Page 28 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

The private jet cuts through the morning sky like a blade through silk.

Eengines humming with the kind of precision that costs blood money.

I stare out at clouds that look too clean for this dirty world, my phone buzzing constantly with encrypted messages I'm choosing to ignore.

Boston feels like a lifetime ago, but it's been less than twelve hours since Melinda and I escaped that warehouse with our lives.

She's curled in the leather seat across from me, finally sleeping after everything that’s happened. Her hand rests protectively over her stomach even in sleep, and something primal twists in my chest watching her.

This woman—this fierce, complicated, magnificent woman—is carrying my child while dodging bullets meant for both of us.

My secure line chimes with an incoming message from Tony: Family operations moved to Code Red. All soldiers recalled to stations. Your father's not taking calls.

I scroll through the intelligence reports flooding my phone. Antonio's activated every protocol short of declaring open war—territories secured, safe houses emptied, weapons distributed to street crews. The Russo machine is spinning up for bloodshed on a scale that will paint the city red.

And I'm locked out of my own fucking family.

Another message, this one from my digital specialist: Attempted breach on your personal accounts. Professional grade. Traced back to Russo systems.

My blood turns to ice. Someone inside the family—probably Marco, definitely with Dad's blessing—is trying to cut me off completely. Bank accounts, communication channels, even my security clearances. They're not just sidelining me; they're preparing to eliminate me entirely.

I dial Antonio's private line, the one that's supposed to be answered within two rings no matter what. It goes straight to voicemail in his cold, measured voice: "You've reached Antonio Russo. Leave a message."

"Dad, it's Vincent. We need to talk. Marco's manipulation runs deeper than you think. The attacks in Boston prove he's willing to sacrifice family for power. Call me back."

I hang up knowing he won't. The silence is its own message—I've been declared persona non grata by the man who taught me everything about power, strategy, survival.

"Vincent?" Melinda's voice is soft with sleep and residual fear. "What's wrong?"

I look at her—amber eyes still heavy with exhaustion, hair mussed from the makeshift pillow, wearing my jacket over her torn dress from last night's chaos. She looks fragile, but I know better. This woman stood her ground in a fight, protected our child without a second thought.

"My father's chosen his side," I say quietly. "And it's not mine."

She sits up straighter, instantly alert. "What does that mean?"

"It means we're on our own. Completely." I show her the messages, watching her face harden as she processes the implications. "Marco's convinced him I'm compromised by Mastroni influence. That our child makes me weak, unreliable."

Her laugh is bitter as broken glass. "Funny. My family's probably thinking the same thing about me." She touches her stomach. "A Russo baby doesn't exactly scream loyalty to the Mastroni cause."

The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom. "Mr. Russo, we'll be landing at Teterboro in twenty minutes. Ground transport is waiting as requested."

Ground transport. Not my usual security detail—they'd probably have orders to detain me now. I'd arranged for neutral drivers, men who work for money rather than family loyalty.

I lean forward, capturing Melinda's attention. "When we land, I need to make a choice that's going to change everything."

"What kind of choice?"

"I go to your family's compound. Directly. Break every protocol, cross every line." I run a hand through my hair, exhaustion finally catching up. "No Russo heir has set foot on Mastroni territory in forty years. It's either seen as an act of war or complete surrender."

She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "And which is it?"

"Neither. It's survival." I reach for her hand, thumb tracing over the engagement ring I placed there in what feels like another lifetime. "Marco's plan requires our families destroying each other. The only way to stop him is to break the pattern, refuse to play the game he's orchestrated."

"My brother will see you coming and assume it's a trap."

"Maybe. But you'll be with me. Max won't shoot through his pregnant sister to get to me." I pause. "At least, I hope not."

Her smile is sharp as a blade. "He won't. But Maya might."

The plane begins its descent, and I can see Manhattan in the distance—my city, my empire, now turned against me by the family that built it. Everything I've worked for, every sacrifice I've made, rendered worthless by a brother's jealousy and a father's paranoia.

"Vincent," Melinda says softly. "What happens if this doesn't work? If my family doesn't trust you, if yours hunts us both?"

I think about that—about being cut off from everything I've known, everything I am. About starting over with nothing but the woman beside me and the child growing inside her.

"Then we disappear," I say simply. "New identities, new lives, somewhere far from all this blood and betrayal."

She nods slowly. "I've thought about that too. Before Boston, before everything exploded. Just vanishing with the baby, becoming someone else entirely."

"And?"

"And I realized I can't run from what I am. From what we are." Her amber eyes meet mine, fierce and determined. "Our daughter deserves better than parents who hide from their legacy. She deserves parents who fight to change it."

The plane touches down with barely a bump, and I watch through the window as black SUVs circle the aircraft—not my security, but not hostile either. Neutral ground, at least for now.

I stand, offering Melinda my hand. "Ready to make history?"

She takes it, letting me pull her up. "Let's go prevent a war."

As we walk toward the aircraft door, my phone buzzes one final time. A message from Marco, time-stamped just minutes ago: Enjoy your last day breathing, brother. Dad's finally seen sense.

I delete it without showing Melinda.

***

The Mastroni compound rises before us like a fortress of old-world power and new-world paranoia.

Twelve-foot walls topped with razor wire, security cameras tracking our approach, and enough armed guards to start a small war.

I've studied this place for years, planned hypothetical attacks on its weaknesses, but I've never imagined walking through the front gate.

"State your business," the guard at the checkpoint demands, assault rifle held casually but ready. His accent is pure Brooklyn, his eyes pure killer.

"Vincent Russo to see Max Mastroni," I say calmly. "I'm expected."

That's a lie, but delivered with enough confidence to make him pause. He glances at Melinda, recognition flickering across his face, then speaks rapidly into his radio in Italian too fast for me to follow.

"Step out of the vehicle," he orders. "Arms spread, no sudden movements."

I comply, letting them pat me down. They find my Glock, my spare magazine, the knife in my boot. Standard arsenal for a man in my position.

"He keeps the weapons," Melinda says from the passenger seat, her voice carrying absolute authority. "Family business."

The guard hesitates, clearly torn between protocol and the direct order from a Mastroni daughter. Finally, he nods. "Drive straight to the main house. No stops, no deviations. You're being watched."

As we roll through the gates, I count positions—guards in towers, rooftop snipers, mobile patrols. The Mastronis don't fuck around with security, and right now, every gun is probably aimed at my head.

"Second thoughts?" Melinda asks, noting my assessment.

"Too late for those." I park in the circular drive, noting how the positions shift as we approach the house. Professional, coordinated, lethal. "Your family's thorough."

"We learned from the best." Her smile is grim. "Usually by studying Russo methods."

The front door opens before we can knock. Max stands there, six feet of controlled violence in an expensive suit, his dark eyes calculating distances and angles. Behind him, I can see movement—more security, family members, the inner circle of one of New York's most dangerous organizations.

"Vincent Russo," he says, my name sounding like a curse. "Either you've got the biggest balls in the city, or you're stupider than I thought."

"Maybe both," I reply. "But we need to talk. All of us."

He studies me for a long moment, then steps aside. "Come in. But know that if this is some elaborate setup, you'll die badly."

"Understood."

The foyer is intimidating by design—marble floors, oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors, and the subtle bulges of concealed weapons on every man present. Maya appears from a side corridor, moving with that grace that makes smart men nervous.

"Well, well," she purrs, circling me like a shark scenting blood. "The Russo prince comes calling. Should I curtsy or just shoot you in the face?"

"Maya," Melinda warns.

"What? He's got some nerve showing up here after his brother—" She stops.. "Oh. Daddy cut Vincent off or something??" Her eyes look haughtily into mine.

Max's expression doesn't change, but something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "What’s changed to cause this… meeting?"

The silence stretches like a drawn blade. Melinda looks at me, a question in her amber eyes—how much truth, how fast?

"The game’s changed since we all spoke about Marco," she says simply.

If I expected shock, I'm disappointed. Max just nods slowly, like this confirms something he's already suspected. He looks at me. "That explains why you're here instead of defending Russo territory."

"My brother tried to kill us both last night," I say bluntly. "Professional hit team, the works. He's convinced my father that I'm compromised by Mastroni influence."

"Are you?" The question comes from an older man I recognize as Benedetto, the family consigliere. His weathered face shows decades of survival in this business.

"I'm compromised by not wanting my unborn daughter to inherit a world where families slaughter each other for sport," I reply. "If that makes me weak, so be it."

Maya snorts. "A daughter? How do you?—"

"We had an ultrasound yesterday," Melinda interrupts. "Before the attack."

The room goes quiet again. In our world, daughters are protected differently, valued differently. They're often kept hidden from the violence that shapes their brothers.

"Marco's been planning this for months," I continue, pulling out my phone and showing them the intelligence I've gathered.

"Financial records, communication intercepts, evidence of his alliance with the Perezzi family.

He wants both families to destroy each other so he can claim leadership after the dust settles. "

Max examines the documents, his expression growing darker with each revelation. "This level of coordination... he's been planning war."

"And my father's given him permission to wage it." The admission tastes like acid. "Antonio Russo has chosen tradition over strategy, blood over sense."

"What are you proposing?" Benedetto asks.

"Alliance. Real alliance, not the surface cooperation we've maintained for appearances." I look around the room, meeting each pair of eyes. "Share intelligence, coordinate security, present a united front against anyone who wants to exploit the chaos."

"In exchange for what?" Max demands.

"In exchange for survival. For both families, for the next generation." I gesture toward Melinda. "Our child will carry both bloodlines. She'll either inherit peace or perpetual war, depending on what we decide in this room."

My phone buzzes with an encrypted message. I glance at it, and my blood turns to ice.

"What is it?" Melinda asks, noting my expression.

I show her the screen. The message is from Tony, my most trusted lieutenant: Boss, sorry. Direct order from your father. You're now designated hostile. All units have shoot-on-sight authorization. Whatever you did, fix it fast or disappear.

The room erupts in movement—hands moving to weapons, security teams taking defensive positions. But Max raises a hand, calling for calm.

"Well," he says dryly. "Looks like you just became a dead man walking."

"Looks like it." I pocket the phone, surprised by how calm I feel. The last bridge has been burned, the final choice made. "So the question becomes—do we face this storm separately, or together?"

Max studies me for a long moment, then extends his hand. "Together. But Vincent? If you betray my family, if you hurt my sister or that baby, I'll make you beg for a bullet."

I shake his hand, feeling the calluses that speak of violence personally delivered. "Understood. And if any Mastroni harms what's mine, you'll see why the Russo name still makes grown men cross themselves."

Melinda steps between us, her voice cutting through the testosterone. "Enough. We're not enemies anymore. We're family, whether we like it or not."

As if summoned by her words, Cara appears with coffee and that serene smile that hides a calculating mind. "Well," she says cheerfully, "this should be interesting. Maya, clear the conference room. We've got a war to prevent."