Page 8 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

Vincent

I arrive at Marcello's forty minutes early, which is exactly what I planned.

The ma?tre d' recognizes me immediately—the Russo name opens doors in this city, sometimes literally.

He escorts me to the private dining room I reserved, a corner space with windows overlooking the street and only one entrance. Old habits.

Tony insisted on sweeping the room for surveillance devices, and I let him.

His paranoia has kept me breathing for eight years, so I don't argue when he runs his hands along the walls, checks under the table, tests the table’s decor for bugs. When he's satisfied, he positions himself by the door.

"Boss, I don't like this," he says for the third time today. "Meeting her alone, no backup?—"

"I'm not alone. You're here."

"Outside the room. If something goes wrong?—"

"Then you'll hear about it and react accordingly." I adjust my cufflinks, check my watch. "She's not coming here to eliminate me, Tony. If the Mastronis wanted me dead, they wouldn't use a pregnant woman as their weapon."

He grunts, unconvinced. "What if this is some kind of setup? Get you emotional, off your game?"

"Melinda Mastroni doesn't strike me as the type to play games with pregnancy." I pour myself a glass of water, ice clinking against crystal. "Besides, I've done my homework."

The file Davide compiled sits on the table beside me, thick with information gathered in eighteen hours of intensive research. The woman is brilliant, which shouldn't surprise me. The Mastronis don't breed stupid children.

What does surprise me is the genuine dedication.

Letters of recommendation that praise her compassion, her tireless work ethic, her ability to save lives under impossible pressure.

No mention of family connections or special treatment.

She earned every achievement through merit alone under an assumed last name, fighting to distance herself from the bloodstained legacy of her family’s last name.

"You sure about this approach?" Tony asks. "Marriage proposal in the first real conversation?"

"It's not romantic; it's practical." I flip through medical journal articles she's published, studies on trauma protocols and emergency procedures. "This is not about feelings. It's about protecting assets."

Tony shakes his head. "You keep telling yourself that, boss."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just—be careful. This woman's got you twisted up already, and you haven't even talked terms yet."

I study her photo from the hospital directory—professional, controlled, but there's something in her look that speaks to the fire I remember from that night. The same intensity that made her rake her nails down my back, the same stubborn pride that made her walk out without looking back.

My phone buzzes. A text from my father: Call me. Now.

I ignore it without responding. Whatever Antonio Russo wants can wait until after I've secured my future. Our future.

"He's not going to like being ignored," Tony warns.

"He'll like a war with the Mastronis even less." I close the file and slide it into my briefcase. "This conversation happens first. Everything else can wait."

"And if she says no?"

"She won't."

"You sound pretty confident for a guy proposing to a woman who hates his guts."

I consider this. Melinda doesn't hate me—not exactly.

She hates what I represent, hates being trapped by circumstances neither of us planned.

But there was something else in her gaze at the gala, underneath the anger and disgust. Recognition.

Understanding. We're both products of the same brutal world, shaped by the same unforgiving rules.

"She's smart enough to see the logic," I say finally.

"Logic." Tony snorts. "Yeah, women love logic in their marriage proposals."

"This is not a normal marriage proposal."

"No shit."

At exactly one o'clock, the door opens. Melinda steps inside wearing a navy dress that manages to be both professional and devastating.

Her hair is pulled back in a neat chignon, makeup minimal but perfect.

She looks like a woman who belongs in boardrooms, not bedrooms—except I know exactly how she sounds when she comes apart.

"Vincent." She nods, taking the seat across from me without waiting for an invitation.

"Melinda. You look well."

"Considering I'm growing your child and dodging assassination attempts? I'm fantastic." She places her purse carefully beside her chair, and I notice the slight weight shift that suggests she's armed. Smart girl.

Tony catches my eye from the doorway. I nod once, and he steps outside, closing the door behind him. Now we're alone with four months of silence and a future neither of us planned.

I signal the waiter, who brings us menus and disappears with practiced discretion. We order—she chooses the salmon, I go with the ribeye—and then we're alone with the pressure of everything unsaid.

"Thank you for coming," I begin.

"You said we needed to talk. So talk."

Direct. I like that about her, even when it's inconvenient. No small talk, no pretense of politeness. She wants to get to business, and so do I.

"I have a proposal."

Her eyebrows arch slightly. "I'm listening."

"Marry me."

She doesn't flinch, doesn't gasp, doesn't show any of the reactions I expected. Instead, she reaches for her water glass and takes a careful sip, studying me over the rim. Our food arrives in record time, and she takes a slow, coy bite of hers.

"Interesting opening move," she says finally. "Want to explain the strategy behind it?"

"It's practical. Marriage legitimizes the child, provides legal protection for both families, creates a unified front against outside threats.

" I keep my voice level, businesslike. This is a negotiation, nothing more.

"Financial security is guaranteed. The child would inherit from both bloodlines, have access to resources from both organizations. "

"Romantic."

I ignore the sarcasm. "Romance is a luxury neither of us can afford. This is about survival."

"Whose survival? Yours or mine?"

"Both. And our child's." I lean forward slightly, letting her see the seriousness in my eyes.

"That baby makes you a target, Melinda. Every rival family will see an opportunity—kidnap the child, use it as leverage against both the Mastronis and the Russos.

Unmarried, you're vulnerable. The child is vulnerable. "

She's listening, I can tell, but her expression remains carefully neutral. Years of medical training, probably—the ability to hear devastating news without showing emotion. The same control that let her suture wounds in her own living room, that drove her to build a life outside this world.

"The marriage would be a business arrangement," I continue. "Clean, legal, beneficial to both parties. Your family gets access to Russo territories and resources. Mine gets the same from the Mastronis. Everyone wins."

"Except for the people actually getting married."

"We're adults. We understand the realities of our situation."

She sets down her fork and knife and studies me with those whiskey-colored eyes. I feel exposed under that gaze, like she's reading everything I'm trying to hide. The sleepless nights, the obsessive research, the way her face has been stuck in my head since our night together.

"What about love?" she asks quietly.

"What about it?"

"Don't you want to marry someone you actually care about? Someone who makes you happy?"

I almost laugh, yet something vulnerable in her voice stops me. "Love is weakness. It makes you predictable, exploitable. My mother loved my father, and it got her killed when his enemies used her to send a message."

Something flickers in her eyes—sympathy? Pity? I don't want either from her.

"My father doesn't know about the pregnancy yet," I continue, steering the conversation back to safer ground. "I plan to present the marriage as a strategic alliance. Russo-Mastroni cooperation instead of conflict. He'll see the value in avoiding a war."

"And if he doesn't?"

"He will. The alternative is bloodshed, and wars are expensive. Bad for business on both sides."

The waiter refills our water glasses, and we eat in tense silence for several minutes.

The ribeye is perfectly prepared, but I'm not really tasting it.

I'm watching her face, trying to read her thoughts, calculate her response.

This conversation will determine everything—the future of our child, the balance of power between our families, maybe even whether we all survive the next few months.

"You really think you can just announce our engagement and expect me to fall in line?" she asks as she finishes her salmon and sits back in her chair.

"I think you're intelligent enough to see the benefits."

"I see a man trying to control a situation he didn't plan for." Her voice sharpens slightly. "I see someone who thinks pregnancy makes me weak, manageable."

"I think pregnancy makes you valuable. There's a difference."

"So this isn’t a proposal," she says, voice sharp. "It’s an ultimatum."

I lean in, voice low and lethal. "No. It’s a warning."

A beat of charged silence. Her eyes lock on mine.

"You walk away, Melinda, and I promise you—there’s nowhere on earth safe enough."

I let it hang between us, the words settling like a brand.

"But if you stay?" I straighten, voice steady. "You’ll never need to run again."

Her response cuts deeper than I expected. I set down my fork and study her face, looking for the calculation I know must be there. No one survives in our world without learning to weigh every angle, every advantage.

"Value isn't an insult, Melinda. In our families, being valuable means being protected."

"It also means being owned." She pushes food around her plate, not really eating. "I've spent five years building a life where I belong to myself. Where my choices are my own."