Page 16 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

We’re here in the prenatal clinic, planning for our baby while also coordinating security against people who want us dead.

It’s pretty damn ironic.

I sit on the examination table in a hospital gown that gaps at the back, acutely aware of Vincent's presence in the corner chair.

He's dressed in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than most people's cars, looking completely out of place among the pastel walls and inspirational posters about motherhood.

"First baby?" The ultrasound technician, a cheerful woman named Rebecca, wheels her equipment closer with a warm smile.

"Yes," I answer, though Vincent and I haven't discussed what story we're telling.

"How exciting! You must be so happy." She glances between us with the kind of assumption that makes my chest tight. "Dad looks nervous. That's totally normal."

Vincent's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. "Just want to make sure everything's progressing normally," he says in that measured tone he uses for business.

Rebecca laughs. "Oh, you're one of those organized dads. I can tell. Probably already have the nursery planned out." She squirts cold gel on my stomach, and I flinch. "Sorry, hon. Always cold. Dad, you want to come closer? You'll get a better view."

I watch Vincent rise from his chair, moving with that predatory grace that never quite leaves him. When he stands beside the table, close enough that I can smell his cologne, my pulse kicks up for reasons that have nothing to do with the appointment.

"There we go," Rebecca murmurs, moving the wand across my abdomen. The monitor crackles to life, showing grainy black and white images that gradually resolve into something recognizable. "There's your baby."

My breath catches. It's real. More real than the positive pregnancy test, more real than the morning sickness or the way my clothes are starting to fit differently. On the screen is a tiny human, curled and perfect, heart beating in a rapid flutter that fills the room.

"Strong heartbeat," Rebecca says approvingly. "One hundred sixty beats per minute. Right where we want to see it at eighteen weeks." She moves the wand, capturing different angles. "Would you like to know the sex?"

I look at Vincent. His face is unreadable, but his hand has moved to grip the back of my chair. "Do you want to know?" I ask him.

"Your choice."

Of course he'd put it on me. I turn back to Rebecca. "Yes. We want to know."

She adjusts the angle, pointing at the screen. "Congratulations. You're having a little girl."

The room goes very quiet. I stare at the monitor, at this tiny person who will inherit both Russo and Mastroni blood, who will grow up in a world where love and violence are often indistinguishable.

"A daughter," Vincent says quietly, and there's something in his voice I've never heard before. Vulnerability, maybe. Or fear.

"She's measuring perfectly for eighteen weeks," Rebecca continues, oblivious to the weight of this moment. "Due date looks good for early March. I'll print some pictures for you to take home."

As she moves around, cleaning gel off my stomach and printing ultrasound photos, Vincent and I don't speak.

We're both processing what this means—not just a baby, but a daughter.

In our world, daughters are protected differently.

Hidden. Used as bargaining chips or weapons depending on the family's needs.

"Here you go," Rebecca hands us a strip of black and white photos. "Your first baby pictures. I bet the grandparents are going to be thrilled."

Vincent takes the photos before I can, studying them with an intensity that makes my stomach clench. Our daughter. Half Russo, half Mastroni. The most dangerous bloodline combination in New York.

"Thank you," I manage, sliding off the table to get dressed.

"I'll see you back in four weeks," Rebecca says cheerfully. "And Dad, don't worry so much. Everything looks perfect."

If only she knew what we're really worried about.

Twenty minutes later, we're in Vincent's armored Mercedes, heading toward the venue for tonight's fundraiser where our engagement will be officially announced. The ultrasound photos sit on the console between us like evidence of something neither of us planned.

"She's going to need a different kind of protection," Vincent says finally, breaking the silence.

"She's going to need to know how to protect herself." I adjust the seatbelt across my lap, hyperaware of the life growing inside me. "I won't raise a victim."

"Good." He glances at me. "Because the announcement tonight changes everything. Once it's public that we're engaged, every family in the city will be watching."

I smooth my hands over the emerald green dress I'm wearing—chosen because it photographs well and hides the slight curve of my stomach. "Maya's bringing Alessandro Lucchesi tonight."

Vincent's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "The Lucchesi heir? Interesting choice."

"Maya doesn't make social calls. If she's bringing him, she's making a statement." I watch Vincent's profile, noting the way his jaw clenches. "She's testing the waters. Seeing how Russo-Mastroni cooperation plays with other families."

"Smart girl. Dangerous, but smart."

"She's my sister. Of course she's dangerous."

We pull up to the entrance where photographers and security create a controlled chaos of flashing lights and careful choreography. Vincent comes around to open my door—a gesture that looks gentlemanly but positions him between me and any potential threats.

"Remember," he murmurs as we walk up the steps, his hand warm at the small of my back, "we're happy. Engaged. In love."

"Right. In love." The words taste strange in my mouth.

Inside, the gala is in full swing. Classical music mingles with the sound of expensive conversation, and I recognize faces from both legitimate society and the shadowy world we actually inhabit.

Vincent guides me through the crowd with practiced ease, introducing me to business associates and politicians who undoubtedly know exactly who we are and what our union represents.

"Melinda Mastroni—doctor, right? What a pleasure," Mayor Davidson says, pumping my hand enthusiastically. "Vincent tells me you're doing incredible work in trauma surgery."

"Thank you, mayor. It's rewarding work." I smile, playing the role of accomplished doctor rather than mobster's daughter.

"And congratulations on your engagement. When's the wedding?"

Vincent's arm tightens around my waist. "We're still planning. Soon, though."

As we move away, I murmur, "Define 'soon.'"

"Soon enough to legitimize the baby. Not so soon it looks forced."

The music shifts to a slower tempo, and couples begin moving toward the dance floor. Vincent extends his hand. "Shall we give them something to photograph?"

I let him lead me onto the floor, acutely aware of how perfectly I fit against him despite the strategic nature of this moment. His hand spans my lower back, fingers splayed possessively, while his other hand engulfs mine. We move together with surprising ease, like we've done this before.

"You're good at this," I observe, letting him guide me through the steps.

"Private school has its advantages." His breath is warm against my ear. "You're not bad yourself."

"Ballet. Eight years." I'm hyperaware of his body against mine, the solid strength of his chest, the way his thumb traces small circles on my back. "Before I decided I wanted to save lives instead of performing."

"Different kind of performance tonight," he says, spinning me expertly.

As we turn, I catch sight of Maya across the room.

She's stunning in black silk, her arm linked with a man I recognize immediately—Alessandro Lucchesi.

Tall, dark-haired, with the kind of Mediterranean good looks that photograph well and hide a razor-sharp mind.

He's watching Vincent and me with calculating interest.

"Your sister's making an entrance," Vincent murmurs, following my gaze.

"Maya always makes an entrance. The question is what she's really doing here."

Alessandro says something to Maya that makes her laugh, but her eyes never leave us. There's something predatory in her smile, the kind that means she's playing chess while everyone else thinks it's checkers.

The song ends, and we separate just enough for appearances. Vincent's hand remains at my back as cameras flash around us—society photographers capturing what they think is a romantic moment between New York's newest power couple.

"Vincent! Melinda!" A voice cuts through the crowd. Alessandro approaches with Maya on his arm, both of them radiating the kind of dangerous charm that makes politicians nervous. "Congratulations on your engagement. Such wonderful news."

"Alessandro." Vincent's voice is cordial but cautious. "I didn't know you were in the city."

"Business brings me here occasionally. And when beautiful Maya invited me to celebrate your happiness, how could I refuse?" His accent adds charm to words that carry weight. "The Lucchesi family is always interested in... new alliances."

Maya's smile sharpens. "Alessandro was just telling me about some mutual interests our families might explore. Trade opportunities."

I feel Vincent's tension increase, though his expression remains pleasant. "Always open to discussing legitimate business ventures."

"Of course. Legitimate." Alessandro's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps we could arrange a meeting. Soon."

"Perhaps." Vincent's non-answer is an art form.

Maya steps closer to me, her voice dropping to sister-soft. "You look radiant, Mel. Engagement suits you."

"Thank you." I study her face, looking for tells. "You look stunning yourself. Black is definitely your color."

"I've always preferred dramatic choices." She glances meaningfully between Vincent and Alessandro. "Life's too short for safe decisions."