Page 15 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

The Palazzo feels different when you're about to betray everything your father taught you about loyalty.

I sit across from Antonio Russo in his private dining room, watching him slice into his perfectly prepared food with practiced ease.

Each cut is deliberate, controlled—the way he approaches everything in life. The way he's taught me to approach everything in life.

"The Dover sole is excellent today," he says without looking up. "Francesco outdid himself."

I haven't touched my food. My stomach churns with something that might be nerves if I were anyone else. But Vincent Russo doesn't get nervous. Vincent Russo makes strategic decisions and executes them flawlessly.

"I'm marrying Melinda Mastroni."

His knife pauses mid-cut. For exactly three seconds, the only sound in the room is the soft tick of his antique Patek Philippe watch. Then he continues slicing, each movement now carrying an edge of violence barely contained.

"Interesting." His voice remains conversational. "And when did you decide this?"

"After the gala."

"Without consulting me." Still cutting. Still calm. But I know that tone. I've heard it before men disappeared forever.

"It's a strategic alliance," I continue, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Access to their pharmaceutical networks, legitimate medical connections, clean money streams we've never been able to touch."

He sets down his knife and finally looks at me. Those dark eyes—the same ones I inherited—hold the kind of cold fury that's destroyed empires. "You want to explain to me how fucking the enemy's daughter advances our interests?"

"She's pregnant."

The words hang in the air like smoke from a discharged weapon. Antonio's expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. Calculation replacing rage. Numbers running through his head.

"Yours?"

"Yes."

He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying me like I'm a problem that needs solving. "A Russo-Mastroni heir." The words roll off his tongue, testing their weight. "How... convenient."

"It wasn't planned."

"Wasn't it?" His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "You expect me to believe my Harvard-educated son accidentally knocked up the one woman in New York who could give us access to every Mastroni operation? You expect me to believe in coincidence?"

Heat flashes through my chest, but I keep my voice level. "I expect you to see the opportunity."

"Or the trap." He picks up his wine glass, swirls the burgundy liquid like blood. "The Mastronis aren't known for their generosity, Vincent. They don't give gifts. They set snares."

"She didn't know who I was that night."

"So you say." He takes a sip, savoring it. "But Melinda Mastroni is no innocent. She's been trained since birth to recognize threats and opportunities. Just like you."

I lean forward, keeping my voice low. "The pharmaceutical expansion we've been planning for three years—this gives us instant access. Clean laboratories, medical licenses, distribution networks already in place. It's worth billions in legitimate revenue."

"And if she's playing you?"

"Then we play better."

Antonio laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You sound like your mother. She always believed she could outsmart the game instead of controlling it." His expression hardens. "Look how that ended."

The comparison hits like a physical blow. My mother died because she trusted the wrong person, because she let emotion cloud her judgment. The lesson has been beaten into me since I was ten years old.

"This isn't emotion," I say, though even as the words leave my mouth, I'm not entirely sure they're true. "This is business."

"Is it?" He sets down his glass with deliberate precision. "Then you won't mind submitting to paternity verification. Medical documentation. Proof that this child is legitimate and this marriage serves our interests rather than theirs."

"Done."

"And if I decide the risk outweighs the benefit?"

I meet his stare without flinching. "Then you'll be making a mistake."

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Antonio's smile disappears entirely, replaced by the expression that's made grown men piss themselves in terror.

"Careful, Vincent. You're my son, but you're not irreplaceable."

"Neither are you."

The words slip out before I can stop them. For a moment, we stare at each other across the table—two predators calculating whether the other is prey or threat. Then his phone buzzes with an incoming call.

He glances at the screen, frowns. "Salvatore. This better be important." He answers with sharp Italian. "Cosa c'è?"

I watch his face change as he listens. The controlled anger gives way to something darker, more dangerous. When he hangs up, his eyes are black as coal.

"Tommaso Benedetti is dead."

The name hits me like ice water. Benedetti has been one of our most trusted captains for fifteen years. A made man who's never given us reason to doubt his loyalty.

"How?"

"Three bullets to the head, execution style. Found in his car outside a restaurant in Little Italy." Antonio's voice is flat, deadly. "With a Mastroni family crest carved into his forehead."

Fuck. I run calculations in my head, trying to process the implications. "That's too clean. Too obvious."

"You think this is a setup?"

"I think someone wants us to believe the Mastronis ordered a hit on the same day I announce my engagement to their daughter." I lean back, mind racing. "The timing is too perfect."

Antonio stands, moving to the window that overlooks his private garden. "Perhaps. Or perhaps your new bride's family is sending a message about the terms of this alliance."

"No." I'm certain of this, though I can't entirely explain why. "Max Mastroni is many things, but he's not stupid. He wouldn't order a hit that obvious unless he wanted war."

"Maybe he does want war. Maybe this marriage proposal was just a way to get us to lower our guard."

"Then why agree to it? Why not just refuse and maintain the status quo?"

Antonio turns back to me, and I see the moment he makes his decision. "Salvatore is mobilizing our crews. We hit back tonight—three Mastroni soldiers, minimum. Send a message that we don't tolerate disrespect."

"No." I stand as well, keeping my voice calm despite the urgency I feel. "Give me twenty-four hours to investigate. If this is a frame job, retaliation will start a war we're not ready for."

"And if it's not?"

"Then we respond with overwhelming force. But intelligently. Strategically." I move closer, letting him see the steel in my eyes. "You taught me that emotion is weakness. Don't let anger cloud your judgment now."

For a long moment, he studies my face. I can see him weighing options, calculating risks. Finally, he nods.

"Twenty-four hours. But Vincent—if you're wrong about this, if you're being played by that Mastroni bitch, the consequences will be severe."

"Understood."

He returns to his seat, picks up his knife and fork. "Now sit down and finish your lunch. We still have business to discuss."

I remain standing. "Actually, I have somewhere I need to be."

His eyes narrow. "Where?"

"To pay respects to someone who understood the cost of family loyalty."

***

The cemetery is quiet in the late afternoon, shadows stretching long between marble headstones.

I walk the familiar path to my mother's grave, carrying white lilies—her favorite flowers. The headstone is simple, elegant: "Alessandra Romano Russo. Beloved Wife and Mother."

No mention of how she died. No acknowledgment of the blood that bought this peaceful resting place.

I kneel, placing the flowers against the stone. "Ciao, Mamma."

The words feel strange in my mouth. I haven't spoken to her grave in years, haven't allowed myself the vulnerability of grief.

But today, with my mother's ring on Melinda's finger and lies piling up like bodies, I need... something. Absolution, maybe. Or just the pretense that someone, somewhere, might understand the choices I'm making.

"I gave her your ring," I say quietly. "The woman I'm marrying. I told myself it was just business, just another strategic move. But..."

I trail off, staring at the inscription. Alessandra Romano. She kept her maiden name even after marrying into our family, a small rebellion my father allowed because he loved her. Because love made him weak.

"She's not what I expected. Melinda. She's carrying my child, and I should see her as an asset, a useful alliance. Instead..."

Instead, I think about the way she looked at me in that corridor—like she wanted to kill me and save me in equal measure. I think about her voice when she told me about the baby, defiant and terrified and absolutely refusing to beg for my protection.

"I'm becoming like you, aren't I? Caring about things that could get me killed."

The wind rustles through the trees, carrying the scent of jasmine and earth. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolls the hour. Time is running out for the decision I've already made.

My phone buzzes with a text message.

Tony: Need to see you. Urgent. Sending photos.

The attached images make my blood run cold. Marco, my brother, sitting across from Salvatore Perezzi in what looks like a private dining room. Time stamp from this morning—hours before Benedetti's body was discovered.

Another image: Marco shaking hands with a man I recognize as one of the Perezzi family's top enforcers.

A third: Marco walking away from the meeting, checking his phone.

The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. The too-convenient timing of Benedetti's murder. The obvious Mastroni signature. The way Marco has been pushing for more aggressive action against our rivals.

My own brother is working against us.