Page 33 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

Through the NICU window, I watch nurses tend to my child with practiced care.

Their movements remind me of my own soldiers—controlled, purposeful, life-or-death precision.

But these people save lives instead of taking them.

My phone rings. Max's name on the screen.

"Vincent." His voice carries the weight of leadership I recognize in my own. "How's the baby?"

"Fighting. Like her mother." I lean against the wall, exhaustion finally hitting me. "You coming to meet your niece?"

"Already here. Maya's with me—she insisted on seeing her sister’s daughter." A pause. "We need to talk. About what happens now."

What happens now.

My father is dead. Marco is neutralized. Three captains who might have challenged my authority are permanently removed from the equation. The Russo organization is mine, bought with blood and strategy in equal measure.

"Meet me in the family conference room," I say. "Third floor."

The conference room overlooks the hospital's gardens, a peaceful view that contrasts sharply with the violence that brought us here. Max enters alone, his movements careful, deliberate. This is the first time we've been face-to-face since everything changed.

"Congratulations," he says, settling into the chair across from me. "On becoming a father. And... other recent developments."

We both know what he means. Antonio Russo's death during what appeared to be a Perezzi ambush has already hit the streets. The story is clean, believable—the old don eliminated by rivals while his son fought desperately to save him. Only my most trusted lieutenants know the truth.

"Thank you." I pour two glasses of water from the pitcher on the table. "How's Melinda handling everything?"

"She's worried about the baby. Exhausted. Asking questions about what really happened tonight." Max's dark eyes study my face. "I told her the official version. For now."

"Smart." I meet his gaze directly. "She doesn't need to carry that weight. Not yet."

"But she'll figure it out eventually. Melinda's too fucking smart to believe in convenient coincidences." He leans back in his chair. "The question is whether you're prepared for her to know what you're capable of."

I think about Melinda resting in the recovery room, her hand protectively curved over her healing incision. She married me knowing I was dangerous. She just doesn't know how dangerous yet.

"I'll handle that when the time comes," I say. "Right now, our priority is consolidating power while maintaining the appearance of external threat."

Max nods slowly. "The Perezzi family's convenient destruction helps with that narrative. I assume there were no survivors to contradict the story?"

"None." The Perezzis had outlived their usefulness the moment they agreed to work with Marco against me. Eliminating them served multiple purposes—removing witnesses, providing a scapegoat for my father's death, and sending a message to other families about the cost of betraying the Russos.

"Good." Max reaches into his jacket, producing a thick envelope. "Financial records from the Perezzi operations. Thought you might want to see where the money was coming from."

I scan the documents quickly. Offshore accounts, weapons purchases, personnel payments. The scale of the operation is larger than I expected, which means Marco had been planning this betrayal for longer than I initially thought, possibly years.

"Ambitious little bastard," I murmur.

"Your brother always thought big. Just not smart." Max retrieves the papers. "Speaking of Marco—what's his status?"

The question I've been avoiding. Marco is currently secured in a facility outside the city, under guard, recovering from the wounds Melinda inflicted. He's alive, which makes him a problem. Dead, he'd be a martyr. Alive, he's a constant threat.

"Recovering," I say carefully. "The question is what to do with him long-term."

"The traditional approach would be elimination." Max's voice carries no judgment, just pragmatic assessment. "Clean, permanent, sends the right message about family loyalty."

He's right. In the old days, under my father's leadership, Marco would already be dead. Betraying family was the ultimate sin, punishable only by death. But I'm not my father.

"There's another option," I say. "Exile. Permanent, non-negotiable, but allows him to live."

Max raises an eyebrow. "That's... merciful. Some might see it as weakness."

"Some might. Others will see it as confidence. A leader secure enough in his power to show mercy to defeated enemies." I lean forward. "Besides, dead martyrs inspire revenge. Live exiles inspire pity."

"Where would you send him?"

"South America. Argentina, maybe. Somewhere far enough away that he can't cause immediate trouble, but not so remote that he disappears entirely.

" I've been considering this option since my late father declared all-out war, with Marco as the instigator.

"Strip him of all assets, all connections, all power.

Let him live with the consequences of his choices. "

Max considers this, fingers drumming against the table. "It's risky. Leaves a potential threat alive."

"Everything's risky. The question is which risk serves our long-term interests better." I finish my water, set the glass down with a thunk. "A dead Marco becomes a symbol for anyone who opposes my leadership. A broken, exiled Marco becomes a warning."

"And if he tries to return? Attempts revenge?"

"Then he dies. But at least we gave him the chance to choose survival over stupidity.

" I stand, moving to the window. The city spreads below us, lights flickering like scattered diamonds.

"This is about more than Marco. It's about establishing a different kind of leadership.

One that uses violence strategically rather than reflexively. "

Max joins me at the window. "You're thinking about the baby. About what kind of world she'll inherit."

"Partly." The admission comes easier than expected. "But also about what kind of leader I want to be. My father ruled through fear and absolute brutality. It worked, but it also made enemies of everyone around him. I want something... sustainable."

"Sustainable." Max repeats the word like he's testing its weight. "Interesting concept for our business."

"Our business is changing. Evolving. The old ways of blood feuds and territory wars are expensive, inefficient. Bad for long-term growth." I turn back to him. "What if we tried something different? Cooperation instead of constant conflict?"

Max's laugh is sharp, calculated. "Cooperation between the Russos and Mastronis? Some people would call that fantasy."

"Some people are fucking idiots who can't see past their grandfathers' feuds.

" I return to my seat, energy coursing through me as the pieces align.

"Think about it strategically. Combined territories, shared intelligence, coordinated operations.

We could control everything from the docks to the pharmaceutical networks. "

"And split the profits how, exactly?"

"Equal partnership. Joint decision-making on major operations.

Separate day-to-day management of existing territories.

" The proposal has been forming in my mind since the wedding, crystallizing with each new threat we've faced together.

"My child gives us a natural alliance. Why not make it official? "

Max studies me with those obsidian eyes that miss nothing. "You're serious about this."

"Dead fucking serious. The alternative is another generation of our kids dodging bullets meant for their parents. Another fifty years of profitable territory divided by expensive wars." I lean forward. "Or we could build something that lasts. Something worth inheriting."

"The other families won't like it. A Russo-Mastroni alliance threatens everyone else's power base."

"Let them try to stop us. Separately, we're strong. Together, we're unstoppable." I can see him calculating odds, considering angles. "Besides, most of them are too busy fighting each other to coordinate any real opposition."

Before Max can respond, my phone buzzes with another message from Tony: All packages delivered. City's quiet. Ready for next phase.

The cleanup is complete. Three more bodies disappeared into the night, three more problems permanently solved. My father would be proud of the efficiency, if he weren't one of the corpses.

"Speaking of alliances," I say, showing Max the message, "I should probably mention that several former associates of my father have decided to retire from family business. Permanently."

Max nods with grim approval. "Loose ends?"

"The loosest. Men who saw my father's death as an opportunity to question my leadership." I pocket the phone. "They learned otherwise."

"How many?"

"Three captains. Plus their immediate lieutenants who might have been problematic." The numbers roll off my tongue without emotion. Necessary casualties in the transition of power. "Clean operations. No witnesses. No complications."

"Impressive. Most successions take weeks to fully stabilize." Max's respect is genuine. "You've consolidated control faster than anyone expected."

"Speed was essential. The longer rivals have to organize opposition, the bloodier the eventual resolution." I stand again, restless energy demanding movement. "Better to eliminate threats quickly than let them fester."

"And Marco? When do you make that decision?"

The question that will shape the future of my family—Melinda, Maria, and me. My brother—my enemy—lying broken and defeated, still breathing because I couldn't quite pull the trigger. Weakness or wisdom, I'm still not sure.

"Soon. Once the baby's stable, once Melinda's recovered enough to handle the decision." I move back to the window, watching late-night traffic move through the city streets. "She deserves input on whether we show mercy or deliver justice."

"She might surprise you. Melinda's got more steel than people realize."

"I know. She shot Marco without hesitation when he threatened our child. Amazing precision, perfect placement to disable without killing." The memory sends heat through my chest—pride and arousal mixing dangerously. "She's got the instincts for this life, even if she doesn't want them."

Max's smile turns predatory. "Family trait. Mastroni women don't break under pressure."

"No, they fucking don't." I think about Melinda in the delivery room, fighting through premature labor while maintaining enough presence of mind to monitor her own medical condition. "Your sister is... remarkable."

"She is. And if you ever hurt her, Vincent, our alliance won't protect you from what I'll do in response."

I respect him for it—I'd say the same thing in his position.

"Understood. But you should know—hurting her would be hurting myself. She's not just my wife anymore. She's..." I struggle for words that don't sound weak. "Essential."

Max nods slowly. "Good. Because she's been through enough shit in her life. She deserves happiness, even if it comes from a dangerous bastard like you."

My phone rings again. Dr. Chen's number.

"Mr. Russo? Your daughter's oxygen levels have stabilized. We're cautiously optimistic about reducing respiratory support over the next few hours."

Relief floods through me, sharp and unexpected. "Thank you, doctor. I'll be right there."

"Good news?" Max asks as I hang up.

"The best. Maria's improving."

"Maria?" Max's eyebrows rise. "That’s a beautiful name."

"After my grandmother," I meet his gaze directly. "Maria also means 'beloved' and 'wished-for child'—she's both. But more than that, it's a name that honors the women who've shaped our families. Strong women who've endured, who've fought, who've protected what matters most."

Max is quiet for a long moment, emotion flickering across his usually controlled features. "It's perfect. A name that carries hope instead of just... blood and loss."

"There's more." I take a breath, knowing this decision will define my leadership style from the beginning. "Maria Lucia Russo. The middle name honors light—Lucia means 'light' or 'illumination.' Our daughter should represent the light that breaks through the darkness of our world."

"Lucia?" Max's voice softens. "That's... beautiful, Vincent."

"Because of what she represents." I move toward the door, ready to return to my daughter. "Maria will grow up knowing that even in our world, there can be light. That strength doesn't have to mean brutality. That the strongest leaders are those who break cycles instead of perpetuating them."

Max follows me into the hallway. "And Marco? What will you tell your daughter about her uncle?"

I stop walking, considering the question that will shape the next generation's understanding of justice and mercy.

"That Uncle Marco made choices that put family at risk.

That forgiveness doesn't mean forgetting.

That sometimes the greatest punishment is having to live with the consequences of your actions.

" I resume walking toward the NICU, repeating the idea to Max, "Exile to Argentina.

Stripped of all assets, all connections, all power. But alive."

"You know that this is a dangerous precedent. Some might see mercy as weakness."

"Let them. I'd rather be seen as weak for showing mercy than strong for showing none." We reach the NICU, where my daughter continues her fight for survival. "Besides, dead martyrs inspire revenge. Broken exiles inspire pity."

Through the window, I watch the tiny chest rise and fall, each breath a victory against impossible odds. This child will inherit a different world than the one I grew up in. Cleaner, if I can manage it. More strategic. Less driven by ancient hatreds and reflexive violence.

"She's beautiful," Max says quietly, studying his niece through the glass. "Strong, like her mother."

"Smart, like her father," I reply. "At least, I hope so. Intelligence is the only thing that's kept me alive this long."

"Intelligence and ruthlessness. Don't forget the ruthlessness."