Page 11 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

I take a deep breath and open the bathroom door, releasing a cloud of steam into the cooler bedroom air.

The sudden temperature change raises goosebumps across my skin. I step into the bedroom, my wet hair dripping onto my shoulders, leaving damp spots on the white towel.

My toes sink into the plush bedroom carpet, towel barely holding on, and then I freeze.

Vince is standing there. Casually on his phone in the bedroom. Shirt undone. Tie loose. Eyes locked on me.

He stops when he sees me, his dark eyes traveling the length of my body in a way that makes my skin heat despite the chill.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just stare at each other, tension crackling between us.

I’m barely dressed. In his space. At his mercy.

But I don’t feel afraid. I feel... alive. Like I did that night.

He steps closer. Slow. Like he’s giving me time to run. I don’t.

His eyes never leave mine as he closes the distance between us, and I find myself unable to move, rooted to the spot by something stronger than fear or caution.

"You should be resting," he says, his voice low and rough.

"I'm not tired," I reply, surprised by the steadiness in my own voice.

He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne mingled with the faint metallic scent of gunpowder that still clings to him. Close enough that I can see the fine lines around his eyes, the day's stubble darkening his jaw, the pulse beating steadily at the base of his throat.

"Vincent," I begin, though I have no idea what I intend to say.

He doesn't let me finish. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, surprisingly gentle for a man who killed three people less than two hours ago. His thumb presses against my lower lip.

“You look at me like you want to be fucked against that wall.”

He leans in closer, voice low.

“Is that it, Melinda?”

I don’t answer. I just tilt my head, closing the last inch between us.

His hand slips from my mouth to my throat, light but commanding.

“Still not answering.”

I swallow hard. “What if I said yes?”

“Then I’m taking what’s mine.”

His fingers find the knot in the towel. He tugs, slow at first, eyes locked on mine. The fabric loosens.

I don’t stop him.

“Say the word, Melinda.”

"Yes," I whisper my answer.

The towel falls away, pooling at my feet. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel powerful as I watch his eyes darken at the sight of me.

Pregnancy has barely changed my body—a slight fullness to my breasts, perhaps, a new softness to my belly that only medical eyes would notice.

"Beautiful," Vincent murmurs, his hands skimming up my sides, over my ribs, to cup my breasts. His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I arch into his touch, suddenly desperate for more contact, more pressure, more of him.

"You're trembling," he observes, his hands steadying me.

"It's been months," I admit. "I haven't... there's been no one else."

"Good," he says, possessiveness flashing in his eyes. "There better not be anyone else."

He lowers his head, his mouth replacing his fingers on my breast. I gasp as his tongue circles my nipple, teasing it to a hard peak before he draws it into his mouth, sucking gently.

His hands move to my hips, holding me steady as my knees threaten to buckle under the sensation.

My fingers thread through his hair, holding him against me as his attention shifts to my other breast, giving it the same thorough treatment.

"God, I've missed the taste of you," he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot and moist. His teeth graze my nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to my core.

I reach for the buttons of his shirt, my fingers fumbling in their haste.

He helps me, shrugging out of the expensive fabric and letting it fall carelessly to the floor.

His undershirt follows, revealing the muscled chest I remember from that night months ago.

The same chest that pressed me into the concrete floor of the parking garage, shielding me from bullets meant to end both our lives.

My hands explore him greedily, tracing the contours of his shoulders, the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen.

I find scars I don't remember—a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone, a thin knife slash across his ribs, the evidence of a life lived dangerously.

Each mark tells a story of survival, of the man who now stands before me, offering protection in exchange for possession.

Vincent's hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my breasts, skimming down my back to cup my ass and pull me hard against him.

I can feel his arousal through his pants, insistent and promising.

His mouth finds mine again, the kiss deep and consuming, stealing my breath and my thoughts in equal measure.

He lifts me suddenly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me into the bedroom. The sheets are cool against my back as he lays me down, his body covering mine, solid and warm. He pulls back just enough to look down at me, his eyes tracing every inch of my exposed skin.

"I want to taste every inch of you," he says, his voice rough with desire.

Before I can respond, he's moving down my body, his mouth leaving a trail of hot kisses along my neck, across my collarbone, between my breasts.

His tongue traces circles around my navel, dipping briefly inside before continuing lower.

My breath catches as he settles between my thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them wider apart.

He looks up at me, his dark eyes holding mine as he places a kiss on the inside of my thigh, then another, moving slowly inward. The anticipation is almost unbearable, my hips shifting restlessly against the sheets.

"Vincent, please," I whisper, my voice breaking with need.

He smiles, a breathtaking curve of his lips that sends heat pooling between my legs. "Shhh," he murmurs, his breath teasing my sensitive flesh. "Good things come to those who wait."

His hands slide under my hips, lifting me slightly as his mouth finally, finally makes contact where I need him most. I cry out at the first touch of his tongue, my back arching off the bed. He takes his time, exploring thoroughly, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me moan.

"I love the sounds you make. It turns me on more than anything."

When he finally focuses his attention on the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center, I'm already so close to the edge that it takes only moments before pleasure crashes over me in waves.

My hands fist in the sheets, my body trembling as he teases me through the climax, not relenting until I'm pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive and overwhelmed.

He moves back up my body, his expression smug and satisfied.

"Don't tease me," I breathe, my hips shifting toward his touch.

"But you look so fucking beautiful when you're desperate for me."

I can taste myself on his lips when he kisses me, and it ignites something primal inside me. I push against his chest, and he allows himself to be rolled onto his back, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"My turn," I tell him, straddling his hips.

His hands come to rest on my thighs, his thumbs tracing circles on my skin.

I can feel him hard beneath me, still constrained by his pants.

I reach for his belt, unfastening it slowly, deliberately teasing him as he teased me.

The zipper follows, and then I'm slipping my hand inside, wrapping my fingers around him, feeling him pulse against my palm.

Vincent's breath hisses between his teeth, his head pressing back into the pillows as I stroke him through the thin fabric of his underwear. I slide down his body, removing the last barriers between us before settling back across his thighs.

I take my time exploring him with my hands and mouth, learning the texture of his skin, the weight of him against my tongue.

"Fuck, yes. Just like that. You're so good at this, so fucking perfect."

I pull away, smirking. “Shhh,” I tease him. “Good things come to those who wait.”

"Cocky, aren't you?"

His hands tangle in my hair, not guiding, just connecting as I set a rhythm that has him groaning low in his throat.

"Enough," he says finally, his voice strained. He pulls me up his body, rolling us so that I'm beneath him again. "I need to be inside you."

I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him closer. "Yes," I breathe. "Now."

He positions himself at my entrance, his eyes locked with mine as he pushes inside me with one smooth thrust. We both freeze at the sensation, overwhelmed by the perfect fit, the rightness of it despite everything wrong about our situation.

I feel stretched and full and complete in a way I hadn't remembered, hadn't allowed myself to remember.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "I've thought about this every night."

"Just thinking?" I tease, rolling my hips to make him groan. "I've been dreaming about it."

The admission slips out before I can stop it, more truth than I intended to reveal. But Vincent's smile in response is worth the vulnerability—a flash of genuine pleasure in eyes that usually calculate rather than feel.

He begins to move then, each thrust slow and deliberate, designed to drive me to the edge of pleasure.

I meet him motion for motion, my nails digging into his back, marking him as I did that first night.

The rhythm builds between us, familiar yet new, a dance we both remember but are rediscovering with fresh urgency.

"I want to see you," he says suddenly, rolling us again so that I'm on top, straddling him.

The new position allows him to sink even deeper inside me, hitting places that make stars burst behind my eyelids.

"Just like that. Fuck, Melinda, you're going to make me lose my mind."

His hands grasp my hips, guiding my movements as I begin to ride him, finding a rhythm that has us both gasping. He sits up, the change in angle making me cry out as he hits exactly the right spot with each thrust.

His mouth finds my breast again, sucking and teasing as his hand slides between us, his thumb circling where we're joined. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pushing me rapidly toward another climax.

"Vincent," I gasp, my movements becoming erratic as pleasure builds. "I'm close. Yes, fuck, yes. Don't stop, Vincent. Please don't stop."

"Let go," he murmurs against my skin. "I want to feel you come around me."

His words push me over the edge. The climax tears through me, more intense than the first, leaving me shaking and incoherent. Vincent holds me tight as my body clenches around him, his own control clearly fraying as his thrusts become more urgent, less controlled.

He flips us again, driving into me with renewed intensity. I wrap my legs high around his waist, changing the angle so that each thrust sends aftershocks of pleasure through my oversensitive body. His rhythm falters, and I know he's close.

"I want it," I whisper, my lips against his ear. "I want to feel you fill me up."

That's all it takes. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside me, his release triggering a second, smaller wave of pleasure that leaves me trembling and spent.

We collapse together, sweat-slicked and breathing hard. He rolls to the side, bringing me with him so that we're facing each other, my leg draped over his hip, our bodies still joined. His hand strokes my back in lazy patterns, soothing and possessive at once.

"That was—" I begin, searching for words adequate to describe what just happened between us.

"Yeah," he agrees, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

We lie in silence for a while, the city humming beyond the windows. I should feel guilty, compromised, weak. Instead, I feel oddly settled, like a piece of a puzzle clicking into place. Vincent's hand strokes my hair absently.

"There's something I want to show you," he says, reaching into the nightstand drawer. He pulls out a small velvet box and opens it to reveal a ring—a perfect solitaire diamond surrounded by smaller stones, clearly vintage, clearly priceless.

"It was my mother's," he says quietly. "And her mother's before that. Four generations of Russo wives have worn this ring."

I stare at it, understanding the significance. This isn't just jewelry. It's legacy, history, belonging.

"Vincent—" I start, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm not asking you to love me," he says, his voice carefully controlled. "I'm asking you to trust me. To let me protect you and our child. To build something together that's stronger than either of our families alone."

The ring catches the light from the bedside lamp, throwing tiny rainbows across the ceiling. It's beautiful and ancient and everything I never thought I wanted.

"If I say yes," I whisper, "there's no going back. You know that, right? Once I'm Vincent Russo's wife, I'll never just be Melinda again."

"You'll be more than Melinda. You'll be family," he replies, his voice steady and sure.

Family. The word carries weight in our world, promises and obligations that bind tighter than any legal contract. But it also means protection, belonging, never being alone.

I think about the shooters in the garage, the professional way they tried to end my life. I think about my baby—our baby—growing inside me, innocent and vulnerable. I think about my friend Elena's words: maybe it's time to accept help, even with strings attached.

"Ask me again, as if it’s real," I say finally.

Vincent sits up, taking the ring from the box. His hands are steady, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the carefully controlled hope in his eyes.

"Melinda Mastroni," he says formally, "will you marry me?"

I look at him—this dangerous, complicated man who's offering me everything I never knew I wanted. The father of my child. My enemy. My salvation.

"Yes," I whisper.

The ring slides onto my finger like it was made for me. Maybe it was. Maybe this was always inevitable, written in blood and bullets long before we met.

Vincent kisses me then, soft and gentle, sealing a deal that will change everything. When we break apart, I'm wearing his mother's ring and carrying his child, bound to him in ways that go deeper than law or contract.

"No regrets?" he asks.

I consider this, testing the ring on my finger. "Ask me in thirty years," I reply with a small smile.

He laughs, pulling me close again.