Page 10 of Broken Vows

I greet them all with calm, deliberate smiles. Air kisses—three on the cheek, a tradition as useful as Kevlar against a close-range bullet. I pose for a photo with Cara, the photographer snapping a quick shot next to a portrait of my father. He looms, stone-faced, above the foyer like a warning.

We’re ushered toward the main ballroom, where politicos and underbosses orbit. I try to ignore the whispers: prodigal returned, traitor’s daughter, Mastroni doctor back from exile. If anyone notices the sickly pallor underneath my expensive foundation, they don’t dare ask.

I spot a man I haven’t seen in years—Bernardo Cantini. He’s grown jowly and mean; his gaze lingers on my stomach, my chest, cataloguing me like butcher’s meat. I swallow hard, adjusting my clutch, and slip into a side corridor before his wolfish grin can corner me.

The old panic thrums in my temples. I reach for my phone, balancing on the marble ledge, and count my breaths like I did in medical school before a trauma code.

Behind me, a voice slices through the air. “Are you all right?” Cara, appearing as the perfect socialite, but her gaze scans for threats the way Max would.

“I’m fine,” I say, lying. “Just need some fresh air.”

She fakes a laugh for anyone watching and lowers her voice so only I hear. “You don’t have to do this alone. Max may act like an asshole, but you’re not on your own, Melinda—not tonight, or ever.”

I want to tell her about the baby. About the stranger from the penthouse. About the fear I’ve been carrying around no matter how many times I sterilize my hands or recite diagnoses in my head.

But I can’t. So I say, “Thank you,” and she just smiles tighter, looping her arm through mine.

3

Vincent

Five grand worth of suit on my back, and I’m still ready to burn this place down.

All this polite fucking chatter is giving me a migraine.

These people pretend they don’t know who I am.

They clock the name—Russo—give that polite little nod, then keep their eyes on the champagne, not on the blood money that props up the Russo name.

The art on the walls is worth millions, but I’ve buried the bodies of men with empires worth more. Tonight isn’t about the museum or community for anyone here; it’s about power.

Influence.

Threats and manipulation disguised as handshakes.

My security detail blends in with the crisply attired staff, but I see them all, every shadow at the edge of the room. I don’t trust this crowd. The truth is, I trust maybe three people on the entire planet, and none of them are here.

Well, that's not entirely true. Tony's here somewhere—my head of security, the one man who's never let me down. He's probably positioned near the main entrance, coordinating with the rest of my team through encrypted comms. Eight years he's been watching my back, ever since he took a bullet meant for me outside a restaurant in Queens. Some loyalty you buy. Some you earn. Tony's better than both.

I catch his eye across the room—a slight nod, nothing more. He's seen what I've seen. Tony knows danger before it announces itself.

My father's across the room, cornered by hedge fund vampires. He's smiling, all charm and silver fox hair, acting like he hasn't ordered two guys to be clipped this week for skimming. I admire that. The smile. The cruelty tucked just underneath. If you didn't know, you'dneverknow. That's the most dangerous kind of predator.

Just like her. The woman who let me fuck her against my penthouse window and never once told me her name. She played me as smooth as I've ever been played, taking what she wanted that night and then leaving without a word. I fucking respect her for it.

I make my rounds, touch base with a few business associates—legit and otherwise. My mind keeps drifting, though, back to the woman from the penthouse. Four months ago, and I can still taste her. The only time I’ve let myself relax since Lila fucked me over and three FBI agents got themselves buried. Since I learned firsthand just how deep betrayal can slice.

A server steps in my path. “Mr. Russo, would you care for?—”

“No.” I brush past her, barely registering the tray. My brother Marco is supposed to put in an appearance tonight, too, but I pray he stays the fuck away. I don’t need another scene after last month’s little... demonstration. Useless violence. But effective. Sometimes you need it.

I do a quick scan of the room again and then I see him—Max Mastroni. Taller than me, which I hate. Maybe a step back in the evolutionary chain, but he’s dangerous. I respect that kind of violence. Beside him is Cara, all blonde innocence, a pretty mask hiding a mind like a razor. She’s looking at her phone, murmuring to a woman standing just to the left of her.

My stomach drops. I see that woman's profile—a line of cheekbone, a little scar on her wrist as she lifts her glass—long chestnut hair tangled over one shoulder, eyes glittering like whiskey and secrets. My heart thuds, then slams to a stop. No fucking way.

She's the one. The doctor in scrubs I fucked raw in my bed, the one who crawled out before daylight and left my sheets smelling like temptation. All this time, I've been thinking she was a ghost—a fever dream conjured up to torment me through lonely nights. Now here she is, standing with the Mastronis like she belongs.

Christ. It has to be the sister. The missing sister. The one who vanished from public records, who built a life in the shadows while I was building my empire. No wonder I never connected the dots—she's been invisible for years, even to men like me who make it their business to know everything.

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