"Did your job," Vincent cuts him off. "Got her out of the main area, contained the situation. Good work."

Back in our hotel suite, Vincent paces like a caged predator while I sit on the bed, hands finally starting to shake with delayed adrenaline. The baby's been active since the confrontation, as if responding to my elevated heart rate.

"This ends tonight," Vincent says, phone pressed to his ear. "I don't care what it costs or who gets hurt. Marco crossed a line."

I watch him coordinate with his security team, noting the cold efficiency that makes him so dangerous. But there's something else underneath—genuine fear. Not for himself, but for me.

"Vincent." I wait until he ends his call, meets my eyes. "You were scared."

He stops pacing. For a moment, his careful mask slips, revealing something raw and vulnerable. "Terrified. When Tony called, said there were men asking about your schedule..." He runs a hand through his hair. "I've never moved that fast in my life."

"You could have sent backup instead of coming yourself."

"No." His voice is granite. "Not for this. Not for you."

Before I can respond, my phone rings. Max's name on the screen.

"Mel." His voice is tense, urgent. "We've got a problem. Dad just called from Boston—Antonio Russo has summoned every capo in the city. Emergency meeting, all hands."

My blood turns cold. "What kind of meeting?"

"The kind that ends with bodies in the harbor. Marco's been feeding the old man poison about us, about you. Antonio thinks we set up the attacks to frame them, gain sympathy while positioning for a takeover."

I look at Vincent, see the same realization dawning in his eyes. Marco hasn't just been trying to eliminate me—he's been orchestrating a war.

"How long do we have?" I ask.

"Hours, maybe less. Dad's mobilizing every soldier we have. If this goes hot, Mel, it's going to be everything. Every family, every territory, every alliance we've built. All of it burns."

The call ends, leaving Vincent and me staring at each other across a hotel room that suddenly feels like a bunker.

"Your brother," I say quietly, "just declared war on both our families."

Vincent's smile is sharp as winter. "Then we better make sure we win."