Page 38 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

Blood doesn't bother me anymore.

It should—I'm supposed to be a surgeon who saves lives, not someone kneeling in a chapel sanctuary that's been converted into a makeshift trauma center while my wedding dress soaks up crimson.

But as I press gauze against Father Benedetto's shoulder wound, my hands are steady as stone.

"Through and through," I tell Tony, who's supporting the priest's weight. "Clean entry and exit. He'll live if we can stop the bleeding."

"Doc, I got three more wounded by the altar," one of Max's men calls out, his voice tight with urgency.

I don't look up from my work. "Triage by severity. Gunshots to the torso first, then limbs. If someone's conscious and cursing, they can fucking wait."

The chapel has become a war zone medical unit. Overturned pews serve as stretchers, silk altar cloths as bandages, and the holy water font as a sterile rinse basin. I move between casualties with clinical efficiency, my ruined wedding dress trailing blood across marble floors.

Vincent appears at my elbow, gun still in his hand, eyes scanning for threats. "Melinda, we need to move you?—"

"I'm not going anywhere." I tie off a tourniquet around a security guard's thigh, noting the way his pupils respond to light. "This man needs surgery within the hour or he loses the leg."

"The hospital's compromised. Marco could have people there."

"Then we improvise." I stand, surveying the chaos. Eight wounded, four critical. In the ER, I'd have a full surgical team and unlimited supplies. Here, I've got wedding decorations and pure fucking determination. "Max, I need your men to clear the vestry. We're setting up an operating room."

My brother materializes from the shadows, Cara close behind him. Both are splattered with blood that isn't theirs—evidence of how efficiently they handled Marco's attackers.

"Mel, this is insane," Max says, but he's already signaling his men. "You can't perform surgery in a chapel."

"Watch me." I'm already moving toward the wounded guard, calculating what I'll need. "Cara, can you assist? You've got steady hands."

She nods without hesitation. "Tell me what to do."

"Sterilize everything you can find in the sacristy. Alcohol, candles, anything that burns hot and clean." I kneel beside my patient, checking his pulse. Weak but present. "Vincent, I need someone to call Dr. Chen. Tell her it's an emergency consultation."

"Melinda—"

"Do it." My voice cuts through his protest like a scalpel. "This is what I do. This is who I am."

For the next two hours, I become someone I've never been before—a Mastroni woman using violence to save rather than destroy. My medical knowledge, learned in sterile classrooms and pristine hospitals, adapts to this blood-soaked reality with terrifying ease.

The vestry transforms into an operating theater. Votive candles provide supplemental lighting while I work by the glow of smartphone flashlights. Vincent's men hold makeshift retractors while I repair severed arteries with thread stolen from the altar cloth.

"Pressure here," I tell Cara, guiding her hands to the proper position. "Feel that pulse? That's what we're protecting."

She doesn't flinch, doesn't hesitate. Her manicured fingers press exactly where I've shown her, blue eyes focused with laser intensity. "Like this?"

"Perfect." I continue suturing, my movements automatic. "You're a natural at this."

"Maya always said I had potential for violence," Cara says with dark humor. "Guess she was right."

Maya chooses that moment to appear in the doorway, still wearing her bridesmaid dress but now armed with two pistols. "Perimeter's secure. No sign of Marco, but we found four more of his men trying to breach the eastern wall."

"Dead?" Vincent asks without looking up from where he's monitoring vitals on another patient.

"Very." Maya's smile is sharp as broken glass. "Want me to start hunting the bastard down?"

"Not yet." I finish the final suture and step back. "I need to understand how he thinks first."

Max raises an eyebrow. "You barely know him."

"I know enough." I strip off bloodied surgical gloves, my mind already analyzing patterns. "The attack was sloppy. Emotional rather than strategic. Marco's deteriorating mentally—his obsession with Vincent has consumed whatever tactical ability he once had."

Vincent moves closer, his presence both protective and possessive. "What does that tell us?"

"That he's becoming predictable. Obsession creates patterns." I walk to the chapel's windows, studying the damage. "Look at the attack vectors. He focused on disrupting the ceremony rather than eliminating targets efficiently. This was about humiliation, not execution."

"So where does he go next?" Vincent's question is quiet, deadly.

I close my eyes, thinking through the psychology. "Somewhere that holds significance. Somewhere connected to his failures." I open my eyes, certainty crystallizing. "He'll target something personal to you. Your childhood home, your mother's grave, the place where you first outshone him."

Vincent's face goes stone cold. "It could be the warehouse where Dad first put me in charge of an operation."

"How old were you?"

"Sixteen." His jaw clenches. "Marco was supposed to lead, but he fucked up. Dad gave me the job instead."

Max nods grimly. "Do you think that's where he'll be? Making a statement."

“There or the family home,” I say thoughtfully.

"Wherever he is, that’s where we end this." Vincent checks his weapon, reloads. "Melinda, you stay here with security?—"

"Like hell." I'm already moving toward the vestry where my emergency medical kit waits. "If you're walking into Marco's trap, you need someone who can keep you breathing when it goes sideways."

"It's too dangerous?—"

"Vincent." I turn to face him, letting him see the steel in my spine. "I just performed surgery in a fucking chapel while my wedding dress caught fire from votive candles. Dangerous doesn't scare me."

His expression shifts, recognition flickering in those dark eyes. He's seeing me clearly for the first time—not the woman who tried to escape this world, but the one who's learned to wield it like a weapon.

"Together then," he says finally.

"Together." I slip my hand into his, feeling the calluses from years of violence, the strength that's kept him alive. "But we do this smart. Combined security, coordinated strike, no heroic bullshit."

Max moves to my other side, his presence solid and reassuring. "The Mastroni-Russo alliance officially begins with hunting down the bastard who interrupted my sister's wedding."

As we prepare to leave the chapel, I catch my reflection in a shard of broken stained glass. Blood in my hair, surgical precision in my movements, surrounded by armed men who'd die for me. I barely recognize the woman staring back.

Dr. Melinda Mason is gone. In her place stands someone new. A woman who stitches wounds and plans wars with equal skill, who can save lives and take them when necessary.

Marco Russo has no idea what he's unleashed.