Page 4 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

Five grand worth of suit on my back, and I’m still ready to burn this place down.

All this polite fucking chatter is giving me a migraine.

These people pretend they don’t know who I am.

They clock the name—Russo—give that polite little nod, then keep their eyes on the champagne, not on the blood money that props up the Russo name.

The art on the walls is worth millions, but I’ve buried the bodies of men with empires worth more. Tonight isn’t about the museum or community for anyone here; it’s about power.

Influence.

Threats and manipulation disguised as handshakes.

My security detail blends in with the crisply attired staff, but I see them all, every shadow at the edge of the room. I don’t trust this crowd. The truth is, I trust maybe three people on the entire planet, and none of them are here.

Well, that's not entirely true. Tony's here somewhere—my head of security, the one man who's never let me down.

He's probably positioned near the main entrance, coordinating with the rest of my team through encrypted comms. Eight years he's been watching my back, ever since he took a bullet meant for me outside a restaurant in Queens.

Some loyalty you buy. Some you earn. Tony's better than both.

I catch his eye across the room—a slight nod, nothing more. He's seen what I've seen. Tony knows danger before it announces itself.

My father's across the room, cornered by hedge fund vampires.

He's smiling, all charm and silver fox hair, acting like he hasn't ordered two guys to be clipped this week for skimming.

I admire that. The smile. The cruelty tucked just underneath.

If you didn't know, you'd never know. That's the most dangerous kind of predator.

Just like her. The woman who let me fuck her against my penthouse window and never once told me her name. She played me as smooth as I've ever been played, taking what she wanted that night and then leaving without a word. I fucking respect her for it.

I make my rounds, touch base with a few business associates—legit and otherwise.

My mind keeps drifting, though, back to the woman from the penthouse.

Four months ago, and I can still taste her.

The only time I’ve let myself relax since Lila fucked me over and three FBI agents got themselves buried.

Since I learned firsthand just how deep betrayal can slice.

A server steps in my path. “Mr. Russo, would you care for?—”

“No.” I brush past her, barely registering the tray. My brother Marco is supposed to put in an appearance tonight, too, but I pray he stays the fuck away. I don’t need another scene after last month’s little... demonstration. Useless violence. But effective. Sometimes you need it.

I do a quick scan of the room again and then I see him—Max Mastroni.

Taller than me, which I hate. Maybe a step back in the evolutionary chain, but he’s dangerous.

I respect that kind of violence. Beside him is Cara, all blonde innocence, a pretty mask hiding a mind like a razor.

She’s looking at her phone, murmuring to a woman standing just to the left of her.

My stomach drops. I see that woman's profile—a line of cheekbone, a little scar on her wrist as she lifts her glass—long chestnut hair tangled over one shoulder, eyes glittering like whiskey and secrets. My heart thuds, then slams to a stop. No fucking way.

She's the one. The doctor in scrubs I fucked raw in my bed, the one who crawled out before daylight and left my sheets smelling like temptation.

All this time, I've been thinking she was a ghost—a fever dream conjured up to torment me through lonely nights.

Now here she is, standing with the Mastronis like she belongs.

Christ. It has to be the sister. The missing sister. The one who vanished from public records, who built a life in the shadows while I was building my empire. No wonder I never connected the dots—she's been invisible for years, even to men like me who make it their business to know everything.

Now here she is, playing royalty at the gala, standing with the enemy.

Max says something to her, and she laughs, but there’s tension in the line of her jaw. I can see it even from across the room. She doesn’t want to be here. I want to step forward, to grab her, shake her, demand answers. Instead, I force myself still. I watch.

Cara turns, eyes flickering to me for a fraction of a second. And then the doctor—my doctor—steps away, pressing a hand to her stomach, face going pale. She’s going to be sick. Something is wrong.

That’s when I notice Cantini watching her too.

Fat bastard in a suit one size too small, smile like a hyena with greedy eyes on a corpse.

I know him—Bernardo Cantini, a rival underboss with a thing for hurting what other men want.

He’s got that look, already undressing her with his eyes, calculating how close he can get, how rough he can play.

I set my drink down, adjust my cufflinks, and cut across the floor. My men fall in step, invisible to everyone but me. Cantini moves to intercept her by the hallway leading to the private collection, thinking he’s got her cornered—ripe for the picking.

Not tonight. Not ever.

I slip between them, smooth as oil, catching Cantini’s eye with a cordial smile like my father’s. “Bernardo. You look well. How’s your baby girl enjoying that new school in Connecticut?” I keep it light, a chuckle in my voice. He stiffens.

“Fine,” he mutters, eyes darting past me to the missing Mastroni daughter—Melinda.

“And the wife?” I add, tone oh-so-friendly.

“Heard she’s been shopping for a pied-à-terre in Queens.

Or was that for your girlfriend? You know, the blonde?

The one with the banking job and the taste for Cartier?

” I drop this as casual as breathing, starting to reach for a glass of wine from a passing tray.

Cantini’s eyes harden, hand curling around nothing. He realizes I know his secrets; I always fucking know. “You—you shouldn’t believe gossip, Vincent.”

I drop the smile. “Bernardo. People talk because they don’t know better. I prefer facts. You keep your nose clean, stick to your side, and your daughter makes it home from ballet every time, capisce?” I lean in, voice low so only he hears. “Focus your attention elsewhere. Tonight’s not your night.”

I flick my gaze toward him one last time before shifting, blocking his view entirely as I face her.

Cantini scuttles away, hands in fists, right into the sightlines of two of my guards.

Other sharks in the room notice—watching the way I control with words where Marco would use a gun.

This is how I lead, how my father never will.

You learn more from a terrified silence than a puddle of blood. Sometimes.

She’s pressed back against the wall, breathing shallow. When her eyes meet mine, it’s like the first ice-cold drink after a ten-mile run—shock and need mixing in my chest.

“Melinda Mastroni,” I say, testing the name on my tongue.

Her face hardens. “Vincent Russo.” Her voice is that same cool silk I remember whispered against my neck. “This area’s for guests only, not interrogations.”

Even now, in enemy territory, she’s got steel under all that beauty. I respect it, can’t help myself.

“We need to talk,” I murmur, voice low. “Now.”

She glances around, calculating escape routes. Fuck, she’s a pro. Never learned that in med school. Her fingers tense, just a little, before she steels herself and pushes away from the wall. “Fine. Private lounge. Two minutes. And keep your soldiers outside.”

I let her set the terms, just for show. We move down the corridor together, every nerve stretched tight. I’m acutely aware of the way she moves—elegant and ready to kill if she has to. My type exactly.

When we hit a shadowed alcove, I plant myself in her path, making damn sure nobody else can overhear.

We’re close enough that I can see the freckles across the bridge of her nose, the heat rising on her cheeks.

I want to throw her up against the wall and demand what the fuck she was doing in my private penthouse months ago pretending she didn’t know who I was.

Instead, I ask, “Is this what you do for fun now, doctor? Show up to galas and play the loyal daughter?”

She stares at me, lips tight, jaw set. “I didn’t know who you were that night. I didn’t want this.”

Bile rises in my throat, a dull, familiar burn. Betrayal. Always betrayal. “You’re a Mastroni. You fuck me and now you just decide to come back into the fold?”

She laughs, but it’s hollow, sharp as broken glass. “Yeah. Family always comes back, right? Except sometimes you leave for a reason.” Her hand flutters over her stomach but drops fast, almost like she forgot for a moment that I’m watching.

My heart picks up. Something’s off. I see how pale she looks. The rumors—Max’s older sister who went away, back just now. Why? I step closer, ignoring her glare, studying her face. “You sick? Or hiding something?” I lower my voice, just for her. “Are you… pregnant?”

For a second, she freezes. I see the calculation—could she lie, could she run, could she kill me right here and bury the answer? Then, her chin lifts.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Try again.”

She just looks at me, those whiskey-colored eyes darkening with hate. “You really want to do this here?”

I do. I want to destroy something, and I want her to give me an excuse. But then footsteps echo down the corridor.

“Melinda, you good?” That voice—I know it.

Max’s attack dog. Maya. The youngest Mastroni.

All femininity and razor blades. She sizes me up in a blink, fingers twitching near her thigh.

I know what’s strapped under that satin dress.

She’d gut me in front of a hundred witnesses if I gave her half an excuse.

Melinda moves in front of her sister, voice urgent and furious in rapid Italian that sounds like home and hell at once. “Not here,” she hisses, low enough that I just catch it. “Not tonight. Stand down.”

Maya’s mouth curls into a dangerous smile. “We’ll talk about this later, Russo. Maybe somewhere with fewer witnesses.”

She slides away, silent as a fucking assassin. Melinda sags, just a little. The adrenaline is pounding through her—I can feel it radiating from her skin.

I catch her arm, gentler than I mean to. “You going to answer me, or do we keep dancing around this like idiots all night?” My hand is big enough to span her entire bicep. Fuck, I remember how those arms looked tangled over my head.

She wrenches free, breathing hard, staring at me harder. A cold sneer twists her pretty lips. “Congratulations, Vincent. You figured it out. I’m pregnant and it’s yours.” She punches the words out like bullets.

The world tips. I can’t breathe. For a second, there’s only the sound of her voice echoing off marble and generations of blood. Then the anger is back, hotter than ever.

“Was this the plan?” I seethe. “Get knocked up by a Russo, drag both families to the table?”

She shoves me, not hard but not gentle. “Go fuck yourself. You think I wanted any of this? I got out of this hell. I built a life. I didn’t want you, your name, or this goddamned world of dirty deals and violence.”

I almost smile—the fury in her, it’s real. She’s not lying. But I don’t relax because in my world, even honesty can cut deepest. I step back, restoring space because if I don’t I’ll pound my fist through the wall. Or worse—I might kiss her.

There’s commotion from the ballroom—applause and laughter, a thousand secrets hidden in every voice. We’re alone, but I can hear the footsteps of both our pasts closing in.

“You know what happens now, right?” I say quietly. “There’s not a family in New York that won’t want a piece of this kid. Mastroni and Russo blood in one body? Doesn’t matter if we hate each other, they’ll try to take you both.”

She meets my stare without fear. “I know. I grew up with this. I’m not afraid.” It’s true. Her eyes are dark amber, stubborn, so fucking alive.

I want to kiss her or kill her or protect her from everything outside this room. Instead, I leave it at this. “We’re going to talk. Soon. Somewhere secure.”

She turns her back on me—her way of saying fuck you, I don’t need you. But I see the tremor in her hand as she tucks hair behind her ear. She’s scared. She has every right to be.

I linger for a moment watching her walk away, the weight of generations pressing on my chest. My phone buzzes in my pocket—a coded message from Tony: “All quiet. Target on move. Gala secure.”

Bullshit. Nothing is secure now. The game just changed. Everyone’s going to want a piece of us, and I still don’t know if I’m playing executioner or savior.

I take a slow breath, let my anger bleed into control. I am Vincent Russo. Heir. Killer. Now, maybe father. I will not lose. But for the first time, I realize I want something I can’t take with a bullet or a bank account.

I want her—and the child growing in her, my child—safe. Alive. Even if it means blowing up both of our families from the inside.

As I blend into the darkness of the museum, already planning for war, I know this:

The Mastronis won’t see me coming. And if I have to burn this city to the ground to keep what’s mine, so be it.

After all, a Russo never leaves his blood unclaimed.