Page 7 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Melinda

The Mastroni estate study feels cold today.

I settle into the wingback chair across from Max's mahogany desk, my feet planted firmly on marble that’s seen more than its fair share of confessions.

The walls are lined with first editions and family photos—perfectly framed, never showing what’s really buried under this legacy.

The security footage isn't the only reason I'm back in this room I swore I'd never enter again. Two weeks ago, someone put a bullet through my villa window in Italy—a warning shot that missed my head by inches while I was making coffee. So much for my sabbatical.

Turns out it was Salvatore Perezzi. The same asshole who’s been bankrolling Marco’s side deals. Max said the intel came through last week—confirmed by one of their soldiers before he died.

I was an easy target. A Mastroni asset on neutral ground, without security. They weren’t aiming to kill me, not yet. Just shake the tree. Let us know we weren’t untouchable anymore.

I cut the trip short, but trouble followed me.

The second attempt came when I was back to work in NYC: a car that tried to run me down outside the hospital where I was doing my surgical rotation. That's when I knew my carefully constructed life outside the family was over. So I had no choice but to reach out to Max for help. For protection.

Max hasn't said a word since we walked in.

He's reviewing security footage on the monitor, his jaw working like he's chewing glass.

Maya perches on the desk's edge, legs swinging, fingers drumming against wood.

She looks deceptively casual, but I know that rhythm—it's the same beat she taps before she kills someone.

The footage shows Vincent and me in the museum corridor. No audio, but our body language tells the story clearly enough. His hand on my arm. My palm pressed protectively against my stomach. The moment I told him about the baby.

"Well," Max finally says, voice flat as a blade. "That explains the sudden return home."

I meet his stare without flinching. "I didn't know who he was that night."

"Bullshit." Maya's voice cuts through the room. "You don't accidentally fuck a Russo, Mel. Not without knowing exactly what you're getting into."

Heat flashes through my chest. "I was drunk. I was exhausted. I wanted to forget everything about this goddamn family for one night." I lean forward, letting them see the steel beneath my careful composure. "Forgive me if I didn't run a background check before getting laid."

Max's expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind his eyes. Understanding, maybe. He knows what it's like to want escape from the burden of our name.

"Four months along," he says, more statement than question.

"Yes."

"And you're certain it's his?"

The question hits like a slap. "Vincent Russo is the only man I've been with in over a year."

Maya laughs, sharp and bright. "A Russo baby. Jesus Christ, Mel. Do you have any idea what this means?"

I know exactly what it means. A child with blood from both families. Leverage. Weakness. Power. Everything these people reduce human life to in their endless games.

"It means I'm fucked," I say quietly. "Which is why I need your help."

Max finally moves, walking to the bar cart and pouring three glasses of whiskey. He slides one across the desk to me, but I shake my head.

"The way I see it," Maya says, accepting her glass, "this could work in our favor. Vincent's his dad's favorite son, heir apparent. A marriage between our families would give us access to every Russo operation from here to Chicago."

My blood turns to ice. "Marriage?"

"Strategic alliance," Maya continues, warming to her idea. "You marry Vincent, we get inside information on their territory. When the time's right, we strike."

I stand so fast the chair scrapes against marble. "Absolutely not."

"Mel—"

"I said no." I turn to face them both, letting them see every ounce of fury burning in my chest. "I didn't come back to be your breeding mare or your fucking spy. I came back because someone's trying to hurt me, and I need protection until we figure out who."

Maya's eyes narrow. "You think you have a choice here?"

I step closer to her, close enough that she can see the years of medical training in my steady hands, the knowledge of exactly where to cut to cause maximum damage without killing.

"I know where every major artery runs through your body, Maya.

I know which organs you can live without and which you can't. I've saved more lives than you've taken, but don't mistake my profession for weakness in this evil game out family plays. "

Briefly, even Maya goes still. Max clears his throat. "Enough." He looks between us, then settles on me. "Maya's right about one thing. This baby changes everything. Every family in New York will want a piece of this."

"I know."

"Do we tell Dad?"

Our father, currently in Boston expanding operations, has a talent for turning personal situations into business opportunities. If he knew about the baby, he'd see dollar signs and territory maps, not his daughter's safety.

"Not yet," I say. "Let me figure out what Vincent wants first."

Maya jumps off the desk. "What he wants? He wants to own you, Mel. That's what men like him do."

"And what do men like Max do?" I shoot back. "Ask Cara how that kidnapping worked out."

Max's face goes dark. "That was different."

"Was it? Or do all of you just take what you want and call it protection?"

The room falls silent except for the ticking of the antique clock on the mantle.

We’re just staring at each other, like one wrong move could blow the whole damn thing up.

A text arrives from an unknown number, but I recognize the tone immediately.

Tomorrow, 2 PM. Marcello’s. Come alone. - V

I show them the message. Maya immediately shakes her head.

"It's a trap."

"Maybe. Or maybe he wants the same thing I do—to figure out how to survive this."

Max studies the phone screen. "If you go, you don't go alone. I'll have men positioned?—"

"No." I pocket the phone. "Visible security will only escalate things. But I'll have my own backup."

Maya laughs bitterly. "What backup? Your stethoscope?"

I don't answer. Let her underestimate me. It's safer that way.

"I want a full perimeter around that restaurant," Max says, moving to the window that overlooks the estate's gardens. "Unmarked cars, rotating shifts. If Vincent even breathes wrong?—"

"He won't hurt me." The words slip out before I can stop them.

Maya's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, this is rich. You're actually defending him?"

"I'm being realistic. Vincent Russo doesn't need to lure me to a public restaurant to destroy me. If he wanted me dead, I'd already be in the East River."

Max turns back to us, his expression calculating. "Then what does he want?"

"The same thing any man wants when he finds out he's going to be a father," I say. "Answers. Control. Some kind of plan that doesn't end with both families at war."

"The families are already at war," Maya points out. "Have been for decades. This just adds a new wrinkle."

I think about Vincent's face at the gala—the shock, then the quick calculation. He'd looked at me like I was a puzzle he needed to solve, not an enemy to eliminate. There had been something else too, something that reminded me of that night in his penthouse when his guard had dropped completely.

"Maybe," I say. "Or maybe it's an opportunity to end it."

Maya laughs. "Jesus, Mel. You sound like some peace-loving hippie. This is the real world. Our world. Peace gets you buried."

"So does endless war."

Max's voice cuts through our argument. "Here's what's going to happen. Melinda meets with Vincent tomorrow. I'll have discreet surveillance, but no interference unless things go sideways. We find out what he wants, what his family knows, and how they plan to handle this."

He moves to his desk, pulls out a secure phone. "Maya, I want you coordinating with our Boston contacts. If we need to move Dad's timeline up, I want options ready."

Maya nods, the prospect of action replacing her earlier frustration. "What about the Russians? They've been sniffing around our pharmaceutical routes. If they catch wind of this..."

"One crisis at a time," Max says. "Right now, our priority is keeping Melinda alive and figuring out whether Vincent Russo plans to become an ally or a threat."

"Both," I say quietly. "He's going to be both."

They look at me expectantly, waiting for explanation.

"Vincent's not his father or his psychotic brother. He's strategic, controlled. But he's still a Russo. Family comes first, always. If protecting me serves his interests, he will. If it doesn't..." I shrug. "Well, I'm not planning to find out the hard way."

Max studies me for a long moment. "You've given this a lot of thought."

"I've had a little time to think about it, fast. This pregnancy changes everything. I know that."

“You’re actively choosing to work with him instead of use him, it seems,” Maya observes. "Why?"

The question hits deeper than I want to admit.

"Because I initially hoped I could handle this alone. Keep the baby’s paternity a secret and never tell Vince or anyone, finish my residency, build a life far away from both families.

" I laugh bitterly. "Stupid, right? Like either of our family names would ever let me go. "

"Not stupid," Max says softly. "Naive, maybe. But not stupid."

The gentleness in his voice nearly undoes me. Despite everything—the violence, the betrayals, the years of mutual resentment—we're still siblings. We still love each other, even when that love feels like a chain around our necks.

"I should go," I say, standing. "Long day tomorrow."

Maya catches my arm as I pass. "Mel. Whatever happens with Vincent, remember—you're a Mastroni first. Blood before everything else."

I nod, but don't trust myself to speak. Blood before everything else. The family motto that's destroyed more lives than it's saved.

In my childhood bedroom, I strip off the gala dress and slip into old pajamas that smell like fabric softener instead of gunpowder. The contrast feels surreal—silk and diamonds replaced by cotton and reality.

I sit on the edge of my bed and pull up the ultrasound photo on my phone. Thirteen weeks. The baby is the size of a peach, according to my medical textbooks. Tiny hands, developing features, a heartbeat that shows up as a flutter on the monitor.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to the grainy image. "I'm so fucking sorry you're going to be born into this."

But even as I apologize, I'm making plans. The meeting with Vincent is just the beginning. I need to know what he wants, what his family expects, what kind of deal might keep us all alive.

I reach into my bedside drawer and pull out the Beretta I've kept with me during medical school. A habit I couldn't break, despite my attempts to leave family ways behind.

Tomorrow, I'll sit across from Vincent Russo and pretend to negotiate like civilized people. But if things go wrong, if he tries to use this pregnancy as leverage against my family, I'll remind him that Mastroni women don't break easily.

I check the gun's magazine, verify the safety, then slide it into my purse.

Just in case.