Page 37 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

The chapel sits on neutral ground like a diplomatic embassy, its weathered stone walls hiding enough firepower to level a city block.

I adjust my cufflinks for the third time, watching Tony's reflection in the antique mirror as he coordinates security through his earpiece.

Every server, every photographer, every fucking flower arrangement has been vetted twice.

Today, I marry Melinda Mastroni in front of our bloodiest enemies, and I'll be damned if my psychotic brother ruins it.

"Boss," Tony murmurs, stepping closer. "Perimeter's locked down. Snipers positioned on three rooftops, exit routes clear. But we've got a problem."

My jaw tightens. "Marco?"

"Confirmed sighting twenty minutes ago. East Village, traveling with six men. Former Perezzi soldiers." Tony's voice carries that flat tone he uses when delivering death sentences. "They're armed and moving this direction."

I study my reflection—immaculate tuxedo, mother's ring secure in my pocket, face carved from stone. Today I bind myself to the mother of my child, the woman who's crawled under my skin and rewired my fucking DNA. Marco can go to hell.

"Double the interior detail," I tell Tony. "Coordinate with Max's people. We proceed as planned."

"Vincent." Max appears in the doorway, his own tux pristine despite the Glock visible beneath his jacket. "My men spotted movement three blocks out. You want to postpone?"

"No." The word comes out harder than I intend. "We're not giving that bastard the satisfaction."

Max studies me with those obsidian eyes that miss nothing. "This isn't about satisfaction. This is about keeping your wife alive long enough to actually be your wife."

"She's survived assassination attempts, gunfights, and premature labor complications." I turn from the mirror, letting him see the cold fury I've been banking. "Today she becomes a Russo officially. Marco can watch from whatever hole he's crawled out of."

Before Max can argue, the chapel doors open. Father Benedetto, the priest who’s blessed more funerals than weddings, peers inside with rheumy eyes—the same man who baptized Melinda, and now, will officiate her wedding.

"It's time," he says simply.

I walk through the chapel's narrow corridor, noting the subtle bulges under waitstaff jackets, the way the photographer's equipment case could conceal enough ammunition for a siege.

The flowers are beautiful—white roses and baby's breath—but I know the vases are weighted and could serve as weapons if needed. Even our wedding is a goddamn tactical operation.

The chapel fills with an impossible sight—Russos and Mastronis sitting together, former enemies now cautious allies.

The front row feels strangely empty without my father's imposing presence—Antonio Russo's death still leaves a void in family gatherings.

Across the aisle, Dominic Mastroni nods once in acknowledgment. The old bastard looks like he'd rather be planning my funeral, but business is business.

Maya sits beside Cara, both women completely stunning, both probably armed to the teeth. The guest list reads like a who's who of New York's most dangerous bloodlines, all gathered to witness something unprecedented.

Several empty seats mark the absence of those we've lost—my father, the three captains who challenged my succession, the old guard who couldn't adapt to new leadership. Their ghosts seem to watch from the shadows, reminders of the price we've paid for this moment.

My earpiece crackles. "Movement on the north approach," Tony reports. "Civilian vehicles, but maintaining distance."

I touch my throat mic. "Confirmed hostile?"

"Negative. But staying alert."

The chapel doors open again, and everything else fades to background noise. Melinda appears like a vision, her dress flowing behind her in elegant waves.

She's radiant—face glowing with new motherhood, amber eyes bright with more joy than I’ve ever seen in them. The sight of her hits me like a physical blow to the chest.

Max walks her down the aisle, his massive frame protective but proud. When he places her hand in mine, the weight of generations settles between us. Two families, bound by the child we're raising together.

"She's all yours now," Max murmurs, but there's warning beneath the words. "Keep her safe."

"Always," I reply, meaning every fucking syllable.

Benedetto begins the ceremony in Italian. His words wash over me—sacred vows older than our violence, promises that transcend the blood on our hands.

"We gather today not just to witness a union, but to honor those who came before," Benedetto intones, his eyes briefly touching the empty seats. "Antonio Russo watches from beyond, as do all who gave their lives for family honor."

The acknowledgment of my father's death sends a ripple through the assembled guests. Some cross themselves, others simply nod in recognition of the sacrifice that brought us to this moment.

"Vincent Russo," Benedetto continues, "do you take this woman as your wife, to love and protect until death parts you?"

I look into Melinda's eyes, seeing past the careful makeup to the fierce intelligence beneath. "I do. In this life and whatever comes after."

"Melinda Mastroni, do you take this man as your husband, to stand beside him through all trials?"

Her voice doesn't waver. "I do. For better or worse, until the end."

I slide my mother's ring onto her finger, the diamond catching the light coming through the chapel windows.

When she produces my simple platinum ring, it’s as elegant as everything about her. My chest tightens with emotions I don't have names for.

"By the power vested in me," Benedetto begins, but his words are cut short by the sharp crack of gunfire outside.

The chapel erupts.

Guests dive for cover as my security team springs into action, weapons appearing from beneath formal wear with practiced efficiency.

Tony's voice cuts through the chaos. "Multiple hostiles, automatic weapons, north and east approaches!"

I wrap my arms around Melinda, pulling her behind the altar as bullets shatter stained glass windows. She moves with me perfectly, no panic, trusting me completely even as our wedding transforms into a war zone.

"Marco," she says, not a question.

"Yeah." I draw my Glock, checking the chamber. "Stupid bastard couldn't let us have one fucking day."

Max appears beside us, rifle materializing from beneath his tuxedo jacket. "Perimeter's holding, but barely. They came heavy."

Another burst of gunfire rattles the walls. Through the broken windows, I catch a glimpse of muzzle flashes, tactical movement. Professional work—Marco's learned something since I last saw him.

"Stay down," I tell Melinda, but she's already reaching into her purse, producing the Beretta I know she carries. Even on our wedding day, my wife comes armed.

"Like hell," she replies, amber eyes blazing. "This is our day, Vincent. Let's end this."

That's when I see him.

Marco's face in the doorway, wild-eyed and grinning like a fucking maniac. Our eyes meet across the chaos, and I see everything I feared.

My brother has crossed the line from calculated violence into pure madness.

The game just changed. Again.