Page 20 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

I sit ramrod straight in a chair that probably cost more than most people's cars, surrounded by paintings I recognize from art history textbooks.

Half of which supposedly went missing during European museum heists in the nineties.

I’m dining under stolen masterpieces, surrounded by murderers, trying to figure out how to survive long enough to have a baby.

Perfect.

Antonio Russo sits at the head of the mahogany table like a king holding court.

His silver-streaked hair is still immaculate, even at this hour.

Every so often, his eyes bore into mine—dark, sharp, assessing.

Not like a man looking at a woman. Like a predator measuring his next move. Or a banker weighing a high-risk investment.

With men like him, there’s no difference.

"The osso buco is exceptional," he says, slicing his meat with surgical precision. "Francesco outdid himself."

I take a careful bite, chewing slowly while my stomach churns.

The baby’s over rich food lately—another gift from this glowing, magical phase of pregnancy.

"It's delicious," I lie smoothly. "Thanks for having me."

Under the table, Vincent's hand finds mine.

His hand squeezes my knuckles.

It should be comforting.

It’s not.

He’s wound tight beside me, eyes locked on his father and brother like he’s waiting for one of them to draw a knife.

Across from me, Marco lounges like he owns the place—glass of wine in hand, smirk dialed up to full asshole level.

His blue eyes flick to mine, sharp and unbothered.

Just like his father, but without the polish.

"So, Melinda," he drawls, my name sliding from his mouth like it tastes bad.

"How’s it feel jumping back into the family business after all that time playing doctor?"

"I wasn't playing anything," I reply evenly. "I was working twelve-hour shifts while you were playing executioner in a tailored suit."

His smile sharpens. "Right. You stitched up strangers while your family left bodies in dumpsters. Playing the saint must’ve been nice, thinking your hands were clean.."

Vincent's grip tightens on my hand. "Marco."

“What?” Marco lifts his glass, with all his faux charm. “Just wondering how our newest recruit weighs her Hippocratic Oath against the Mastroni playbook.”

He sips, slow and smug, eyes locked on mine.

“‘Do no harm,’ right? Bit of a gray area when your family specializes in body bags.”Heat flashes through my chest, but I keep my voice steady.

"I've seen enough harm to know when…” I find the right words, “keeping order is necessary and when it's just sadistic indulgence.

The difference usually comes down to brains. "

Antonio's fork pauses mid-air. "Interesting perspective. And what's your assessment of our current... medical needs?"

It sounds innocent. It’s not.

I know a test when I hear one.

"Depends what you're asking. If you mean trauma care, your family's security detail could use better first aid training. Most gunshot fatalities happen from blood loss before medical help arrives."

"And if I mean something else entirely?"

I meet his stare without flinching. "Then you'd need to be more specific about your symptoms, Mr. Russo."

Vincent shifts beside me, probably wondering if I've lost my mind challenging his father. But Antonio laughs—a genuine sound that transforms his face completely.

"She's got steel, Vincent. I'll give you that." He turns back to me. "We've been having distribution problems. Pharmaceutical supplies, specifically. Shipments delayed, security compromised, profit margins affected."

"Hospital purchasing systems are notoriously vulnerable," I say, surprising myself with how easily the words come.

"Most medical centers use centralized ordering through automated systems. If someone had access to shipping schedules, inventory databases, security protocols.

.." I shrug. "It wouldn't be difficult to disrupt operations or redirect supplies. "

Marco's casual demeanor evaporates. "You seem awfully knowledgeable about that for someone who's supposedly been out of the game."

"I work in a hospital, Marco. I know how these systems function because I use them every day. Unlike some people, I actually understand the businesses I'm involved in."

Vincent's hand squeezes mine again, but this time it feels like approval rather than warning.

"The security gaps are everywhere," I say, weighing my words with care, wanting to give common industry knowledge without sounding like I’m deep in my family’s business.

"Delivery schedules shared over unsecured networks, warehouses run on outdated keycards, pharmaceutical manifests processed by minimum-wage clerks who aren't exactly vetted for loyalty. "

Antonio leans forward slightly. "And how might one address such vulnerabilities?"

"Hypothetically? Diversify supply chains.

Use multiple smaller distributors instead of relying on major medical conglomerates.

Implement end-to-end encryption for all communications.

Most importantly, cultivate relationships with people who actually work in the system—nurses, pharmacy techs, logistics coordinators.

They see everything and rarely get paid enough to stay quiet about irregularities. "

The room falls silent except for the soft ticking of an antique clock. I can feel Vincent's eyes on me, probably wondering when I became an expert in medical supply chain security.

"Fascinating," Antonio murmurs. "You've given this considerable thought."

"Professional hazard. When you're trying to save lives, you notice what makes systems fail."

Marco sets down his wine glass—hard..

“Funny,” he says. “You sound more like someone gathering intel than someone trying to save lives..

Vincent goes rigid beside me, his hand moving away from mine toward something under his jacket.

He’s one second from snapping. I can feel it.

"Careful, Marco," Vincent's voice carries deadly quiet.

"What? We're all family here, right?" Marco's smile turns vicious. "I'm just wondering out loud how convenient it is that our supposed ‘family-by-proxy’ here happens to be an expert on exactly the problems we've been having."

I push back from the table and stand, letting them see the steel in my spine. "If you have something to say to me—say it. I’m right here."."

Marco's eyes flash. "I'm saying maybe your family sent you to fuck my brother and spy. Maybe this pregnancy is just another play."

Vincent explodes from his chair, hand closing around Marco's throat before I can blink. "I warned you."

"Enough." Antonio's voice cuts through the violence like a blade. "Vincent. Sit down. Marco, apologize."

"For what? Speaking the truth?"

"For insulting the mother of my grandchild in my house." Antonio's tone could freeze blood. "Now."

Marco looks like he wants to argue, but even he isn't stupid enough to defy his father directly. "My apologies, Melinda. I misspoke."

It's not an apology—it's a grudging retreat. But I’ll take it. For now.

Vincent releases his brother and returns to his seat, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. I remain standing, letting them all see that I won't be intimidated.

"For the record," I say quietly, "I didn't seduce Vincent for intelligence. I fucked him because I wanted to forget who I was for one night. The pregnancy was an accident. Everything else—including sitting here pretending to enjoy your company—is me making the best of a fucked-up situation."

Antonio's eyebrows rise at my language, but his smile suggests approval. "Refreshingly honest."

Before anyone can respond, Vincent's phone buzzes with an urgent vibration. He glances at the screen, face going pale.

"What is it?" Antonio demands.

"Tommaso Benedetti is dead."

The name hits the room like a physical blow. Tommaso Benedetti—one of Antonio's most trusted captains, a man who's been with the family for over fifteen years. I watch the transformation happen in real time: Antonio's cultured dinner host persona evaporates, replaced by the cold killer underneath.

"How?" His voice is flat, deadly.

"Three bullets to the head, execution style. Found in his car outside Marcello's in Little Italy." Vincent's jaw tightens as he reads. "There's more. Mastroni family crest carved into his forehead."

My blood turns to ice. Someone's going all out trying to frame my family, to start a war between our families while I'm sitting here pregnant with Vincent's child.

"Fucking animals," Marco snarls, already reaching for his phone. "I'll mobilize our crews?—"

"No." Antonio's command cuts through the air like a whip. "Not yet."

"Dad, they just executed one of our made men?—"

"I said not yet." Antonio's eyes never leave Vincent's face. "This is too clean. Too obvious."

Vincent nods slowly. "The timing's suspicious. Someone wants us at each other's throats."

"Or maybe the Mastronis are sending a message about the terms of this alliance," Marco suggests, his gaze sliding to me with open hostility, a hint of wildness starting to form behind his pupils. "Maybe they want us to know exactly what they think of this arrangement."

I feel my temper flare. "My family doesn't operate through messages carved in flesh, Marco. When we want someone dead, we kill them. We don't leave calling cards like some comic book villain."

"Really? Because that's exactly what this looks like?—"

"Enough." Antonio stands, his movement triggering an immediate response from security personnel I hadn't even noticed were in the room.

Men in expensive suits materialize from shadows, hands resting casually near concealed weapons.

The transition from family dinner to military operation happens so smoothly it's almost surreal

"Vincent, coordinate with Tony. I want a full sweep of all properties. Marco, put our crews on alert but no movement without my direct order. Anyone who acts without authorization answers to me personally."

The brothers move with practiced precision, phones already out, voices low and urgent as they coordinate with their respective teams. I watch the Russo machine kick into gear—more corporate than my family's approach, but equally lethal.

"What about me?" I ask.

Antonio studies me with those calculating eyes. "You stay close to Vincent. Until we know who's behind this, you're a target."

"I can protect myself."

"I'm sure you can. But humor an old man's paranoia."

There's a command beneath his polite words. This isn't a request.

Vincent appears at my elbow, phone still pressed to his ear. "Tony's sending a car. We're moving to the penthouse—better security protocols there."

"I need to get some things from my apartment?—"

"Already handled. Maya's packing a bag for you."

My sister. Always ready.

And probably going through my drawers and judging my underwear choices while she's at it.

"Vincent," Antonio's voice stops us at the dining room door. "Find out who did this. But be smart about it. If this is what I think it is..."

“They’ve been laying groundwork for months,” I say. “Perezzi sent men after Melinda in Italy before we even knew what Marco was up to. That was just the opening shot.”

Antonio studies me for a beat. “You think it’s internal?”

“I think someone knows too much about our operations—and Mastroni security protocols. That kind of intelligence doesn’t come from the outside.”

A traitor. Someone close enough to both families to orchestrate this perfectly.

Twenty minutes later, I'm back in Vincent's penthouse, staring out at the city lights while he coordinates security measures. The space feels different now—less like a luxurious sanctuary, more like an elegant prison.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. I almost ignore it, but something makes me open the message.

The image that loads makes my blood freeze.

It's an ultrasound photo. My ultrasound photo. The one from last week's appointment, complete with the clinic's header and my name clearly visible. Below it, a simple message: "Beautiful baby. Be a shame if something happened."

"Vincent." My voice comes out steady despite the terror clawing at my throat.

He's beside me in seconds, taking the phone from my trembling hands. I watch his face go white as he processes what he's seeing.

"How did they get this?" I whisper.

"Medical records are supposed to be secure?—"

"Nothing's secure." The words come out harsher than I intended. "Not the hospital, not your penthouse, not anywhere. Someone's been watching me, tracking my appointments, accessing my private medical information."

Vincent's already dialing his security chief, barking orders about digital forensics and medical facility sweeps. But I barely hear him. A cold clarity is settling over me, the same detachment I feel when a trauma patient arrives in the ER beyond saving.

Someone threatened my child. My baby. The innocent life growing inside me that never asked to be born into this world of blood and bullets.

I think about the man in the parking garage, the professional precision of tonight's murder, the way someone has been watching and planning and waiting. These aren't random attacks or family disputes. This is war, and my child is the target.

"We need Maya," I say quietly.

Vincent looks up from his phone call. "What?"

"I need to call my sister. I need access to Mastroni resources you don't control."

"Melinda, whatever you're thinking?—"

"I'm thinking someone made the mistake of threatening my baby." I meet his eyes, letting him see the steel beneath my carefully maintained composure. "I'm thinking it's time they learned what a Mastroni woman does to people who threaten her family."

I dial Maya's number, my hands perfectly steady now. The fear has crystallized into something harder, colder, infinitely more dangerous.

"Maya? It's me. I need your help."

"Mel? What's wrong?"

"Someone accessed my medical records. Someone threatened the baby." My voice is calm, the tone I use when delivering terminal diagnoses. "I need you to find them."

A pause. Then Maya's voice, soft and deadly: "Consider it done, sister. What do you want left?"

"Nothing." The word comes out flat, final. "I want nothing left."

They picked the wrong woman.

And now I get to show them what a mother’s wrath really looks like.

I know how to keep someone alive.

Which means I know exactly how to end them.