Page 40 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

The silence stretches like a death sentence.

I pace the length of our bedroom, phone clutched in my white-knuckled grip, watching the minutes tick past without word from Vincent's team.

Twenty-three minutes since their last check-in. In our world, twenty-three minutes of radio silence might as well be a funeral announcement.

Down the hall, Maria sleeps peacefully in her nursery, three months old and blissfully unaware that her father is out there settling family business with bullets instead of boardroom negotiations.

I've checked on her twice in the last hour, my maternal instincts on high alert even though she's surrounded by enough security to protect a head of state.

"Come on," I whisper to the phone, willing it to ring. "Just fucking answer."

But the device remains silent, mocking my desperation with its black screen.

A sharp pain shoots through my chest—not physical, but the kind of anxiety that makes it hard to breathe.

I stop pacing, press my palm against the wall, and force myself to implement the breathing techniques I've taught countless patients in crisis.

Four counts in through the nose, hold for four, out through the mouth for six.

If I stay calm. What a fucking joke.

The irony isn't lost on me. I'm standing here worrying about my husband's safety while our three-month-old daughter sleeps down the hall, completely dependent on parents who solve problems with violence. Because in this family, that's normal.

My phone buzzes. I lunge for it, desperate for news, but it's just a text from Maya: Any word? Max is climbing the fucking walls.

I type back: Nothing. How long since your last contact?

Thirty minutes. Dad's mobilizing backup crews just in case.

Thirty minutes. Seven more than my silence. The knot in my stomach tightens, and I have to grip the dresser to steady myself.

I scroll through my contacts, finding Tony's direct line. My thumb hovers over the call button. If something's gone wrong, if Vincent needs medical assistance...

But calling means potentially compromising their operation. It means admitting that I can't handle the waiting, can't trust my husband to come home alive from cleaning up his family's mess.

Maria's soft cry echoes through the baby monitor, and I'm moving before conscious thought kicks in. In the nursery, she's stirring in her crib, tiny fists waving as she transitions between sleep cycles. I lift her carefully, her familiar weight grounding me in the present moment.

"Daddy's going to be fine," I whisper against her dark hair. "He's too stubborn to let Uncle Marco win."

That's when I hear it—the rumble of Vincent's armored Mercedes in the driveway below. Relief floods through me so intensely that I nearly collapse, clutching Maria closer as my nervous system registers safety.

He's alive. He's home.

I make it to the window in time to see him climb out of the passenger seat, Tony supporting his weight. Even from three stories up, I can see the blood soaking through his shirt, the careful way he moves that speaks of injury trying to hide itself.

My medical instincts override everything else. I settle Maria back in her crib. She's already drifting back to sleep and I know the nanny will take perfect care of her tonight.

I grab my emergency kit from the closet, cataloging what supplies I'll need based on the visible evidence of trauma.

The elevator seems to take forever. When the doors finally open to reveal Vincent, my heart stops.

His face is granite—carved and cold and absolutely empty. Blood stains his shirt collar, and there's a gash across his left temple that's still seeping. But it's his eyes that terrify me. They're not the eyes of a man who's survived a fight.

They're the eyes of a man who's lost everything.

"Oh my God, Vincent." I guide him toward the living room, professional assessment taking priority over emotional reaction. "Sit down. Let me see."

He complies without argument, which tells me more about his condition than any visible wound could. Vincent Russo doesn't submit to medical care unless he's too damaged to resist.

I strip away his ruined shirt with efficient movements, revealing bruised ribs and a shallow knife wound across his shoulder. The injuries aren't life-threatening, but they're evidence of a fight that got personal.

"Where else?" I ask, hands already probing for hidden damage.

"Nowhere that matters." His voice is hollow, distant. "It's finished, Melinda. It's over."

I pause in my examination, meeting his eyes. "Marco?"

He nods once, sharp and final. "He's dead."

The words hit like a physical blow. Not because I cared about Marco—the bastard tried to kill me and our daughter. But because I can see what it's cost Vincent to end his own brother's life.

"Vincent—"

"Don't." He catches my wrist, not gently. "Don't say you're sorry. Don't say it had to be done. Don't fucking say anything."

I see the grief beneath his anger, the self-loathing he's trying to bury under cold professionalism. In our world, family loyalty is everything—until it becomes the thing that destroys you.

"I need to clean these wounds," I say instead, focusing on what I can fix. "The temple cut needs stitches."

He releases my wrist, settling back into the couch. "Do whatever you need to do."

I work in silence, cleaning blood and debris with antiseptic that makes him hiss between his teeth. The knife wound is clean—defensive, probably from when Marco made his last desperate play. The head injury is messier, but superficial.

"Hold still," I murmur, threading a needle. "This is going to sting."

"Everything stings tonight." But he doesn't move as I begin suturing, his breathing steady despite the pain.

The repetitive motion of stitching calms me, grounds me in the familiar rhythm of healing. This is what I do—I fix what's broken, save what can be saved.

"He was my brother," Vincent says suddenly, voice rough with suppressed emotion.

I don't stop suturing, but my touch gentles. "I know."

"I remember when we were kids. Before Dad turned us into weapons. Marco used to sneak into my room during thunderstorms, scared of the noise." His jaw works, fighting words that want to pour out. "He was different then. Before the violence corrupted him."

"People change." I tie off the final stitch, then move to clean the shoulder wound. "Sometimes they choose to become monsters."

"And sometimes monsters are made by the people who love them." Vincent's eyes meet mine, dark with pain that has nothing to do with physical injury. "My father created Marco's hunger for violence. Fed it, praised it, shaped him into a killer who couldn't stop killing."

"That's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" His laugh is bitter. "I was the heir. The smart one. The strategic one. While I built empires with spreadsheets and negotiations, Marco learned that blood was the only currency Dad truly valued."

I finish cleaning the shoulder wound and reach for butterfly closures. "Your brother made his choices, Vincent. Just like you made yours."

"My choice was putting a bullet through his head."

The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. I've seen Vincent kill before—efficient, calculated, necessary elimination of threats. But this is different. This is family blood on his hands, and it's destroying him from the inside.

"Your choice was protecting your family," I correct, smoothing the bandage over his shoulder. "Marco threatened our daughter. He would have kept escalating until someone died."

Vincent's phone buzzes with an incoming call. He glances at the screen, then answers with clipped efficiency. "Tony."

I can hear the other man's voice through the speaker, reporting the completion of cleanup operations, the elimination of Marco's remaining loyalists, the city's gradual return to calm.

"Good," Vincent says. "Consolidate all territories under direct family control. No independent operators, no loose ends." He pauses. "And Tony? Thank you. For everything."

He hangs up and looks at me, something shifting in his expression.

"It's finished. Really finished. Marco's network is dismantled, his supporters eliminated or converted.

For the first time in three generations, both our families are aligned under leadership that prioritizes stability over expansion. "

I study his face, seeing past the exhaustion to something that might be hope. "What does that mean for us?"

"It means our daughter will inherit a different world than the one we grew up in." Vincent reaches for my hand, thumb tracing over my engagement ring. "Still dangerous. Still requiring strength. But with the possibility of something beyond mere survival."

"What kind of something?"

"Growth. Legitimate expansion. Businesses that don't require body counts." His voice strengthens as he speaks, the cold emptiness giving way to determination. "Marco's vision was about fear and territory. Mine is about building something that lasts."

From down the hall, Maria's soft sounds come through the monitor—not crying, just the gentle noises of a baby settling deeper into sleep. Vincent's expression softens at the sound.

"She's safe now?"

"Completely. Tony doubled security before you left, and I've been monitoring her all night." I lean into his touch, finally allowing myself to feel the relief. "Medical training has its advantages when it comes to staying calm under pressure."

Vincent pulls me closer, careful of his injuries, until I'm curled against his uninjured side. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For bringing this violence into your life, for making you choose between families, for?—"

"Stop." I press my finger to his lips. "I chose you, Vincent. I chose us. Everything else is just details."

I can almost believe that love might be stronger than legacy. That what we've built together—through violence and betrayal and impossible choices—might actually last.

It's probably naive. In our world, hope is a luxury that gets you killed.

But tonight, holding Vincent while our daughter sleeps safely down the hall, I choose hope anyway.

The End