Page 26 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

My father’s study feels like a courtroom.

I lay out the case—photos, wire transfers, intercepted calls. The light through the bulletproof glass catches every damning detail.

Antonio reviews the evidence like he’s planning a hit—steady, unflinching, impossible to read.

"This is comprehensive," he says finally, setting down a bank statement showing transfers to Perezzi accounts. "How long have you been building this case?"

"Days. Maybe longer." I stay standing—too wired to sit. "The patterns go back months. This isn’t impulse. It’s calculated. Deliberate."

"And you're certain Marco orchestrated the attacks on Melinda?"

"He admitted it. Bragged about compromising her medical records. Financing surveillance. Targeting our child."

The words taste like acid.

"He sees the pregnancy as a threat to the family’s future."

Antonio sets down the last photo, face unreadable. But when he looks at me, I see it—a cold decision balanced against blood.

He’s weighing the cost of losing a son.

"Your brother’s always been too eager to prove himself," he says. "Impatient. Resisting decisions I made. Delaying approvals."

His fingers drum once against the desk.

"Though, perhaps, he’s not wrong. Passion weakens a man. Makes him... predictable."

"He's moved beyond proving himself into active sabotage. Every day we delay gives him more time to escalate."

"Perhaps." Antonio moves to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. His reflection stares back at me from the glass—calm, controlled, calculating.

"But removing Marco creates other problems. He’s got backers. The old captains who think you’re too corporate. Too soft. Men who remember how this family used to be."

There’s a weight in his tone I can’t ignore.

And for the first time, I’m not sure who he’s warning me about—Marco’s men.

Or himself.

My blood chills. "You're hesitating."

"I’m being practical." He faces me again, eyes sharp. "Marco’s brutality still plays with some of our captains. The ones who think fear keeps this family in line. If we take him out, they’ll see it as weakness."

"And if we don’t?" I step in closer. "He’s already feeding the Perezzis intel. What’s next? Russians? Chinese? He’ll torch the whole city just to prove he’s the bigger monster."

"You may be right." Antonio's tone gives nothing away. "But timing matters. We need to ensure his removal sends the right message—strength, not family dysfunction."

Before I can respond, his secure line rings. He answers with sharp impatience, face darkening as he listens to the report.

"When?" he asks. "Where was the body found?"

I watch dread settle in my stomach like lead weights. Someone's dead—someone important enough to warrant a secure line at seven in the morning.

"Understood. Secure the scene. No media, no police interference." He hangs up, turning to me with eyes like winter. "Tommy Castellano is dead."

The name hits me like a physical blow. Tommy—one of my most trusted lieutenants, a man who'd taken bullets for this family, who'd been with us since he was sixteen years old.

"How?"

"Execution style. Three bullets to the head. Found in his car outside a Mastroni-owned restaurant in Little Italy." Antonio's voice carries deadly quiet. "With a Mastroni family crest carved into his forehead."

Fuck. Marco's not slowing down in his attempts to reignite the blood feud between our families while I'm working to build bridges. The timing is too perfect to be coincidental—just as we're discussing his elimination, he provides another reason why negotiation with the Mastronis is impossible.

"Dad, this is obviously?—"

"I want immediate retaliation," Antonio cuts me off. "Hit three Mastroni soldiers. Send a message that we don't tolerate disrespect."

"This is a frame job. Marco's trying to start a war?—"

"The evidence suggests otherwise." His voice turns cold as arctic wind. "Your pregnant girlfriend's family just executed one of our most loyal men. How do you explain that, Vincent?"

"I explain it by recognizing Marco's fucking tactics." I slam my hand against the desk, sending documents scattering. "He's playing us against each other while he builds his own power base."

"Or you're so blinded by pussy that you can't see the obvious truth." Antonio's words cut like a blade. "The Mastronis killed Tommy to send a message about this alliance. Maybe they think pregnancy makes them untouchable."

"They didn't do this."

"Prove it. You have six hours. After that, we respond with overwhelming force." Antonio moves to his desk, already reaching for his phone. "And Vincent? If you're wrong about this, if your judgment is compromised by personal feelings, the consequences will be severe."

The threat is clear. Question my leadership, choose the wrong side, and I'll face the same fate as any other enemy of the family.

I gather the evidence files, mind already racing through possibilities.

Marco's smart enough to leave himself plausible deniability, cunning enough to make this look like legitimate Mastroni aggression.

But he's also arrogant enough to leave traces—financial records, communication patterns, witnesses who might be persuaded to talk.

"Dad," I say, pausing at the door. "When this is over, when I prove Marco's behind this along with everything else we know he’s orchestrated, I want your word that we'll handle him permanently."

"When you prove it," Antonio says evenly. "If you can."

I take the elevator down to the parking garage, already dialing Max Mastroni's secure line. This conversation could be interpreted as treason by my own family, but the alternative is war.

"Vincent Russo," Max answers on the second ring. "Calling to declare war or to prevent one?"

"To prevent one. Tommy Castellano was found dead this morning, execution style, with your family's signature carved into his forehead."

Silence stretches between us, heavy with implications. "We didn't touch your man."

"I know. This is my brother's work—he's still trying to restart hostilities between our families."

"And your father believes we're responsible, after everything Maya tells me about so-called ‘evidence’?"

"My father wants immediate retaliation. I've bought six hours to prove Marco's involvement, but if I can't..." I let the implication hang.

"I'll put my people on lockdown," Max says. "But Vincent, my control over the more volatile members is limited. If you start shooting at us, we'll shoot back."

"Understood. Just—keep Melinda safe. Whatever happens, she stays protected."

"My sister doesn't need your protection." His voice carries an edge of Mastroni pride. "But I'll make sure she's secure."

The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the weight of impossible choices.

***

I get home just as Melinda’s stepping out of the shower. And instead of pulling her against me, I take the towel and begin drying her shoulders with careful attention.

"Vincent," she says softly, amber eyes searching my face. "You look exhausted."

"Long morning," I murmur, trailing the towel down her arms, then carefully over the swell of our child. "Are you feeling okay? Any nausea today?"

Her smile is gentle, surprised by the tenderness. "I'm fine. We're fine." She covers my hand with hers where it rests on her belly. "What happened with your father?"

"Nothing that can't wait." I set the towel aside and cup her face, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. "Right now, I just want to be here. With you. Away from all the family bullshit."

"Just here?"

"Just here." I kiss her forehead, then her nose, then finally her lips—soft, reverent, like she's something precious I'm afraid of breaking. "Let me take care of you."

I lift her easily, carrying her to our bed with the same care I'd use handling something infinitely valuable. When I lay her down on the silk sheets, she's watching me with an expression I've never seen before—something soft and vulnerable that makes my chest ache.

"Vincent," she whispers as I strip off my clothes with none of my usual urgency. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." I join her on the bed, pulling her against my chest, skin to skin. "Everything's just... a lot right now. The family, the threats, this thing with Marco. But when I'm here with you, it all makes sense."

She turns in my arms so we're facing each other, her hand coming up to trace the worry lines around my eyes. "You don't have to carry everything alone anymore."

"I know." I catch her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "That's what scares me. I've never had anything to lose before."

"You're not going to lose us," she says fiercely. "I won't let that happen."

When I kiss her this time, it's with gratitude and relief rather than raw need. My hands map her body like I'm memorizing it—the softness of her breasts, fuller now with pregnancy, the curve of her waist, the strong line of her thighs.

"I love how you're changing," I murmur against her throat. "How beautiful you are carrying our baby."

Her breath catches as my mouth finds her breast, tongue circling her nipple with gentle reverence. "Vincent..."

"Let me worship you," I whisper, trailing kisses down her body, pausing to press my lips to the swell of our child. "Let me show you what you mean to me."

But she catches my shoulders, guiding me back up to meet her eyes. "My turn first," she says softly, that gentle smile holding something mischievous. "Let me take care of you for once."

Before I can protest, she's pushing me onto my back, her hands trailing down my chest with the same reverent touch I've been giving her. When her mouth follows the path of her hands, I can't suppress the groan that escapes.

"Melinda," I breathe, threading my fingers through her hair as she takes me into her mouth. But there's nothing urgent or demanding about it—just the slow, careful attention of someone who wants to give pleasure, not just take it.

"You always take care of everyone else," she murmurs against my skin between kisses. "Let me give this to you."

The combination of her warm mouth and the tenderness in her voice nearly undoes me. This isn't about power or control—it's about her wanting to cherish me the same way I cherish her.

"God, baby," I whisper, the endearment slipping out before I can stop it. "You don't have to?—"

"I want to," she says simply, and the sincerity in her amber eyes makes my chest tight with emotion I don't have words for.

When she finally releases me, flushed and breathing hard, I pull her up to kiss her deeply—tasting myself on her lips, tasting the love we're both finally ready to acknowledge.

"Now," she whispers against my mouth, "let me feel you."

When I slide inside her, it's slow, careful, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. She's warm and tight and perfect, but this time it's not about claiming or dominance—it's about connection, about finding sanctuary in each other.

"God, you feel like home," I breathe, moving with gentle, steady rhythm. "Like everything I never knew I needed."

She wraps her legs around my waist, not to demand more but to hold me closer. "This is home," she whispers. "Right here. Us."

She convulses around me with a cry that's part pleasure, part surrender. The sensation of her climax triggers my own, and I bury myself deep, claiming her completely as my release tears through me.

Afterward, we collapse together on the rumpled sheets, skin slick with sweat, hearts racing in synchronized rhythm. She curls against my side, head on my chest, her hand tracing idle patterns on my skin.

"Better?" she asks quietly.

"Getting there." I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with sex. "I needed to remember what I'm fighting for."

"And what's that?"

"This. Us. The family we're building." My hand finds her stomach, covering the slight swell where our child grows. "Something worth protecting."

She's quiet for a moment, then lifts her head to meet my eyes. "Vincent, whatever's happening with Marco?—"

"I'll handle it."

"I know you will. But if you can't, if this escalates beyond your control, I want you to know I'm ready to do whatever's necessary to protect our baby."

There's something in her voice, a cold determination that reminds me she's Mastroni blood, raised in the same world of violence that shaped me. The thought should be comforting. Instead, it terrifies me.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm not some helpless civilian anymore. I can't be. The pregnancy has changed everything—my priorities, my willingness to compromise, my tolerance for threats." Her amber eyes burn with fierce resolve. "If Marco won't stop, I'll stop him myself."

"Melinda—"

"I'm serious, Vincent. I've already made arrangements, contingency plans. If this situation deteriorates, I won't wait for family politics to resolve themselves."

My phone buzzes with an urgent message before I can process the full implications of her words. The text is from Tony: URGENT: Surveillance. Need to see immediately.

I reach for the device, dread settling in my stomach like lead weights. The attached images make my blood turn to ice.

Marco. Sitting across from our father in a private dining room.

"Fuck." The word slips out before I can stop it.

"What is it?"

I show her the screen, watching her face pale as she processes the implications.

"My father's been meeting with Marco in secret."

"After you presented evidence of his betrayal?"

"After he promised to consider elimination if I could prove Marco's guilt." I scroll through the images, each one another nail in the coffin of my trust.

"He's playing both sides. Probably has been all along."

I watch her process the implications, eyes narrowing with cold resolve. Then she looks up at me, voice hard and steady.

"Then we’re on our own."