Page 6 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

The city’s asleep, but I’m not. I don’t really sleep anymore.

Too much noise inside my head, too much at risk.

The penthouse is full of glass, cold steel, and shadows. Nothing cozy about it.

Manhattan glittering out the window, a place for kings and killers. I stand at the bar in my office, pour myself three fingers of Macallan—none of that cheap blended shit. Never. I drink it slow, studying the caramel swirl in the glass.

There’s a faint bloodstain on my cuff from the warehouse the day before. Meaningless, but I don’t bother changing. You get used to blood in my business.

I tap the tablet on my desk. Security footage from the hospital rolls grainy and colorless on the screen.

Melinda Mastroni. The doctor operating under the last name Mason.

So clever using what I now know is her mother’s maiden name in her professional practice.

The one who left that ache in my bones and her scent on my sheets, back bent under my hands, mouth open, eyes wild, pleasure written all over her face.

Now she’s Russo property, like it or not.

My child, just announced to me tonight at the gala.

Four months along, she said, eyes full of amber fire and disgust.

I study her face frame by frame, pausing where she argues with head nurses, where she waves off flowers at her desk—stubborn, controlled.

No visitors. No regular boyfriend. Never noticed by my outside men, never flagged until now.

She couldn’t have known who I was that night.

She kept herself in isolation—work, sleep, repeat.

Fuck.

That was my question, wasn’t it? If that one explosive night was another Mastroni plot. But her story checks out.

I shoot a message to Tony, my most trusted lieutenant, to double the detail on her tomorrow.

Discreet, nothing flashy. Don’t give Max any excuse to start a war.

She’ll need the extra protection. The city’s about to wake up goddamn angry about a Russo-Mastroni baby.

Rumors will spread like poison. It always ends up that way, no matter how carefully we guard our secrets in this line of business.

My phone buzzes. Dad, again. I ignore it for now. I’ll call him when I’m ready.

I prop my feet on the desk, stretch out, rolling my shoulders.

The glass in my hand is steady, no tremor.

I don’t shake, not anymore. It’s all control.

This is what my father beat into me. Power means never losing your cool, even when your hands are dirty or your brother has gone off the rails. Especially then.

I bring up my files on Melinda. There’s a full folder, courtesy of my private investigator.

Her Harvard undergrad records, med school transcripts, published articles—some shit about trauma protocols.

Volunteered for Doctors Without Borders when she was nineteen, went to the worst war zones.

No family support, no mention of the Mastroni name.

She’s done everything to cut herself away from that legacy and still walks like a woman who sees ghosts in every hallway.

She’s good. Maybe better than good. Got some steel in her. I respect that. But she’s still fucked. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

A blip of pain tugs at my collar bone, the old burn scar twitching under my suit jacket.

I rub the spot reflexively. I remember iron bars, red-hot steel, the filth of that basement where I learned what my last name cost. And I learned something else—never trust anyone, not even blood. Especially not blood.

Tonight at the gala, Melinda looked at me like I was a fucking loaded gun pressed to her belly. Maybe I am. Hell, I probably am.

The phone buzzes again. Tony, this time. “Boss, got eyes on her. She left the gala with Max. No deviation. You want a tail to stick close, or just a perimeter?”

“Keep distance,” I tell him. “They’re expecting heat. Anyone follows too close, Max will start shooting. I want her safe, not a war. Let me know if anything looks off around her building.”

“Copy that. You want an inside hand at the hospital? Or too risky?”

Too risky for now. If the Mastronis smell my men inside their girl’s world, it’ll turn ugly. Perimeter only. I’ll handle contact myself.”

He grunts approval and hangs up.

I lean my head back, close my eyes. Melinda, in that deep red silk, curves for days.

The memory’s in my bones. She hates me now.

Maybe she always did. Life’s cruel like that.

Some women you want to save. Some, you want to own.

Melinda... I don’t know yet. She doesn’t want to be owned by anyone, and I almost respect that. Almost.

I don’t want to admit it, but she’s in my head. Could be trouble for me. Could be the end.

The city stirs below, sirens slicing the quiet. Someone’s bleeding somewhere, someone’s getting their brains blown out in a Bronx alley, a package moved off a boat in Red Hook. Life goes on, bodies drop, and the world keeps spinning on a pile of corpses.

My mind wanders to Marco—my brother, my knife in the back, my headache.

He didn’t like my move at the gala, didn’t like that I stepped into his shadow with more power than he’ll ever carry.

He wants to be Don, but all he brings is fire and noise.

No vision besides violence. He’s dangerous.

Not because he’s smart, but because he doesn’t care about the rules.

Rules hold me together. Marco likes to break them just to see who’ll die this time.

I finish my scotch and pour another. My father would kill for a son who drinks til numb, but I do it to remember.

His voice in my head, always: “Never show emotion, Vincent. Never let love cloud your power. It’s a liability.

” But what the old man never understood is that real power’s personal.

The only thing that makes you step out in front of a bullet is blood.

My mind drifts. Melinda’s scent still clings to the memories in my bedroom.

Her lips on my cock, her back arching, nails raking my scar.

She gave as good as she got, biting, cursing, moaning into my mouth.

I’ll never get that sound out of my head—not even if I burned the city to ash.

I want to see how she handles this next storm.

Most women run from the fire. She walks into it barefoot, daring anyone to take a shot.

I snap out of it, professional again. This isn’t about desire. That’s kid shit. This is about the family, about securing legacy.

I dial up my private investigator, Davide.

“I want everything on Melinda Mastroni, operating as Doctor Melinda Mason. Not just the shit you can Google. I want her rotation schedules, ex-lovers, who she goes out for drinks with, who she sends texts to at three in the morning. Find any cracks in her armor. And get me any dirt she’s hiding from both families. You got forty-eight hours.”

He’s good, Davide. Maybe the best in the city. If she has skeletons, he’ll parade them naked right to my door. I hang up. The more I know, the cleaner I can keep my hands.

I stroll to the windows. Rain’s started, sliding down the glass like city tears, soft and slow.

I watch the Chrysler Building for a second, gold-lit and sharp against the black night.

My mother loved this view. She used to say a man could rule the world if he stood high enough to see the river.

She never thought she’d get a bullet for being loyal. Loyalty is a fucking poison.

My phone buzzes again, this time a text from Tony: Max’s men running double shifts. No contact with outside crews. Movement around Mastroni compound.

He attaches a photo—Max with his arm around Melinda’s shoulders, tight and possessive. She’s in sweatpants, hoodie pulled tight, hiding her body. She looks smaller now, not the firestorm with sex appeal from earlier. Still dangerous, though. I’ve seen kittens turn lion in less than a second.

I think about that night we met—how her guard never really dropped, even when I had my hands around her throat, squeezing, making her beg for it.

She liked it rough. She wanted to feel. I gave her the kind of pain that turns into pleasure—something you can’t get from average men.

After, when I rolled off her, she stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, hair stuck to her face, like she’d just come alive.

She never really trusted me, not even in the dark.

I roll the glass in my hands, take another long swallow, warming my throat.

I should be angry. I should want to snap her pretty neck for putting me in this position, but all I want to do is fuck her again.

Maybe it’s madness, maybe it’s a family curse.

At least if I’m busy with her, I’m not thinking about every other bastard lining up to take my throne.

I tap screens on my desk. Acquisition reports and money laundering logs. The legitimate side of Russo Enterprises. Car dealerships, real estate, offshore accounts. All managed and controlled without an error. I run this city with a pen and a gun, and tonight, both are loaded.

Dad will call again, when the sun’s up and he’s had his five-mile walk and three espressos with grappa.

He’ll want answers about Melinda, about the baby if word is out already.

He’ll want to know if I’m playing the long game, or if I’m thinking with my cock.

I’ll give him what he wants. Deals, numbers, margins.

The Mastronis are moving into pharmaceuticals.

We need more than muscle now—we need doctors, labs, clean fronts.

Melinda’s just become the most useful piece on this fucked up chessboard.

But she’s not a pawn. She’s a queen. And queens can cut throats in the night if you don’t pay attention.

I pour another drink. The ice rattles like toy guns in an alley. I run a hand through my hair, stare at my reflection in the window—jaw tight, eyes black and endless, mouth set hard. All death behind my charming facade. The city king with a price on his head and sex on his mind.

I take the gun from my drawer, field strip and clean it by habit.

Glock 19, silencer kit, nothing fancy. My hands are steady, even when I remember my uncle’s face as they took him—trusting the wrong woman, paying the price.

Only two people ever got that close to me.

One’s dead. The other is carrying my kid.

Doesn’t seem real. I never pictured myself as a father. Always figured I’d die in a street, on my back staring at headlights and God. But now there’s a heartbeat out there with my blood. It shouldn’t matter, but hell, it matters more than I want to admit.

I grab my phone, shoot a message to Tony again: Keep the hospital tight tonight. Any delivery guys, flower orders, cleaning crews—run them all through face scan. Nobody gets close to her unless I clear it.

He texts back immediately: You expect action?

I type: No, but I want to sleep for once.

It’s a lie. I won’t sleep. The city’s too hot, my brain too noisy. I think about the restaurant, the gala, the way Melinda’s face twisted when she realized who I really am. Like she wanted to kill me and fuck me all at once. Like she still hasn’t decided which.

I stand up, whiskey glass forgotten, and walk to the window, look out over a city that taunts and feeds me.

Out there, Melinda’s curled up in bed, probably awake, hand placed over her stomach, my future inside her.

Max is in the next room, pistol under his pillow, ready to wage war for his big sister.

I should start a war first. That’s how you win—preempt, don’t react. But this isn’t a game I can play alone. Not with a Mastroni queen as my new ally—or enemy.

I have the faintest urge to call her. To hear her voice. To see if she’s scared. Or brave. I don’t. I’m not her protector. I’m her problem. But part of me wants her to see that I’m more than that—more than the man who can destroy, more than the name that made her run.

I stare at the ring on a chain around my neck. My mother’s. I should offer it to Melinda, make a deal, a marriage, a shield. It’d be business. I tell myself that, again and again. I almost believe it. Almost.

I sit back down and start running numbers, plotting, planning. I move money, make deals, set up a property search. I want a place that’s mine, not Dad’s, not my brother’s, not anyone’s but mine—the kind of place I could keep a woman like Melinda safe, even from her own family.

I pause as the sun starts to bleed over the glass towers, pink and sickly and bright. Still no calls from Dad. That means trouble, or he’s still thinking, or he’s already moving behind my back. Either way, I need to get ahead.

I stretch. Crack my neck. Another night. Another day. All that matters is what you keep. All that matters is power, family, and what you’re willing to destroy to protect what’s yours.

And Melinda? She may never love me. But she’s sure as hell going to belong to me. Even if I have to destroy the world to make it true.

She doesn’t get it yet.

She’s not just carrying my child.

She’s carrying the one thing in this world I’d kill for without hesitation.

And I will.

Tomorrow, I move first.