Page 67 of Broken Vows

She convulses around me with a cry that's part pleasure, part surrender. The sensation of her climax triggers my own, and I bury myself deep, claiming her completely as my release tears through me.

Afterward, we collapse together on the rumpled sheets, skin slick with sweat, hearts racing in synchronized rhythm. She curls against my side, head on my chest, her hand tracing idle patterns on my skin.

"Better?" she asks quietly.

"Getting there." I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with sex. "I needed to remember what I'm fighting for."

"And what's that?"

"This. Us. The family we're building." My hand finds her stomach, covering the slight swell where our child grows. "Something worth protecting."

She's quiet for a moment, then lifts her head to meet my eyes. "Vincent, whatever's happening with Marco?—"

"I'll handle it."

"I know you will. But if you can't, if this escalates beyond your control, I want you to know I'm ready to do whatever's necessary to protect our baby."

There's something in her voice, a cold determination that reminds me she's Mastroni blood, raised in the same world of violence that shaped me. The thought should be comforting. Instead, it terrifies me.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm not some helpless civilian anymore. I can't be. The pregnancy has changed everything—my priorities, my willingness to compromise, my tolerance for threats." Her amber eyes burn with fierce resolve. "If Marco won't stop, I'll stop him myself."

"Melinda—"

"I'm serious, Vincent. I've already made arrangements, contingency plans. If this situation deteriorates, I won't wait for family politics to resolve themselves."

My phone buzzes with an urgent message before I can process the full implications of her words. The text is from Tony: URGENT: Surveillance. Need to see immediately.

I reach for the device, dread settling in my stomach like lead weights. The attached images make my blood turn to ice.

Marco. Sitting across from our father in a private dining room.

"Fuck." The word slips out before I can stop it.

"What is it?"

I show her the screen, watching her face pale as she processes the implications.

"My father's been meeting with Marco in secret."

"After you presented evidence of his betrayal?"

"After he promised to consider elimination if I could prove Marco's guilt." I scroll through the images, each one another nail in the coffin of my trust.

"He's playing both sides. Probably has been all along."

I watchher process the implications, eyes narrowing with cold resolve. Then she looks up at me, voice hard and steady.

"Then we’re on our own."

21

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.