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

Vincent

The warehouse on the East River always reeks of rust, mildew, and death.

Tonight, it’s worse—copper and bleach thick enough to choke on.

My shoes slap against wet concrete as I stride in.

Three bodies cool on the drain grid—former employees.

Or technically, ex-employees now.

My guys caught them skimming from our laundering ops.

I step around the spreading pool of blood. Under the halogens, the crimson gleams like oil.

My crew works fast—already bagging the limbs.

I nod to Franco, who grunts and keeps spraying acid over the pile.

The new acid eats faster than anything the Russians use. Leave it long enough, and a man disappears—bone and all.

“Don’t get it on your skin,” I say, watching it disintegrate the bodies.

Franco doesn’t look up.

He’s been with me six years.

He knows the drill.

My phone vibrates—an encrypted line. One of four.

I answer quietly, my gaze on the container yard as barges move like ghost ships downriver.

When I hang up, I glance at Franco.

"Status?"

"We’re through the messy part, boss," Franco says. He gives me a look—a little nervous, but efficient.

I prize efficiency.

It’s what separates us from bottom-feeders like the Perezzi.

Or those coked-up Irish.

"I want this place cleaner than a surgeon’s table before I leave. Eyes on all exits. If anyone so much as twitches, you call me. Understood?"

He nods, sharp.

I move toward the office at the rear of the building.

Jobs like this aren’t hard.

The paperwork’s always worse than dealing with the bodies.

Someone has to launder the accounts.

Neutralize facial recognition on the security feeds.

Make the union rep disappear for a week—his third stroke this year.

That person is always me.

Or at least, it is if I want things to run right.

I barely get two steps in the office before I hear footsteps crunch behind me.

Too casual for any man who’s ever bled for this family.

"Vinny! Tell me I missed the fun."

Marco’s voice is sugar-rush bright. Sliding off every syllable like he’s already bored.

Mentally out on a yacht with gorgeous bikini models.

I exhale. Count to three. Then turn.

"You’re late."

He grins.

Blood splatters across his gray suit—tailored, custom, wasted on a psycho.

Even I’d never wear light colors to a scene like this.

But Marco always wants someone to notice.

Wants people to remember what he’s capable of.

And what the rest of us are willing to tolerate.

He drops a small bag on my desk. Something heavy thuds inside—a dark, wet stain beginning to bloom against the security plastic.

"Goddamn, Marco. I told you—let the cleaners take all the evidence."

I say it flat.

He shrugs.

Sticks his fingers in his hair to mess it up further.

Blue eyes wired on adrenaline.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that? Shit gets lost in the chain of custody, you know how it is. Personal touch means they won’t forget, even if all that’s left is a wedding band.” He opens the bag. Out slides a gold ring with a finger still attached.

A ripple of nausea crawls up my throat.

I shove it down.

Into the usual place—the compartment where grief, rage, and regret all belong.

“You didn’t need to bring me proof, Marco. We’ve got cameras.”

He laughs.

Leans closer.

Breathing into my space like a fucking child daring a dog to bite.

"Dad wanted proof. And hey—rules are rules. Just gotta sign 'em in blood."

He spins the ring across the desk.

It skitters to a stop by my papers.

Of course. He wants me to look. Wants me to remember.

"Plus—one less snitch. One less mouth for you to feed. Am I right?"

He thinks he’s clever.

But I see it—the restlessness.

The hunger for someone to clap him on the back for chaos.

“What about the wife? Somebody’s going to miss him.”

He shrugs.

Turns on his heel.

"Wife. Kids. Hell if I know. Not my problem."

"I’m only in charge of discipline, remember?"

He waves his hands.

Like a spoiled prince dismissing the help.

“Now Dad gets to sleep happy.” His eyes are an empty shade of blue; they never used to look like this when we were boys.

I don’t show my disgust.

Weakness is a luxury we can’t afford.

Not now. Not while we’re scrambling to hold territory.

Marco craves the spotlight.

Wants to be the monster everyone whispers about when the lights go out.

I want efficiency.

Clean hands, clean sheets, clean books.

I don’t care who shivers at my name.

As long as the money moves.

And my men stay alive.

Our philosophies are at war. But the battlefield is this filthy warehouse. And the growing mania inside Marco’s skull.

He leans in again, riding the high.

"You should’ve seen this guy. Begged. Cried."

The words drip out slow, like he’s savoring every second of it.

"It’s sweet, you know? How scared people get. How loud they beg for mercy. Like we give a fuck about their sad little lives."

A muscle ticks in my jaw.

"Anything else to report?" I ask.

"Or you just here to show off?"

"Don’t be jealous I get results," Marco says.

"Anyway. Dad said you’d want in on the next round. Looks like the Mastronis are moving heavy on those Bronx pharma deals. Who you want tailing them? My guys?"

Goons who’ll start a war.

Or mine. The ones who know how not to leave a trail.

I give him the coldest smile I’ve got.

“We’ll handle it like we handle all Russo business. Quiet. While you play messenger boy.”

The pause is deliberate.

He hears what’s under my words.

Marco sours, lip curling.

He takes the hit, but not quietly.

"You always want things neat, Vince."

That look—that’s the reason he resents me. Has for years. I only leave blood on the floor when it has to be done. He splatters it recklessly, paints fucking murals with it.

Marco tucks the plastic-wrapped finger back in his pocket and walks out whistling, shoes leaving bloody prints behind him.

I don’t exhale until he’s gone.

I rest both hands on the edge of the desk.

The ring gleams like an accusation.

But all I see is her.

Mouth wrapped around my cock. Nails digging into my shoulders.

Damn it. Focus.

For a second, exhaustion slams into me, sharp and absolute. I want to scrub myself raw in a boiling shower. To undo history. But there’s no point in wanting.

This is the job.

This is the inheritance.

Legacy.

Franco sticks his head in. “Want a look at the ledger before I dump the phones?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out a little rough.

“Subtract three from tonight, count them as bonuses for overtime. Anyone asks, their contracts expired and they took a vacation in Florida. Use Cody’s crew for the paperwork—he’s cleaner.

” I slide my laptop across and hand over phone chips in a small tin. “Make them disappear.”

I don’t wait to see Franco nod. Habit brings my hand to the burn scar that still itches across my left collar bone. It’s an old injury, but tonight it aches—phantom pain, the kind you get when you pull the trigger too many times for the wrong reasons.

Marco’s methods used to be rare.

Now, with Dad pushing for old school fear, it’s my brother’s style getting rewarded, not mine. I have to wonder how much longer my way—silent, superior, strategic—will carry any weight.

Out by the river, the night is still noisy. Sirens, barges, the low speech of men who have seen too much to ever really sleep again.

I drive back through Lower Manhattan, windows up.

When I reach the private elevator at Russo Enterprises, muscle memory takes over.

I scan in with one of my three RFID tags, nod to the men in black posted by the doors, enter the security code that changes weekly.

Security here is tighter than a casino vault.

Dad made it clear early on: the higher you get in this family, the more people will try to cut you down.

My office is cold. Floor-to-ceiling glass looks out over a city that has no soul left for men like me.

Midnight lights flicker on in blue and gold below—my legitimate empire humming on autopilot.

Dry cleaning companies, logistics, software consulting, a fucking shell company that makes VR onboarding for banks.

And beneath it, the trophies: accounts stuffed with laundered narco-cash, passport printers, a secure gun locker hidden between antique ledgers from my grandfather’s time.

Numbers relax me. I settle into the thrum of processing—four new legal acquisitions lined up to channel money, half a dozen dummy companies paid off to hide our burning tracks.

Behind it, though, runs a private reel in my brain. The last time someone touched me with honest hands. Blonde hair or brown, a laugh half-swallowed by exhaustion, the glint of amber eyes in the murky dark.

She comes to me then, uninvited—the woman in the penthouse.

Fuck.

I close my eyes for a second and there it is: whiskey, silk, her mouth on mine, nails raking my chest, my back. The one time in months I let go, fucked someone as if the danger could not touch us. She never gave me a name. I never pressed.

She’s not an obsession, exactly. I won’t allow that. I’m Vincent Russo. I own my choices, my impulses… my ghosts.

My phone chimes again, this time with a message from the very devil himself.

Dad: Tomorrow, 8 p.m. Charity gala. Mastroni news—you’ll be interested.

Subtle as ever.

I tap out a reply— Confirmed. I’ll be there. More on Bronx expansion later —and then set the device to silent. My father is moving pieces. The Mastronis are pushing on pharma. He wants leverage. He wants a Mastroni trophy to parade to captains, proof that old ghosts can be chained or burned.

He’ll expect me to play the seducer, the diplomat, maybe the heavy, depending on the company. I’m good at all of it. But I can’t shake the weight—like an animal scenting the storm, I sense the gala is the beginning of something big.

Out on the desk are the news clippings Dad leaves just to get under my skin. I spot one I missed—a glossy tabloid headline, black and gold:

“Notorious Mastroni Heir Weds Socialite—Rumors Swirl After Dramatic Engagement.” Photo: Max, stony-faced in a tailored tux, Cara on his arm, both tired but triumphant.

Somebody cropped the headline, but the paper missed the inside story—the part where Max locked Cara up for weeks before she agreed to marry him.

That kind of chaos doesn't belong on my side of the ledger.

I stare at their photo a moment, something sour burning in my gut. Max Mastroni is unpredictable, but the marriage is a warning to every New York crew: the old rules are breaking. Kidnap a girl. Marry your enemy. A week later, the whole city whispers you’re more in love than any of us will ever be.

The Mastronis keep their women locked up tight.

I know Max, know his reputation, know his wife Cara from the headlines.

But his sisters? Rumor has it the spunky one is the youngest, fully in the family business.

But the older one, the one who disappeared years ago?

The one who got out of the world of mafia deals and violence.

She's a ghost. Even my best intelligence never got a current photo, never tracked her movements.

Smart girl—she learned to protect herself, to disappear, to get out before she gets blood on her hands.

I look at the photo of Max and Cara. So “in love,” the article says.

Does love even exist, or is it just another word for leverage?

A memory needles at me—the woman from the penthouse that night, her silhouette as I pressed her against my window. The way her hands tugged greedily at me when she unbuttoned my shirt. The way she left before dawn, no name, no hope of finding her again.

If I close my eyes, I can taste her… and taste regret that I lost her, though I bury it fast. Softness is a fucking luxury. I learned that at sixteen, standing over my first body, blood soaking through my best shoes.

My father’s voice in my ear: “Family first. Weakness is death.”

But what about all the ways you kill yourself while staying strong? What about the things you want but can’t admit? The things you lose by following the rules?

I catch myself before the questions spiral. I file them away, like every other temptation.

The city lights blink as I review acquisition files.

Tomorrow, I’ll smile and shake hands at the gala, while my real job—war by other means—never pauses.

I’ll find out what the Mastronis really want, who’s compromised and who’s selling out, why their eldest daughter is suddenly back in the family’s fold again after half a decade gone.

If I play this right, maybe by dawn I’ll have something I haven’t held in years: an advantage no one else can see yet.

Out the window, the East River catches the moon, shimmering in shades of dirty silver.