Page 18 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

I wake to the sound of papers rustling and the soft scratch of pen against paper.

Sunlight filters through the bulletproof glass of my penthouse, casting everything in that gray-gold hue that makes the city look almost peaceful.

Almost.

Melinda sits at my dining table wearing one of my dress shirts, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a messy knot. The engagement ring catches the light as she moves, my mother's diamond looking right at home on her finger.

Spread across the mahogany surface are architectural blueprints, security schematics, and what looks like a detailed tactical analysis written in her precise medical handwriting.

"You're up early," I say, padding to the kitchen in nothing but boxers. The coffee maker is already brewing—she's been awake for a while.

"Couldn't sleep." She doesn't look up from her work. "Your security plans for the new house are shit."

I pour two cups of coffee, adding cream to hers the way I remember from that morning after the warehouse. "Enlighten me."

She finally meets my eyes, and there's something aggressive in her expression that makes my pulse quicken.

"You've got blind spots here, here, and here.

" Her pen taps three locations on the blueprint.

"Single points of failure in your perimeter defense.

Anyone with basic tactical knowledge could exploit them. "

I set her coffee down and lean over her shoulder, studying the marks she's made. Her analysis is thorough, professional, devastating in its accuracy. "How the fuck do you know this?"

"I'm not just a pretty face with a medical degree, Vincent.

" Her voice carries an edge I haven't heard before.

"Someone had to handle security planning for Mastroni properties.

Max was too busy breaking kneecaps, Maya was too impulsive, and my father.

.." She shrugs. "He believed his eldest daughter should understand every aspect of family business. "

She says it calm, sharp. Not a trace of fear. Yeah—that’s the part of her I want more of."Show me," I say.

She spreads out additional papers, revealing detailed floor plans, escape routes, sight lines for snipers.

"Your main entrance funnels attackers into a kill zone, but you've got no secondary extraction if the primary route is compromised.

These windows"—she circles several locations—"provide perfect vantage points for long-range elimination, but no counter-sniper positions. "

I study her notations, each one revealing vulnerabilities I missed. My architects are good, but they think like builders, not killers. Melinda thinks like both.

"The nursery," she continues, voice softening slightly, "needs to be in the center of the house. Armored walls, independent ventilation system, panic room access. If someone comes for our daughter, they'll have to go through everything else first."

Our daughter. The words hit differently now, more real than the ultrasound photos tucked in my wallet. I reach for her hand, thumb tracing the engagement ring. "You're full of surprises."

"I'm full of secrets," she corrects. "There's a difference."

My phone buzzes with an incoming call. Marco's name flashes on the screen, and my jaw tightens automatically. "I need to take this."

"Vincent." Marco's voice is sugar-sweet venom. "We need to talk. Now."

"I'm busy."

"Too busy for family? That's interesting, considering the rumors floating around." His tone sharpens. "Meet me at the office. One hour."

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, already anticipating threats and responses. Marco only calls when he wants blood.

"Trouble?" Melinda asks.

"My brother." I drain my coffee, already moving toward the bedroom to get dressed. "He's obviously heard about us."

"And?"

I pause in the doorway, taking in the sight of her surrounded by tactical plans, wedding ring catching the light, my shirt hanging off her shoulders like a claim. "And Marco doesn't approve of the family mixing with Mastronis."

"Fuck what he approves of." Fire flashes in her amber eyes. "You're not his property."

"No," I agree, pulling on a charcoal suit. "But family politics are complicated. Marco's been gunning for my position since we were teenagers. This gives him ammunition."

She stands, crossing to me with that assertive grace I'm learning to recognize. Her hands smooth my tie, fingers lingering at my throat. "Be careful. Men like Marco—they escalate when they feel threatened."

"I can handle my brother."

"Can you?" She looks up at me, expression serious. "Because from what I know about him, Marco doesn't handle rejection well. And he definitely doesn't handle being upstaged."

I cup her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "Worried about me, Dr. Mason?"

"Worried about our daughter." But her eyes say something different. "If something happens to you, Vincent..."

"Nothing's going to happen to me." I kiss her forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with morning coffee. "Stay here. One of the guys will be outside if you need anything."

"I'm not helpless."

"I know. But humor me."

The Russo Enterprises building buzzes with its usual controlled chaos—legitimate business masking the real operations running beneath. I take the private elevator to the executive floor, my security team flanking me like shadows. Whatever Marco wants, it won't be pleasant.

I find him in my office, feet propped on my desk, smoking a cigarette despite the no-smoking policy. He's wearing a perfectly tailored suit that can't quite hide the violence coiled beneath his skin.

"Brother." He doesn't stand when I enter. "Congratulations on your engagement. Though I have to say, your taste in women is... questionable."

"Get your feet off my desk."

He grins, slow and dangerous. "Touchy. Must be the pregnancy hormones. Tell me, does she puke when she sucks your cock, or is that just when she thinks about what kind of family she's marrying into?"

The insult hits like a physical blow. I move before conscious thought takes over, crossing the room in three strides, hauling Marco out of my chair by his lapels. The cigarette falls to the expensive carpet, smoldering.

"Watch your fucking mouth," I growl, slamming him against the floor-to-ceiling window.

He laughs, unphased by the sixty-story drop behind the glass. "There he is. The real Vincent. Not the polished businessman you pretend to be for Daddy."

"What do you want, Marco?"

"I want to understand how my brother—the heir apparent, the golden boy—decides to fuck the enemy and call it love." His blue eyes glitter with malice. "Did you think you could play house with a Mastroni whore and expect the family to approve?"

The word “whore” snaps something inside me. My hand moves to his throat, pressing just hard enough to make breathing difficult. "Call her that again."

"What? Whore? That's what she is, isn't she? A Mastroni whore carrying a bastard Russo?—"

I slam him against the glass again, harder this time. The window flexes but holds. "You have exactly five seconds to apologize before I throw you through this fucking window. And if you so much as breathe wrong near her or my child—I’ll bury you so deep your own fucking ghosts won’t find you.”

"You wouldn't." But uncertainty flickers in his eyes. "Dad’ll kill you . Plus, he fucking needs me."

"Dad needs results. You've been providing chaos.

" I lean closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

"For the last time, if you ever threaten my wife or my child again, I'll dismantle you piece by piece.

I'll start with your fingers, work my way up to more important parts.

By the time I'm finished, you'll be begging me to put a bullet in your brain. "

Real fear crosses Marco's features. He knows I don't make idle threats.

"Vincent." Tony's voice cuts through the tension. He's standing in the doorway, expression carefully neutral. "We've got a problem."

I release Marco, who stumbles back, straightening his tie with jerky hands. The fear in his eyes has been replaced by cold hatred—dangerous, but manageable.

"What kind of problem?" I ask Tony, not taking my eyes off my brother.

"Warehouse Seven. Hit about an hour ago." Tony's voice is clipped, professional. "Three men down, cocaine shipment destroyed. Clean work—professionals."

My blood chills. Warehouse Seven handles our most sensitive operations, the kind that can't be traced back to legitimate business. "Survivors?"

"None. But they left calling cards." Tony slides a tablet across my desk, showing crime scene photos. Spray-painted on the concrete wall in blood-red letters: "MASTRONI JUSTICE."

Marco laughs, sharp and bitter. "Well, well. Looks like your new in-laws aren't as trustworthy as you thought."

"This is a setup." I study the photos, noting details that don't fit. "The timing's too convenient. Someone wants us at war."

"Or," Marco continues, circling my desk like a hyena who’s toying with its prey, "the Mastronis are using your cock-struck stupidity to get inside our operations. Feed you a pretty face, let you think with your dick, then strike when your guard's down."

"Shut up." But doubt gnaws at me. The attack is professional, coordinated. The kind of operation that requires inside knowledge of our security protocols.

Tony clears his throat. "Boss, there's more. Witnesses saw three vehicles leaving the scene. Black SUVs, no plates. But..." He hesitates.

"But what?"

"One of the shooters left this behind." He produces a small evidence bag containing a gold chain with a distinctive pendant—a Mastroni family crest.

Marco's grin widens. "Still think it's a setup?"

I take the bag, studying the pendant. It's real—old gold, authentic craftsmanship. But something feels wrong. "Too obvious. If the Mastronis wanted to hit us, they wouldn't leave their fucking business card."

"Unless they wanted to send a message," Marco suggests. "Unless your pregnant whore convinced them you're weak enough to manipulate."