Page 1 of Bound Vows (Empire City Syndicate #3)

Maya

There’s a reason I never drink red at mafia dinners. It stains too easily.

“To peace,” my brother-in-law says as he raises his glass of Barolo across the pristine white tablecloth.

“To profitable peace,” I correct, because peace without profit is just a fancy word for surrender.

Vincent Russo married my sister Melinda two years ago, which makes him family, whether I like it or not.

Tonight, I like him well enough to keep him alive during his meeting with representatives from the Colombo organization. My older brother Max wanted someone to watch Vincent’s back, and I had drawn the short straw.

“The Colombos should arrive any moment.” Vincent checks his watch—a wedding gift from Melinda that looks like it cost a fortune. “Remember, Maya, we’re here to discuss territorial boundaries, not to start a war.”

“Poster child of diplomacy,” I say. “Unless someone laces your osso buco. Then, I get stabby.”

The restaurant is filled with patrons who have no idea they’re dining next to one of the biggest crime families in New York.

At least we have a separate room off to the side so we can conduct business in private.

The ma?tre d’ knows better than to ask questions when men like Vincent book private dining rooms.

“Your sister would kill me if she knew I brought you along.”

“My sister is busy growing tiny humans. She doesn’t have time to supervise me.” I take another sip of wine, savoring the sweetness. “Besides, someone needs to make sure you don’t get yourself murdered before you can give her more babies.”

Vincent’s mouth twitches upward. “How generous of you.”

“I live to serve.” I gesture around the dining room with my butter knife. “Though I have to ask—why here? The Colombos prefer their own establishments.”

“Lorenzo Colombo made the suggestion. Said he wanted neutral ground for preliminary discussions.”

Something about that doesn’t sit right with me, but I can’t put my finger on what.

The Colombos have been allies for three generations.

Their territory borders ours in Queens, and we’ve maintained peaceful coexistence through carefully negotiated agreements that benefit everyone involved. Why would we need neutral ground?

“When did territorial boundaries become complicated enough to require face-to-face meetings?” I ask.

“When someone started moving product through their neighborhoods without permission,” Vincent replies. “Lorenzo thinks it might be connected to the Russians.”

I pause my piece of bread halfway to my mouth. “Which Russians?”

“The ones who’ve been making noise about expanding into Italian territories. Same group that’s been hitting family businesses in Brooklyn.” Vincent gives me an oddly concerned look before adding, “We think it’s the same crew that jumped you outside that nightclub.”

The memory slams into me like a punch to the gut. Wet streets. Screams. Blood on my blade. That night feels like yesterday, not six months ago.

“Maya?” Vincent’s voice cuts through my mental replay. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just remembering something unpleasant.” I set down my roll and reach for my wine glass. “Tell me about these Russians. What do we know?”

“Not much. They’re organized, well-funded, and smart enough to avoid confrontation with established families. Until recently.”

“‘Recently’ meaning…”

“Three hits in the past month. All on Italian family operations. All professional.” The muscle in Vincent’s jaw ticks. “Max thinks they’re testing our responses.”

The dining room door opens, and three men enter wearing the kind of suits that whisper money and menace in equal measure. I recognize Lorenzo Colombo immediately—silver hair, patrician features, and the bearing of a man who’s been giving orders since before I was born.

The two men flanking him are unfamiliar, which puts me on edge. Business meetings don’t include strangers unless someone is planning something.

“Vincent.” Lorenzo approaches our table with a smile that looks anything but genuine. “Thank you for meeting on such short notice.”

Vincent stands to shake hands, and I remain seated because standing shows deference I haven’t earned. “Lorenzo. I wasn’t expecting additional guests.”

“Forgive me. These are associates from out of town. They have interests in the matters we’ll be discussing.”

The taller of the two men has a scar that runs from his left ear to the corner of his mouth.

It’s the kind of mark that comes from someone who fights dirty and lives to tell about it.

His companion keeps his hands visible but relaxed, which tells me he’s carrying and comfortable using whatever he’s hiding.

“Maya Mastroni.” Lorenzo nods in my direction. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“All good things, I hope.” I take another sip of wine and let my gaze drift over his companions. “Though I don’t believe we’ve been introduced to your friends.”

“Business associates,” Lorenzo repeats before settling into the chair across from Vincent. “Shall we order? I understand the veal here is exceptional.”

The scarred man positions himself to watch both entrances while his partner takes the seat with the best view of the kitchen. Professional positioning. These aren’t random business associates; they’re security, which means Lorenzo expects trouble.

Or plans to cause it.

“Vincent was just telling me about the territorial issues in Queens.” I keep my tone conversational as my right hand drifts toward the knife strapped to my thigh. “Apparently, someone’s been conducting unauthorized business in your neighborhoods.”

“Yes, unfortunate situation.” Lorenzo signals the waiter. “Though perhaps we can resolve these matters through cooperation.”

“Cooperation usually requires trust,” Vincent points out. “Hard to build trust when people bring armed strangers to dinner.”

The temperature in the room drops several degrees. Lorenzo’s friends adjust in their seats, and I catch the telltale bulge of shoulder holsters beneath their jackets.

“I assure you, any precautions are purely?—”

The scarred man moves first, lunging toward Vincent with a wire garrote. His partner draws a pistol from his waistband as Lorenzo scrambles backward, overturning his chair.

Amateur mistake—they should have secured me first.

I come up from my seat with my blade already in hand and drive it upward into the gunman’s wrist before he can aim. Bone cracks, and his weapon clatters across the marble floor. Vincent tackles the scarred man, sending them both crashing into the dessert cart.

The third assassin—because that’s what this is, an assassination attempt masquerading as a business dinner—emerges from the kitchen. Young, dark hair, and wearing chef’s whites that don’t hide the tactical vest underneath.

“Professional setup,” I call to Vincent while dodging a wild swing from my wounded opponent. “Someone paid good money for this.”

Vincent grunts his acknowledgment while struggling to keep the piano wire from crushing his windpipe. The scarred man has training, but Vincent has desperation and a pregnant wife waiting at home.

I solve my immediate problem by opening the gunman’s throat with a lateral slice that sends arterial spray across the white tablecloth. He drops, clutching his neck as life pumps out between his fingers.

The kitchen assassin raises his weapon toward Vincent, and I throw my backup blade with an accuracy that comes from years of practice. Steel bites deep between his shoulder blades, and he pitches forward onto the marble with a thud.

Vincent finally gains leverage against the wire and drives his elbow backward into his attacker’s solar plexus. The scarred man’s grip loosens, and Vincent spins to deliver a killing blow with the butter knife.

Improvisation at its finest.

“Rude,” I mutter, wiping blood off my blade. “We hadn’t even ordered.”

Vincent straightens his tie like he hadn’t just dodged death thirty seconds ago. “Your sister is going to kill me if she finds out you were here when this happened.”

“My sister married you, knowing what kind of life you lead.” I step over the body of the gunman, noting the quality of his shoes and the fresh manicure on his fingernails. “Besides, she’s too busy being pregnant and domestic to worry about little old me.”

The dining room has emptied except for us and three cooling corpses. The other patrons vanished the moment shooting started, smart people who understand that survival means selective blindness.

I crouch beside the scarred man to study his features. Something about his face tugs at my memory like a word dancing just beyond recall.

“Vincent.” I tilt the dead man’s head toward the overhead lighting. “This one looks familiar.”

My brother-in-law joins me, frowning down at the corpse. “You know him?”

“Not personally. But I’ve seen that scar.” The memory crystallizes with sudden clarity, and I suck in a gasp. “He was one of the men who tried to kill me outside that nightclub six months ago.”

“The Russians you mentioned?”

“Same organization. Same scar.” I stand and brush imaginary dust from my dress. “Which means someone’s been planning this for a long time.”

Vincent pulls out his phone. “Max needs to know they’re targeting family members directly?—”

“They’re not just targeting us.” I gesture toward Lorenzo’s body, crumpled behind an overturned chair with a bullet hole in his chest. “They’re working with our allies. He brought Russians to kill you, but they weren’t expecting me to be here.”

“So, what was the plan?”

“Lorenzo kills you during dinner and claims self-defense when Max asks questions. Says you attacked first, maybe tried to force new territorial agreements.” I walk toward the kitchen, stepping carefully around pools of blood while searching for additional threats.

“But why would Colombo care about our alliance?” he asks, following me.

“They want Max to lose faith in our alliance, think partnering with the Russos brings nothing but trouble. United families are harder to pick off. Someone wants us weak and divided, and they convinced Lorenzo to turn on us for it.”

The kitchen is empty except for the staff cowering in the walk-in freezer. No additional assassins.

“Maya.” Vincent’s voice carries a rough tone that makes me turn. “We have company.”

Through the restaurant’s front windows, we see black SUVs pull up to the curb. Familiar vehicles, judging by the way they position themselves for rapid departure.

“Cavalry’s here.” I return to the dining room just as my brother kicks through the front door with enough force to rattle the windows.

Max Mastroni fills the doorway like an avenging angel. Behind him, four of our best soldiers fan out to secure the building.

My older brother has always been larger than life—six-foot-two of muscle and intimidation wrapped in custom Italian tailoring.

He’s the head of our family now, the one who makes the final decisions and bears the weight of keeping us all alive in an increasingly dangerous world.

Max inherited control when our father stepped back to oversee operations from Boston, and he’s proven more than capable of leading the Mastroni empire.

His marriage to Cara has softened some of his harder edges, but not the ones that matter. He still commands respect through strategic brilliance and the kind of controlled violence that makes grown men reconsider their life choices. When Max walks into a room, smart people pay attention.

Tonight, he looks particularly dangerous.

“Status,” Max demands as he sweeps his gaze over the carnage before settling on me.

“Three dead Russians working with Colombo. Vincent’s intact. I’m intact. Lorenzo Colombo is ventilated.” I kick the scarred man’s body for emphasis. “Must’ve gotten caught in the crossfire. Same organization that tried to kill me six months ago.”

The darkness that settles over Max’s face makes even me take a step back. “You’re positive?”

“Absolutely. This one wore his scar like a calling card.” I pull out my phone and snap photos of each body. “Someone convinced Lorenzo to turn on us.”

“Or they’ve got something on him that they used to force his hand.” Max approaches the scarred corpse and squats to get a better look. “Either way, this was a message.”

“What kind of message?” Vincent asks.

“The kind that says they’re done playing games.” Max straightens and then turns to the men he brought with him. “Clean this up. Grease the authorities. You know the drill.”

My brother has always been good at damage control, turning disasters into opportunities and spinning tragedies into strategic advantages. It’s one of the reasons our family has thrived under his leadership while other organizations crumble under pressure from law enforcement and rival factions.

The Mastroni name carries weight in this city, and Max has worked tirelessly to ensure that weight crushes our enemies and protects our allies. He understands that power without wisdom leads to extinction, and wisdom without power leads to irrelevance.

“And then?” I ask.

“Then we find out who’s behind this before anyone else ends up dead.”

I slide my blade back into its sheath, already thinking ahead to the research I’ll need to do tonight. Somewhere in the city, someone is planning our destruction, but they made one mistake tonight. They left a witness who recognizes their work.

That mistake is going to cost them everything.