Page 29 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

The Colombo family's restaurant feels ominous tonight. Its dark wood making the heavy silence feel oppressive.

I sit between Vincent and Max at the circular table, my seven-months-pregnant belly making the chair uncomfortable no matter how I position myself.

The baby's been restless all day, kicking like she senses the tension radiating from every man in this room.

Antonio Russo presides across from us, silver hair perfect despite the late hour, those calculating eyes moving between faces like he's tallying assets and liabilities.

Representatives from four other families fill the remaining seats—neutral parties here to witness whatever deal gets struck or whatever war gets declared.

"The situation has become untenable," Don Colombo says, his ancient voice carrying the weight of decades. "Blood in the streets is bad for everyone's business."

I study Antonio's micro-expressions as he responds, cataloging every tell my medical training taught me to recognize. "The Russo family has no interest in unnecessary conflict. We seek only to protect our legitimate interests."

Liar. His pupils dilate slightly when he mentions "legitimate," and there's a barely perceptible tremor in his left hand—autonomic responses to deception. I lean closer to Vincent, my lips brushing his ear as I whisper, "He's lying about something. Watch his left hand."

Vincent's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he nods. He's learning to trust my observations, especially when they confirm his own suspicions.

Max speaks up, voice deadly calm. "Someone's been financing operations against both our families. Someone with access to inside information." His obsidian eyes never leave Antonio's face. "We want to know who."

"The Perezzi family has always been ambitious," Antonio replies smoothly. "Perhaps they've found new benefactors."

Another lie. The same tells—pupil dilation, hand tremor. He knows exactly who's been funding the Perezzis, and it's not some outside benefactor.

The baby kicks hard against my ribs, making me wince. Vincent's hand immediately moves to cover mine, thumb tracing soothing circles. Even in the middle of a negotiation that could determine whether we all walk out alive, he's watching for signs of distress.

"The question," says DiMarco, the head of another minor family, "is whether this can be resolved without further bloodshed."

That's when the restaurant doors explode inward.

Marco strides in with six Perezzi enforcers, all armed, all ready for violence. The room erupts in controlled chaos—chairs scraping, hands moving toward weapons, quiet commands barked in Italian and English.

"Brother!" Marco calls out, blue eyes gleaming with something that might be madness. "Hope I'm not too late for the family meeting."

Vincent rises slowly, positioning himself between Marco and me. "You weren't invited."

"Wasn't I?" Marco's smile is razor-sharp. He moves through the room like he owns it, Perezzi soldiers flanking him. "Dad, didn't you want me here?"

Antonio's expression shifts—a micro-expression of rage directed not at Marco, but at Vincent. For just a second, his mask slips completely.

"Interesting," I breathe, but before I can analyze further, Marco leans down to whisper something in his father's ear.

Whatever he says makes Antonio's face go white with fury. His eyes lock on Vincent with pure hatred, and I realize with clarity that we've been walking into a trap.

"Vincent," I warn, but it's too late.

Marco's hand moves toward his jacket. Vincent lunges forward, tackling his brother as gunfire erupts throughout the restaurant. Max grabs my arm, hauling me behind an overturned table as bullets splinter wood and shatter glass around us.

"Stay down," Max growls, drawing his own weapon. He rises just enough to sight down the barrel, firing twice in quick succession. Two Perezzi soldiers drop with headshots.

Through the chaos, I watch Vincent grappling with Marco, both men fighting for control of a gun. Vincent's movements are controlled, efficient—every strike calculated for maximum damage. Marco fights like a rabid animal, all rage and desperation.

A Perezzi enforcer appears around the edge of our table, weapon raised toward Max. Without thinking, I grab a fallen pistol from one of the bodies, my hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system.

I sight down the barrel, careful in my aim. Not center mass—that could be fatal. Shoulder joint, disable the gun arm. I squeeze the trigger.

The bullet catches the enforcer in the shoulder, spinning him around as his weapon clatters away. He drops, screaming, clutching the wound.

"Jesus, Mel," Max stares at me in shock.

But I'm already moving because Marco has broken free from Vincent and is raising his gun with clear intent to end this once and for all.

I don't hesitate. Second shot, Marco's gun arm. The bullet tears through muscle and bone, sending his weapon flying as he staggers backward.

"You fucking bitch!" Marco screams, clutching his shattered shoulder.

That's when Antonio moves—not toward his wounded son, but toward me. Pure murderous rage twists his features as he realizes I've just eliminated his chosen heir's advantage.

Vincent intercepts him mid-lunge, father and son colliding with brutal force. They crash into the bar, bottles exploding around them as they fight with decades of suppressed conflict finally boiling over.

"Enough!" Don Colombo's voice cuts through the gunfire like a whip. "This is neutral ground!"

The shooting stops, but the tension remains thick as blood. Marco slumps against the wall, my bullet having done exactly what I intended—disabled him without killing him. Vincent and Antonio separate, both breathing hard, both looking like they want to finish what they started.

"The meeting is over," Colombo declares. "All families will withdraw. Now."

Max helps me to my feet, his hand steady at my elbow. "Can you walk?"

I nod, though my legs feel shaky. The baby's moving frantically now, reacting to my stress. "I'm fine."

Vincent appears at my other side, blood trickling from a cut above his eye. "We're leaving. Now."

As we move toward the exit, Marco's voice follows us, thick with pain and hatred. "This isn't over, Vincent. You think you've won, but you have no idea what's coming."

Vincent doesn't respond, but his hand tightens protectively on my back as we disappear into the night.

***

The safe house is a penthouse overlooking the Hudson, all steel and glass and bulletproof everything. Vincent's men sweep the perimeter while we're escorted inside, the weight of what just happened settling over me like lead.

I sink onto the leather couch, finally allowing myself to tremble. Seven months pregnant and I just shot two men. My hands are steady—surgeon's hands, trained not to shake—but inside I'm coming apart.

"You saved my life," Vincent says quietly, pouring himself three fingers of bourbon. His shirt is torn, blood from his cut eye dried on his cheek. "Marco would have killed me."

"I know." My voice comes out hoarse. "I saw his intent in his eyes. The way he held the gun—he wasn't planning to wound."

Vincent moves to sit beside me, close enough that I can smell gunpowder mixed with his cologne. "You don't regret it?"

I consider this, hand moving automatically to my belly where our daughter kicks restlessly. "No. He made his choice when he brought guns to a negotiation." I meet his dark eyes. "Your father knows about Marco's betrayal. His autonomic responses were textbook deception."

"I know." Vincent's jaw clenches. "The way he looked at me after Marco whispered in his ear—pure hatred. My own father wants me dead."

The reality of it hits us both. Vincent Russo, heir apparent, now has a target on his back from his own blood. And I'm carrying his child.

"We're alone in this," I whisper.

"No." His hand covers mine where it rests on my stomach. "We're together in this."

The simple words break something inside me. All the adrenaline and fear from tonight transforms into desperate need. I turn toward him, my swollen belly making the movement awkward, but I don't care.

"Vincent," I breathe.

He reads the hunger in my voice, in my eyes. His hand moves to cup my face, thumb tracing my lower lip. "Melinda, you're seven months?—"

"I know what I am." I lean into his touch, suddenly desperate to feel alive after coming so close to death. "I need you. Please."

His control snaps. Vincent's mouth crashes against mine, all heat and desperate need. I taste bourbon and violence on his tongue, the flavor of a man who just fought his own father to protect me.

But then he pulls back, eyes dark as midnight, studying my face like he's memorizing every detail. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he murmurs, thumb tracing my swollen lower lip. "Sitting there, analyzing threats while carrying my child, looking like a fucking goddess of war."

"Vincent—"

"Shh." His finger presses against my lips. "I've been thinking about this all night. About how I wanted to drag you out of that restaurant and show everyone exactly who you belong to."

His hands frame my face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you need me as much as I need you."

"I need you," I breathe. "God, Vincent, I've never needed anything more."

"Good. Because I'm going to worship every inch of this perfect body until you forget everything except my name."

He kisses me again, slower this time, his tongue sliding against mine with deliberate sensuality.

His hands roam my body with reverent hunger, sliding under my silk blouse to cup my breasts.

They're fuller now, sensitive from pregnancy, and I gasp when his thumbs brush over my nipples through the lace.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful," he growls against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Even like this, especially like this. Carrying my baby. Do you know how hard it makes me, seeing you pregnant with my child?"