Page 31 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

The armored convoy cuts through Manhattan at three in the morning .

Six black SUVs, every window bulletproof, every man inside carrying enough firepower to level a city block. I'm in the center vehicle with Melinda, my hand gripping hers as another contraction tears through her body.

"Fuck," she gasps, nails digging into my palm hard enough to draw blood. "Vincent, something's wrong. It's too early."

Seven months. Our daughter isn't supposed to arrive for another two months, but apparently she's as impatient as her mother. "Dr. Chen is waiting at the clinic," I tell her, keeping my voice steady despite the ice in my veins. "Best neonatal team on the East Coast."

"Private facility," Tony's voice crackles through my earpiece. "Perimeter secure. No hostile movement detected."

The clinic I've prepared sits in the heart of neutral territory—a converted mansion in the Upper East Side that serves clients who value discretion above all else.

Every staff member has been vetted by both families, their backgrounds scrubbed cleaner than a surgeon's hands.

Tonight, it's an island of cooperation in a city about to tear itself apart.

"Jesus Christ," Melinda breathes as we pull up to the clinic's entrance. Medical personnel rush out with a wheelchair, but she waves them off. "I can fucking walk."

Even in labor, she's defiant. It's one of the things I love about her, even if it drives me insane. "Let them help you," I growl, scanning the rooftops through my window.

"Don't tell me what to do," she snaps back, then immediately softens as another contraction hits. "Sorry. I just—fuck, Vincent, I'm scared."

Melinda’s not the kind of woman who scares easily.

Not when a bullet missed her head by inches in Italy.

Not when she married into my world without flinching.

But tonight, there’s fear in her voice.

And I’d burn the whole damn city down just to take it away.

Inside the clinic, controlled chaos reigns.

Dr. Chen—the doctor I flew in specifically for tonight—immediately takes charge. She used to run emergency OB at Johns Hopkins. Now she works private contracts—off the grid, no questions asked.

I paid triple her usual rate. Worth every cent.

"How far apart are the contractions?"

"Three minutes," Melinda pants, allowing herself to be helped onto the examination table. "They started two hours ago, but they're getting stronger."

Dr. Chen's hands move with practiced efficiency, checking vitals, positioning monitors. The baby's heartbeat fills the room—rapid, irregular, distressed. My own heart clenches in response.

"We need to move fast," Dr. Chen announces. "The baby's in distress, and at thirty weeks, every minute counts."

"What does that mean?" I ask, though part of me already knows.

"Emergency C-section. Now." She's already calling for her team, nurses flowing into the room like a choreographed dance. "Mr. Russo, you'll need to scrub in if you want to be present."

Melinda's hand finds mine again. "Don't leave me," she whispers, and the vulnerability in her voice nearly breaks me.

"Never," I promise, pressing my lips to her forehead. "I'll be right here."

The next hour blurs together—surgical scrubs, sterile hallways, the antiseptic smell that always makes me think of violence and healing in equal measure. I stand beside Melinda's head as Dr. Chen works, her hands steady despite the complexity of the situation.

"Everything looks good so far," Dr. Chen murmurs, but there's tension in her voice that wasn't there before. "But the baby's lungs aren't fully developed. We'll need the NICU team standing by."

My phone buzzes against my chest—urgent messages that I ignore. Nothing matters except the woman on this table and the child about to enter our violent world.

"Vincent," Melinda whispers, her voice barely audible over the monitors. "If something happens to me?—"

"Nothing's going to happen," I cut her off, squeezing her hand. "You're the strongest person I know. You've survived everything life has thrown at you. This is just one more fight."

"Promise me," she insists. "Promise me you'll protect her. No matter what."

"I promise," I tell her, meaning every word. "On my mother's grave, I promise."

Dr. Chen's voice cuts through our conversation. "I can see the head. Almost there."

Then everything happens at once. A weak cry fills the room—not the strong wail of a healthy newborn, but something fragile and desperate. Dr. Chen moves quickly, placing our daughter in the hands of the NICU team who immediately begin working over her tiny form.

"Is she okay?" Melinda asks, trying to lift her head to see.

"She's breathing," Dr. Chen says carefully. "But she's very small, very early. The next few hours will be critical."

I catch a glimpse of our daughter as they wheel her toward the NICU—impossibly tiny, skin translucent, more precious than every dollar in my accounts combined. She's perfect and fragile and mine.

My phone buzzes again, more insistently this time. Tony's voice comes through my earpiece. "Boss, we've got a problem. Your father's mobilizing. Full deployment against Mastroni territories."

The words hit like ice water. "What?"

"Emergency meeting called one hour ago. Marco's being treated as a martyr. Antonio's telling everyone the Mastronis tried to assassinate his son at the summit."

I step away from Melinda's bedside, keeping my voice low. "How many casualties?"

"Three Mastroni safe houses hit simultaneously. At least twelve dead, including civilians." Tony's voice is grim. "Boss, it's a fucking war zone out there."

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of impossible choices. My father is using Marco's injuries as justification for genocide, and I'm trapped between my newborn daughter fighting for life and a city about to burn.

"Double security here," I order. "Nobody gets within five blocks without my approval. And Tony? Start reaching out to our most loyal captains. The ones who'll follow me regardless of what my father says."

"Boss, what are you thinking?"

I look back at Melinda, pale and exhausted but alive, then toward the NICU where our daughter struggles for every breath. "I'm thinking it's time to choose a side."

"Vincent?" Melinda's voice calls me back to her bedside. "What's happening out there?"

I smooth the hair back from her forehead, forcing my face into calm lines. "Nothing that can't wait. Rest now. Focus on getting better."

***

The NICU is a temple of machines and hushed voices, our daughter barely visible beneath the tangle of tubes and wires keeping her alive. She weighs two pounds, fourteen ounces—Dr. Chen announces the numbers like battle statistics, which in a way, they are.

"Her lungs are the primary concern," Dr. Chen explains, adjusting monitors with practiced efficiency. "We're providing respiratory support, but the next seventy-two hours will determine her long-term prognosis."

I stare at this impossibly small person who carries my blood, my name, my entire fucking future in her tiny chest.

She doesn't even have a name yet—we'd planned to wait, to see her face before deciding. Now she's fighting for life while the city tears itself apart around us.

"Can I touch her?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.

"Briefly. Through the ports." Dr. Chen shows me how to reach through the incubator's openings, my large hands clumsy inside the sterile gloves. When my finger touches her palm, she grips it with surprising strength. The gesture hits me like a physical blow.

This tiny warrior is mine to protect.

"Sir?" A nurse appears at my elbow. "Your wife is asking for you."

Melinda is sitting up in the recovery room, still pale but her eyes sharp with determination. "How is she?"

"Fighting," I tell her, settling into the chair beside her bed. "Like her mother."

"I want to see her."

"The doctors said?—"

"I don't give a fuck what the doctors said." Fire flashes in her amber eyes. "That's my daughter in there. I'm seeing her."

Before I can argue, my phone erupts with incoming calls. Dad's name flashes on the screen, followed immediately by messages from three different captains. The war is escalating.

"Take it," Melinda says quietly. "I know that look. Something's happening."

I step into the hallway, finally accepting my father's call.

"Vincent." His voice is cold steel. "Where the hell are you?"

"Handling family business."

"Your family business is here, with me, planning our response to Mastroni aggression." Each word drips venom. "They tried to kill your brother. They violated our home. There will be consequences."

"Marco brought that on himself?—"

"Marco is blood," Antonio cuts me off. "Russo blood. And Russo blood demands justice." A pause. "I've given the order. By dawn, the Mastroni name will be nothing but a memory."

My blood turns to ice. "What order?"

"Total elimination. Max, Maya, the girl you've been fucking—all of them. Their entire organization, down to the lowest street soldier." His voice carries the satisfaction of a man announcing victory. "The only way to deal with traitors is complete annihilation."

The hallway spins around me. He's talking about murdering my wife, the mother of my child who's fighting for life fifty feet away.

"You can't," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I can and I will. Family comes first, Vincent. Always." His tone sharpens. "Unless you're telling me you've forgotten what that means?"

The line goes dead, leaving me staring at the phone like it might explode. Through the windows, I can see the first hints of dawn touching the skyline—the same skyline where my father plans to paint Mastroni blood before the sun fully rises.

I find myself walking, my feet carrying me through corridors I barely see. When I stop, I'm standing in the clinic's chapel—a small, nonsectarian space designed to offer comfort to families facing impossible choices.

I haven't prayed since my mother's funeral. Haven't believed in anything beyond bullets and bank accounts since I watched her bleed out on our kitchen floor. But now I'm staring at a simple wooden cross, my hands shaking for the first time in years.

"I don't know if you're listening," I say to the empty room, my voice echoing off cold walls. "I don't know if I deserve to ask. But that little girl in there—she's innocent. Whatever sins her parents carry, she doesn't deserve to pay for them."

The words feel foreign in my mouth, but I continue.

"My father wants to destroy everything. Her mother's family, her future, her chance at something better than this endless cycle of blood.

" I close my eyes. "I know what I have to do.

I know what it makes me. But if there's any justice in this fucked-up world, let her live. Let her have a chance."

My phone buzzes. Tony's voice is urgent. "Boss, we've got movement. Twelve-car convoy heading toward Mastroni compound. ETA twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes until my father starts a war that will consume everyone I love.

I walk back toward the NICU, each step feeling like I'm crossing a bridge that will burn behind me. In the nursery, my daughter continues her fight, tiny chest rising and falling with mechanical assistance. In the recovery room, Melinda sleeps fitfully, exhaustion finally claiming her.

Both of them counting on me to keep them safe.

I pull out my encrypted phone, scrolling to a contact I never thought I'd use. Salvatore Benedetto—my most loyal captain, the one man who's followed me into every dark corner of this life without question.

"Sal, it's me."

"Boss. Heard about the baby. Congratulations."

"Listen carefully," I say, my voice steady despite the magnitude of what I'm about to do. "I need you to handle something for me. Quietly. Permanently."

"Name it."

I take a breath that feels like swallowing glass. "My father. Tonight. Make it look like Mastroni retaliation for the summit. Can you do that?"

Silence stretches between us. When Sal speaks again, his voice is soft. "You sure about this, boss? There's no coming back from something like that."

"I'm sure." And I am. For the first time in months, I'm completely, absolutely sure. "He's lost his mind, Sal. If we don't stop him tonight, there won't be anything left to save."

"Consider it done," Sal says simply. "One hour?"

"One hour."

I end the call and immediately dial another number. "Tony, I need every loyal man we have positioned around the hospital. Full defensive perimeter. If anyone—and I mean anyone—tries to get near my wife and daughter, they disappear. Understood?"

"Copy that, boss. What about the Mastroni compound?"

"Let me worry about that." I'm already moving, checking my weapon, calculating time and distance. "Just keep my family safe."

As I head for the exit, I stop one last time at the NICU. My daughter's still fighting, still gripping life with those impossibly small fingers.

When this is over, when the blood has been washed from the streets and the power vacuum filled, she'll inherit a different world. A cleaner one.

I press my palm against the glass separating us. "Daddy's got some business to handle, sweetheart. But I'll be back. I promise."