Page 11 of Broken Vows

Now here she is, playing royalty at the gala, standing with the enemy.

Max says something to her, and she laughs, but there’s tension in the line of her jaw. I can see it even from across the room. She doesn’t want to be here. I want to step forward, to grab her, shake her, demand answers. Instead, I force myself still. I watch.

Cara turns, eyes flickering to me for a fraction of a second. And then the doctor—my doctor—steps away, pressing a hand to her stomach, face going pale. She’s going to be sick. Something is wrong.

That’s when I notice Cantini watching her too. Fat bastard in a suit one size too small, smile like a hyena with greedy eyes on a corpse. I know him—Bernardo Cantini, a rival underboss with a thing for hurting what other men want. He’s got that look, already undressing her with his eyes, calculating how close he can get, how rough he can play.

I set my drink down, adjust my cufflinks, and cut across the floor. My men fall in step, invisible to everyone but me. Cantini moves to intercept her by the hallway leading to the private collection, thinking he’s got her cornered—ripe for the picking.

Not tonight. Not ever.

I slip between them, smooth as oil, catching Cantini’s eye with a cordial smile like my father’s. “Bernardo. You look well. How’s your baby girl enjoying that new school in Connecticut?” I keep it light, a chuckle in my voice. He stiffens.

“Fine,” he mutters, eyes darting past me to the missing Mastroni daughter—Melinda.

“And the wife?” I add, tone oh-so-friendly. “Heard she’s been shopping for a pied-à-terre in Queens. Or was that for your girlfriend? You know, the blonde? The one with the banking joband the taste for Cartier?” I drop this as casual as breathing, starting to reach for a glass of wine from a passing tray.

Cantini’s eyes harden, hand curling around nothing. He realizes I know his secrets; I always fucking know. “You—you shouldn’t believe gossip, Vincent.”

I drop the smile. “Bernardo. People talk because they don’t know better. I prefer facts. You keep your nose clean, stick to your side, and your daughter makes it home from ballet every time, capisce?” I lean in, voice low so only he hears. “Focus your attention elsewhere. Tonight’s not your night.”

I flick my gaze toward him one last time before shifting, blocking his view entirely as I face her. Cantini scuttles away, hands in fists, right into the sightlines of two of my guards. Other sharks in the room notice—watching the way I control with words where Marco would use a gun. This is how I lead, how my father never will. You learn more from a terrified silence than a puddle of blood. Sometimes.

She’s pressed back against the wall, breathing shallow. When her eyes meet mine, it’s like the first ice-cold drink after a ten-mile run—shock and need mixing in my chest.

“Melinda Mastroni,” I say, testing the name on my tongue.

Her face hardens. “Vincent Russo.” Her voice is that same cool silk I remember whispered against my neck. “This area’s for guests only, not interrogations.”

Even now, in enemy territory, she’s got steel under all that beauty. I respect it, can’t help myself.

“We need to talk,” I murmur, voice low. “Now.”

She glances around, calculating escape routes. Fuck, she’s a pro. Never learned that in med school. Her fingers tense, just a little, before she steels herself and pushes away from the wall. “Fine. Private lounge. Two minutes. And keep your soldiers outside.”

I let her set the terms, just for show. We move down the corridor together, every nerve stretched tight. I’m acutely aware of the way she moves—elegant and ready to kill if she has to. My type exactly.

When we hit a shadowed alcove, I plant myself in her path, making damn sure nobody else can overhear. We’re close enough that I can see the freckles across the bridge of her nose, the heat rising on her cheeks. I want to throw her up against the wall and demand what the fuck she was doing in my private penthouse months ago pretending she didn’t know who I was. Instead, I ask, “Is this what you do for fun now, doctor? Show up to galas and play the loyal daughter?”

She stares at me, lips tight, jaw set. “I didn’t know who you were that night. I didn’t want this.”

Bile rises in my throat, a dull, familiar burn. Betrayal. Always betrayal. “You’re a Mastroni. You fuck me and now you just decide to come back into the fold?”

She laughs, but it’s hollow, sharp as broken glass. “Yeah. Family always comes back, right? Except sometimes you leave for a reason.” Her hand flutters over her stomach but drops fast, almost like she forgot for a moment that I’m watching.

My heart picks up. Something’s off. I see how pale she looks. The rumors—Max’s older sister who went away, back just now. Why? I step closer, ignoring her glare, studying her face. “You sick?Or hiding something?” I lower my voice, just for her. “Are you… pregnant?”

For a second, she freezes. I see the calculation—could she lie, could she run, could she kill me right here and bury the answer? Then, her chin lifts.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Try again.”

She just looks at me, those whiskey-colored eyes darkening with hate. “You really want to do this here?”

I do. I want to destroy something, and I want her to give me an excuse. But then footsteps echo down the corridor.

“Melinda, you good?” That voice—I know it. Max’s attack dog. Maya. The youngest Mastroni. All femininity and razor blades. She sizes me up in a blink, fingers twitching near her thigh. I know what’s strapped under that satin dress. She’d gut me in front of a hundred witnesses if I gave her half an excuse.

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