Page 41 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

MAYA

The bass from the nightclub still pounds in my chest as I step onto the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan.

The neon lights reflect off the wet pavement like spilled blood, and I can't help but smile at the comparison.

Everything reminds me of violence these days—occupational hazard of being a Mastroni.

"Miss Maya, the car is this way," my security detail calls out, his voice tight with barely concealed irritation.

I don't even glance back. "I'm walking."

"Ma'am, your brother specifically instructed?—"

"My brother can go fuck himself." The words slice through the night air, sharp enough to cut glass. "I don't need a goddamn babysitter."

The silence behind me tells me they know better than to argue. Good. I'm so fucking tired of being treated like some delicate flower that might wilt at the first sign of danger. They seem to forget I've personally put twelve men in the ground, and that's just the ones I'm willing to admit to.

The rain starts falling harder, soaking through my designer dress, but I don't give a shit.

The cold feels good against my heated skin, washing away the suffocating atmosphere of family expectations and political maneuvering.

Ever since Max married that blonde princess Cara, everything's changed.

He's gone soft, more concerned with playing house than maintaining our reputation.

Ever since Melinda's been back, got herself knocked up by a fucking Russo of all people and had my perfect niece, life’s been upside down more than usual.

Vincent Russo—the golden boy heir with his Harvard MBA and his perfectly pressed suits. Married and still looking at each other like they are lovestruck lovers. It makes my skin crawl.

I deliberately turn down a narrow alley between two towering buildings. The smart move would be to stay on the main street where there are witnesses, cameras, people. But I've never been accused of being smart—just lethal.

The footsteps behind me have been there for three blocks now. Three sets, trying to be subtle but failing miserably. Amateur hour. If you're going to stalk a Mastroni, at least have the decency to be good at it.

I reach into the slit of my dress, fingers closing around the handle of my favorite blade. The weight of it is comforting, familiar. This knife has tasted blood before, and it's hungry for more.

The alley narrows, brick walls closing in on either side. Perfect. I've just made myself the perfect target, alone and trapped. Or so they think.

"Well, well," I murmur to myself, spinning around with fluid grace as the footsteps grow closer. "Which rival family was stupid enough to target a Mastroni?"

Three men emerge from the shadows, and I have to give them credit—they're professionals. No cheap street thugs these. Their stance is confident, weapons already drawn. Silenced pistols, expensive suits, dead eyes. Someone paid good money for this hit.

"Maya Mastroni," the lead man says, his voice accented—Russian, maybe. "You should have stayed home tonight."

I laugh, the sound echoing off the brick walls. "Fuck you. Bring it on, big boy. I was getting bored anyway."

My blade sings as I draw it, the steel catching what little light filters into the alley. The men spread out, trying to surround me, but they're making a crucial mistake—they think I'm afraid.

Fear is for people who have something to lose.

The first one moves, and I'm already in motion. Years of training with the family's best instructors have made my body a weapon. I duck under his gun arm, driving my knife up into his ribs, finding the gap between bones like I was born to it. He screams, the sound cut short as I twist the blade.

Blood, hot and metallic, sprays across my face. It should disgust me, but instead, it makes me feel alive. This is who I am. This is what I was made for.

The second attacker tries to grab me from behind, but I've already anticipated the move. I slam my elbow back into his solar plexus, feeling ribs crack under the impact. As he doubles over, gasping, I spin and drag my blade across his throat. More blood. More screaming.

But the third one is smarter, faster. Before I can turn, his arm snakes around my neck, pressing me back against the cold brick wall. The barrel of his gun digs into my temple, and I can smell the oil on the metal.

"Not so tough now, are you, little princess?"

I laugh again, even with his forearm crushing my windpipe. "Is that really the best you can do? I've been threatened by scarier people at Sunday dinner."

His grip tightens, and for a moment, I wonder if this is how it ends. Bleeding out in some shitty alley because I was too proud to accept protection. Max will probably blame himself, the guilt-ridden bastard. And Melinda will use it as another excuse to play the victim.

The thought pisses me off more than dying does.

But then I hear it—the soft whisper of a silenced gunshot. The man holding me jerks, his grip loosening as something warm and wet splashes across the back of my neck. His body drops, and I'm suddenly free.

I spin around, blade ready, expecting to see one of Max's men defying orders to follow me.

Instead, a figure emerges from the deeper shadows of the alley.

Tall, imposing, moving with the kind of predatory grace that screams danger.

Even in the dim light, I can see his eyes—dark, calculating, missing nothing.

He dispatches the remaining attackers with an efficiency that's almost artistic. Two quick shots, both headshots, both perfect. These men who were threatening my life seconds ago are now just cooling meat on wet pavement.

"Impressive," I say, not lowering my weapon. "But if you think I'm going to thank you, you're shit out of luck."

He holsters his gun with practiced ease, studying me like I'm some kind of interesting specimen. "I wouldn't dream of it."

His voice is cultured, accented, but not in any way I can place immediately. Definitely not New York Italian. Something more refined, more dangerous.

"Who sent you?" I demand, taking a step closer despite every instinct screaming at me to maintain distance. "Max? Because if my brother thinks I need a goddamn guardian angel?—"

"Consider it professional courtesy." The words flow in perfect Italian, the accent now clear—old world, aristocratic, the kind that comes with generations of power and blood.

This is no ordinary soldier. This is someone who matters.

"Professional courtesy, my ass," I snap back in the same language. "Nobody does favors in our world without expecting payment."

His smile is enigmatic, revealing nothing. "Perhaps our interests simply align."

"And what interests would those be?"

But he's already moving, melting back into the shadows like he was never there at all. In the distance, I can hear sirens—someone reported the gunshots, and the cops will be here soon.

"We'll meet again, Maya Mastroni," his voice drifts from the darkness. "Next time, perhaps wear something that doesn't restrict your left-side defense."

The bastard has been watching me long enough to analyze my fighting style. That should terrify me, but instead, I feel something I haven't experienced in years—genuine intrigue. Someone who might actually be my equal, who sees me as a threat worth studying rather than a liability to protect.

I wipe my blade clean on one of the dead men's expensive jackets before sliding it back into its sheath. The sirens are getting closer, and I need to disappear before some overeager detective decides to ask uncomfortable questions.

As I walk away, leaving the carnage behind like it's just another Tuesday night, I can't stop thinking about those dark eyes and that knowing smile. Whoever he is, whatever game he's playing, he's just made things infinitely more interesting.

"Next time, stranger," I murmur to the empty street. "And there will be a next time."

The rain continues to fall, washing the blood from my skin but not from my memory.

In our world, debts are always collected, one way or another. He saved my life tonight, which means I owe him something. The question is: what does he want in return?