Page 17 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Before I can respond, the evening's host approaches with a microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for just a moment."

The crowd quiets, all eyes turning toward us. My stomach clenches as I realize what's coming.

"We're gathered tonight not just to support the arts, but to celebrate new beginnings. Vincent Russo and Melinda Mastroni have honored us by choosing to announce their engagement here tonight."

Applause erupts around us. Camera flashes explode like gunfire, and I force my smile to remain steady. Vincent's arm tightens around me, pulling me closer for the photographers.

"To Vincent and Melinda!" someone shouts, and glasses raise throughout the room.

"Speech!" another voice calls out.

Vincent steps forward slightly, his media training evident. "Thank you all for sharing this moment with us. Melinda and I are looking forward to building our future together." His words are perfectly chosen—intimate enough to seem personal, vague enough to mean nothing.

More applause. More pictures. I feel like a butterfly pinned to a board, displayed for everyone to examine.

"Beautiful couple," Alessandro murmurs to Maya, loud enough for us to hear. "Such an... interesting combination of families."

Maya's laugh has an edge. "The most interesting combinations often produce the most powerful results."

The crowd begins to disperse, returning to conversations and cocktails. Vincent guides me toward a quieter corner, but I can feel eyes following us—as if everyone is trying to sniff out the lie, catch us saying the wrong thing..

"That went well," I say dryly.

"Better than expected. No one tried to kill us."

"The night's still young."

His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining in a gesture that looks romantic but feels like claiming. "Ready to get out of here?"

I nod, suddenly exhausted by the performance. We make our polite goodbyes, accept congratulations, and promise to lunch with people we'll probably never see again. By the time we reach the car, my face hurts from smiling.

The drive to Vincent's penthouse is quiet, both of us processing the evening. The city streams past in a blur of lights and shadows, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.

"Alessandro's interested in more than trade opportunities," I say finally.

"I know. The question is whether Maya's working with him or using him."

"With Maya, it's always both."

Vincent's penthouse feels good after the crowd and cameras. I kick off my heels immediately, flexing my feet against marble that's cool and smooth.

The penthouse is dimly lit, the soft glow from recessed lighting casting long shadows on the gleaming floor. Somewhere outside, the city pulses, oblivious to the shift happening between the two of us now that the ballroom masks are off.

I lean against the cold marble island, letting the silence close in around us—thick with expectation, unspoken need crackling in the air.

My dress clings to me in all the right places, and Vincent hasn't stopped looking at me since we stepped inside.

Not with curiosity.

But with hunger.

Like a man already plotting exactly how he’s going to take what he wants. His jacket comes off first, tossed over the sleek arm of the couch. Then his sleeves rolled up, his watch removed carefully and set down.

“Getting ready for something?” I tease him, adjusting my body to show off my curves.

“Lose the dress. Now. I’ve waited long enough to have you like this.”

I arch a brow. “Bossy tonight.”

Vincent steps forward until he’s in my space, close enough that his breath warms the shell of my ear. “Tonight?” he murmurs. “Always.”

Electricity rolls over my skin as I reach for the hidden zipper at the side of my dress.

The fabric loosens, falls in a whisper to the floor, pooling around my bare feet.

Underneath, I’m wearing lingerie I picked out not for him, but for the image.

Lacy, emerald green to match the gown—but his reaction makes it worth every sheer inch of lace.

His eyes drag down my body like hands. You’d think this was the first time he was seeing me. In some ways, maybe it is.

“Turn around. Let me see all of you.” he says, voice low.

I do, slowly—letting him take his time. I hear the catch of his breath, the shift of his stance. Behind me, his fingers slide along the line of my spine, tracing the clasp of my bra but not undoing it yet. He leans in, mouth brushing my shoulder.

“I watched you all night," he murmurs.

“Smiling at me. Letting them all stare.”

“But you’re only mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I breathe.

His hands move around my waist, fingers splaying across the slight swell of my belly. Instinctively, I cover his hands with mine—his gesture as territorial as it is tender. He brushes a kiss behind my ear, down the curve of my neck, taking his time like he wants to memorize it.

Then something changes.

His mouth turns rougher, open-mouthed kisses dragged along my jaw, down the curve of my throat. One hand cups my breast through lace, his thumb brushing the peak until I gasp; the other slides down, teasing at the edge of my thong.

“Vincent,” I whisper, already breathless.

He turns me around and lifts me onto the island without warning. My thighs part for him automatically. His mouth returns to mine in a kiss that scorches, slow and consuming. His tongue slides against mine, deliberate and sure, and the friction of our clothes becomes unbearable.

He peels the lingerie aside slowly, reverently, exposing me inch by inch like a secret he plans to keep.

Then his mouth follows—lower, over the scar along my side, the hollow below my hip, tasting everywhere but where I want him.

I’m trembling now, nails digging into his shirt as he begins to kiss down my inner thigh.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, lips moving just above the spot I need him most. “Good girl. I’m not done with you yet.”

When his mouth finally finds me, all coherent thought vanishes.

His tongue moves expertly, like he’s studying a subject he intends to master.

Every flick, every tease leaves me gasping, trembling under the weight of sensation.

His hands steady my thighs as I writhe against his mouth—and when he pulls back just enough to murmur, “Beautiful,” I swear I could come from those words alone.

But he doesn’t let me.

Not yet.

He rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes nearly black with desire. “On your knees,” he says.

The command sends a thrill racing through me. I slide off the counter slowly, deliberately, and sink to the floor as he begins undoing his belt—metal clinking, fabric rustling, controlled chaos. I look up at him, heart racing.

The way he watches me—eyes half-lidded, hunger barely restrained—is intoxicating.

I take him in my mouth slowly, savoring the groan he tries to swallow. My hands rest against his thighs, my rhythm maddening, deep and slow. He fists my hair, guiding me, his control slipping as I give him everything without saying a word.

“Fuck—if I don’t take you right now, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.”

He pulls away and hauls me up and spins me around, bending me over the closest surface—his bar counter cold and solid beneath my palms.

"Hold on," he grits out.

His hands grip my hips, positioning me just right. The pause before he pushes in is brief—but it feels like the last breath before a plunge. Then he’s inside me, and it’s brutal, perfect—everything I’ve been needing.

He moves with rhythm and force, each thrust stripping away more of our facades. There’s nothing polished or practiced here—just raw hunger, months of repressed tension now unleashed.

"Is this what you needed?" he murmurs between gritted teeth. "I want to hear you say it"

"I need this."

His grip tightens. My name falls from his mouth like a prayer—or a curse.

Every stroke leaves me teetering on the edge, and when his hand slides around to find the spot that shatters me, I come undone beneath him.

He follows soon after, roaring my name into the hollow of my neck before stilling, muscles tense around me.

We collapse together, breathless.

He thinks he owns me now. Maybe he does.

Later, when we’re tangled on his bed, sheets kicked to the floor and my skin still flushed with heat. Vincent brushes his fingers along the curve of my stomach again—this time with familiarity and calm ownership.

There’s softness in him now. A comfort between us..

“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs.

I turn my face toward him, eyes heavy with sleep and something warmer. “So are we.”

He leans in and kisses me again—this time not bruising, not possessive—just real.

And for tonight, that’s enough.