Page 9 of Broken Vows (Empire City Syndicate #2)

"And how's that working out for you?" The words come out harsher than I intended. "Someone attempted to murder you two weeks ago. You're back under your brother's protection, living in the family compound, surrounded by guards. How much choice do you really have?"

Fire flashes in her eyes. "More than I'd have as your wife."

"Would you?" I lean back, studying her. "As my wife, you'd have the protection of both families. Resources neither of us could access alone. Legal standing that would make our child untouchable."

"And what would you get out of this arrangement?"

The honest answer is complicated. I'd get her—the woman who's been haunting my nights for four months.

I'd get to claim what's mine, to protect it, to build something that couldn't be taken away by bullets or betrayal.

But I can't say that. She'd hear weakness, vulnerability, all the things my father taught me to bury.

"I'd get a strategic alliance that benefits both families," I say instead. "Access to Mastroni medical networks, pharmaceutical connections. Your brother's expansion into legitimate business sectors."

"You've done your homework."

"I always do." I signal for more wine, needing something to do with my hands. "The question is whether you're willing to be practical about our situation."

"Practical." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You expect me to marry you for practical reasons. Sleep in your bed for practical reasons. Raise our child in a world of violence and bloodshed because it's practical."

"I want you to be smart about this. We're not normal people, Melinda. We don't get normal choices."

"Don't I?" She meets my eyes directly. "What if I said no? What if I decided to raise this child alone, far away from both our families?"

The thought sends ice through my veins. "You can't."

"Can't, or you won't let me?"

"Both." I don't bother softening it. "That child is mine. My blood, my responsibility. I won't let you disappear with my heir."

"There it is." She sits back in her chair, expression hardening. "The real Vincent Russo. The one who takes what he wants and destroys anyone who tries to stop him."

"I protect what's mine."

"I'm not yours."

"You're carrying my child. That makes you mine whether you like it or not."

I can see her pulse jumping in her throat, can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. She's angry, but she's also thinking. Good. Anger I can work with. Emotion leads to mistakes, and mistakes give me openings.

"What would you expect from me as a wife?" she asks without looking at me.

"Loyalty. Discretion. The appearance of unity in public."

"And in private?"

"Whatever arrangement works for both of us."

"How generous." The sarcasm is back, but underneath it, I hear something else. Disappointment? "No demands for domestic bliss? No expectations of playing house?"

"I'm not naive, Melinda. You didn't choose this any more than I did. I won't pretend otherwise."

"At least you're honest about it being a prison sentence."

I set down my wine glass harder than necessary. "It doesn't have to be a prison. It could be a partnership."

"Between equals?"

"Between people who understand the rules of the game we're playing."

She turns back to me, and for a second, I see past the anger to something else. Fear, maybe. Or grief for the life she's losing, the choices being taken away. I feel an unexpected urge to comfort her, to promise her things I have no right to promise.

"I need time to think," she says quietly.

"How much time?"

"As much as I need."

I want to push, to demand an answer, to use whatever leverage I can find to make her see reason. The longer this drags out, the more dangerous it becomes for all of us. But something in her voice warns me off. This isn't a woman who responds well to pressure.

"Fair enough," I say. "But don't take too long. The longer this stays secret, the more dangerous it becomes for all of us."

I watch her go, pulse ticking faster than it should. She's walking away now. But I see it—the way her fingers tremble slightly on the strap of her purse.

I lean back, voice quiet but deliberate. "You can take some time, Melinda. We both know the path you have to choose. And when you come back, you’ll be mine. Completely."

Tony steps in as soon as she's gone, scanning the room automatically. "Boss? How'd it go?"

"She needs time to consider my offer."

"You really did it?"

"Marriage offer? Yes, of course."

His eyebrows disappear into his hairline. "You proposed to a Mastroni." He whistles low and long.

"It's complicated but essential."

"No shit." He moves to the window, watching the street below. "She came with protection. Max's men, positioned throughout the restaurant. Professional setup—two cars, at least six men, rotating positions every fifteen minutes."

I'm not surprised, but I am impressed. Melinda Mastroni doesn't take unnecessary risks, even when meeting the father of her child.

I pull out my wallet and leave cash on the table, more than enough to cover both meals and ensure the staff's continued discretion. Marcello's has served the Russo family for three generations. They know how to keep secrets.

"What's the play now, boss?" Tony asks as we head for the exit.

"We wait. And we watch. And we prepare for whatever choice she makes."

"And if she says no to the marriage?"

I think about that as we walk toward the car.

If Melinda refuses my proposal, if she tries to navigate this alone, she'll be vulnerable.

Her family will protect her, but they can't be everywhere.

And there are too many people in this city who would see a Russo-Mastroni child as the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Then we find another way to keep her safe," I say finally.

"Even if she doesn't want our protection?"

"Especially then," I tell Tony.