Page 3 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

This dress might fit, but nothing else does.

In my childhood bedroom, I stare into a gilded mirror older than my medical career—older than my memories of safety, for that matter.

I keep waiting for my reflection to lose the haunted look around her eyes.

No luck.

I smooth the burgundy gown over my hips. The color is deep, a Mastroni color, the kind my mother would’ve pressed on me before a feast or a funeral.

It fits perfectly, tailored for someone who eats more salads than lunch breaks allow time for, who runs on caffeine and emergency adrenaline.

My hair’s too glossy, fingers too steady.

Professional. Controlled. To the professional world, I am Dr. Melinda Mason, using my mother’s last name for anonymity.

I’m a product of Columbia Med, eldest daughter of New York’s deadliest family, and right now, I feel like I’m pretending at both.

I lean closer to the mirror and pull my sleeve just high enough to study the thin puckered line on my right wrist—my first real scar. Given everything that happened in this house, I should probably have more.

Instead, I kept my wounds hidden, stitched up by my own hand or my brother’s, never once letting the hospitals record the evidence. My mother said a Mastroni girl never shows weakness. My father never allowed me to forget why.

I force a breath past the weight on my sternum. That old pine dresser, still crowded with medical textbooks, competes for space with my ballet trophies and a drawer that still cradles a nine-millimeter Beretta in velvet, untouched in five years but respected like a holy relic.

The room is a curation of someone I tried desperately not to be.

I pick up my clutch and slide a pill into my mouth—ondansetron, anti-nausea, the secret weapon in the war that is my first trimester.

Four months and counting.

I keep a bottle in every coat pocket; the mask of professionalism I wear can’t survive a bout of sudden vomiting. Especially not now, not tonight, not with the Mastroni name at the center of the gala.

There’s a knock on the door, hard knuckles on ancient wood. It’s Max. He doesn’t say “open up.” He doesn’t need to.

I let him in. He fills up the entire threshold, six-feet-something and power woven into his bones, tux crisp, eyes sharp. He gives me one clinical sweep like he’s cataloging threats, not admiring the work of the family tailor.

“You look... expensive,” he says, arching one eyebrow.

“Trust me, I’d rather be in scrubs.” I can’t help the edge in my voice.

Max steps inside, gaze flicking to the pistol drawer as if expecting trouble to leap out.

The memory of him bleeding on our mother’s rug streaks through my mind—a territorial dispute, two bullets in his thigh, my hesitant hands learning to suture skin slick with blood…

and fear. I think that was when I started planning my escape from the madness that is our family’s work.

“You ready?” he asks, quiet. There’s an undertone of something besides command. Worry, maybe. Or guilt, unspoken.

“For which part?” I ask. “Smiling at people who’d slit my throat if they thought Dad wouldn’t notice? Or pretending I’m just here for family values?”

He half-smiles. “Both. And if anyone blinks at you wrong, Maya’s got your back. She’s bouncing off the walls already.”

I glance down at my watch—a faint scuff at the crystal, the one luxury I allowed myself during residency. I catch the shudder in my breath before he can notice. “Did you double the security tonight?”

His mouth tenses. “Tripled. After your incident in Italy—” Max stares at a crack in the wall when he says it, like the details are written there. “We still don’t know who ordered the hits. But don’t worry my men are on it and we’ll find them.”

My fingers clench around the clutch so hard the edge bites my skin. “Well, they missed. If they come back, I won’t be so easy.”

He looks at me for a stretch of silent seconds like he wants to argue. We both know why been trying to run from this place since I was eighteen.

Max notices—he always does. “You didn’t have to come back early from your sabbatical, Mel,” he says, using the nickname he gave up for years when I walked out that door.

“When you called me from Italy after I handled Cara’s dad, well, I knew you were in deep shit. But I could’ve handled it for you.”

I snort softly. “Yeah, if you want me dead, try that plan.” I meet his gaze. “I called you when someone tried to put a bullet through my villa window in Italy. Tried to shoot me. I had to come back. But I’m not staying long. I just… I need to know who’s after me. On my turf.”

I shake my head. “Besides… it’s not just me anymore.”

The words slip out louder than I meant but not loud enough for him to catch on.

Down the hall, I hear someone coming—the only person in this house who can move without Max’s explicit permission.

Cara appears, a vision in blue silk, hair in soft waves, wedding ring flashing when she tucks a strand behind her ear. “You look—wow. Like a Vogue shoot interrupted by a medical drama.”

I allow myself a small smile. “I’d settle for not puking on the mayor.”

Her eyes narrow with friendly suspicion. Cara could’ve been a trophy wife, but there’s sharpness beneath the gloss. “Nerves? I guess after years away, anyone would be nervous tonight. I slipped a chocolate bar into your clutch. In case you need to self-comfort with all the vultures circling.”

She’s always mothering me, now. I wonder how much of it’s affection and how much is trauma from the way she was… what, acquired? Kidnapped, then loved, then married.

The photo of their wedding sits on my dresser, recentering so many things I thought I understood. It feels like a lifetime ago, Cara’s pale hand clinging to Max’s, bruises only half-faded. People talk in whispers, like love’s a consequence, not an accident.

Cara looks softer tonight, her armor more socialite than soldier. But her voice changes when it’s just us. “Maya’s still offering to ‘accidentally’ stab anyone who brings up why you left for all those years. For the record, the family’s better since you’ve come back.”

“Hardly.” I can’t help the bitterness in my voice.

I force my face into something like gratitude.

“It wasn’t just a career move, you know.

” I risk the confession. “I was burnt out. I needed a break, honestly. I almost hurt a patient, two weeks ago. I thought I could push through after that threat on my life. But—” I hesitate.

“I’m still not quite myself. I couldn’t risk making a mistake with a patient. ”

Cara’s expression softens even more. “You’ve been out of this world for so long. Being threatened like that isn’t something you can just forget, Melinda. If you need to bail, tonight or ever, just say the word.”

“You make it sound like a prison break, not a gala.” I brush imaginary lint off my gown, looking for something to anchor me.

“Max is channeling his inner warden, ever since the wedding.” Cara slides a sidelong glance at the door, where his hulking presence waits. “He still checks security tapes before I get home.”

“I’ve always done that.” He grunts from the doorway. “Let’s go, before Maya explodes.”

He leads the way down the sweeping staircase. The house is loud tonight—security everywhere, staff chattering in corners.

I try to focus on the rotunda’s wallpaper instead, arranging my features into serene professionalism.

My baby sister Maya intercepts me halfway down the stairs, all bold energy, eyeliner sharp as the blades she hides on her thighs.

She hugs me with bone-squeezing force, whispers in rapid-fire Italian so only I catch her words.

“Two shooters outside last night, you know? Next fucker who tries, I’ll turn him inside out and mail the pieces back.

” She’s brash and beautiful and would probably slit a throat for me, if I asked.

“I’d prefer you didn’t send packages,” I reply, almost smiling.

She grins, showing white teeth. “I’ll save it for my wedding.”

At the car, one of Max’s men opens the back door. He scans me for weapons, not because he doubts me but because it’s policy. I flash him my most withering doctor glare, and he turns pink—he can break bones with his hands, but he won’t challenge a real Mastroni woman to her face.

The city rushes by us through armored glass. On the way, Max reviews the security plan in clipped phrases, more for his own reassurance than mine. Cara chats lightly, weather and perfumery and art, code for admitting, “I see you. I know you’re scared. I’ll deflect for you tonight.”

It’s almost comforting. I realize too late I’ve pressed my palm against my lower abdomen, a protective gesture that’d give me away in a second if anyone noticed. My belly feels different already. This baby is real now.

Sometimes, I want to say everything—to confess to Max that I’m not just tired, I’m terrified, that every wave of nausea is both worry and hope.

That I never wanted to bring a child into this world.

That I’m furious about fate, about family, about nights where the only man I’ve been emotionally vulnerable with in years turned out to be a stranger with dangerous eyes.

I’m not allowed that luxury. I can’t tell my family about this baby because then it becomes the family’s baby, not just mine. They’ll tell me how to raise it, how to train it into a Mastroni. I don’t want that.

When we reach the gala, the street is lined with black town cars and paparazzi. Security hustles us in, one hand at the small of my back.

Inside, chandeliers gleam and men in suits nod in that wordless, dangerous way. I recognize distant cousins and childhood friends who now carry pistols beneath their tuxedos. Everyone whispers, eyes on Max, on me, on how long it’s been since the Mastroni princess was seen in public.

I greet them all with calm, deliberate smiles. Air kisses—three on the cheek, a tradition as useful as Kevlar against a close-range bullet. I pose for a photo with Cara, the photographer snapping a quick shot next to a portrait of my father. He looms, stone-faced, above the foyer like a warning.

We’re ushered toward the main ballroom, where politicos and underbosses orbit. I try to ignore the whispers: prodigal returned, traitor’s daughter, Mastroni doctor back from exile. If anyone notices the sickly pallor underneath my expensive foundation, they don’t dare ask.

I spot a man I haven’t seen in years—Bernardo Cantini. He’s grown jowly and mean; his gaze lingers on my stomach, my chest, cataloguing me like butcher’s meat. I swallow hard, adjusting my clutch, and slip into a side corridor before his wolfish grin can corner me.

The old panic thrums in my temples. I reach for my phone, balancing on the marble ledge, and count my breaths like I did in medical school before a trauma code.

Behind me, a voice slices through the air. “Are you all right?” Cara, appearing as the perfect socialite, but her gaze scans for threats the way Max would.

“I’m fine,” I say, lying. “Just need some fresh air.”

She fakes a laugh for anyone watching and lowers her voice so only I hear. “You don’t have to do this alone. Max may act like an asshole, but you’re not on your own, Melinda—not tonight, or ever.”

I want to tell her about the baby. About the stranger from the penthouse. About the fear I’ve been carrying around no matter how many times I sterilize my hands or recite diagnoses in my head.

But I can’t. So I say, “Thank you,” and she just smiles tighter, looping her arm through mine.