Page 48 of Broken Vows

"Proposition," Max says finally. "We share intelligence. Pool security resources. Find out who's really behind this before our soldiers start shooting each other."

"And Melinda?"

"She's safer with combined protection than she is caught between warring families." He drops his cigarette, crushesit under his heel. "Besides, she's carrying my niece. Family protects family."

I extend my hand. His grip is firm, calloused from violence, but steady. An alliance built on a history of deceit and bloodshed between our families.

"If I find out your people were involved—" I begin.

"You won't," he cuts me off. "And if I find out someone in your family orchestrated this..."

"They'll answer to me first."

They’re about to find out why I don’t forgive, and why forgetting isn’t an option.

15

Melinda

I sit ramrod straight in a chair that probably cost more than most people's cars, surrounded by paintings I recognize from art history textbooks.

Half of which supposedly went missing during European museum heists in the nineties.

I’m dining under stolen masterpieces, surrounded by murderers, trying to figure out how to survive long enough to have a baby.

Perfect.

Antonio Russo sits at the head of the mahogany table like a king holding court.

His silver-streaked hair is still immaculate, even at this hour.

Every so often, his eyes bore into mine—dark, sharp, assessing.

Not like a man looking at a woman. Like a predator measuring his next move. Or a banker weighing a high-risk investment.

With men like him, there’s no difference.

"The osso buco is exceptional," he says, slicing his meat with surgical precision. "Francesco outdid himself."

I take a careful bite, chewing slowly while my stomach churns.

The baby’s over rich food lately—another gift from this glowing, magical phase of pregnancy.

"It's delicious," I lie smoothly. "Thanks for having me."

Under the table, Vincent's hand finds mine.

His hand squeezes my knuckles.

It should be comforting.

It’s not.

He’s wound tight beside me, eyes locked on his father and brother like he’s waiting for one of them to draw a knife.

Across from me, Marco lounges like he owns the place—glass of wine in hand, smirk dialed up to full asshole level.

His blue eyes flick to mine, sharp and unbothered.