Page 12 of Broken Vows

Melinda moves in front of her sister, voice urgent and furious in rapid Italian that sounds like home and hell at once. “Not here,” she hisses, low enough that I just catch it. “Not tonight. Stand down.”

Maya’s mouth curls into a dangerous smile. “We’ll talk about this later, Russo. Maybe somewhere with fewer witnesses.”

She slides away, silent as a fucking assassin. Melinda sags, just a little. The adrenaline is pounding through her—I can feel it radiating from her skin.

I catch her arm, gentler than I mean to. “You going to answer me, or do we keep dancing around this like idiots all night?” Myhand is big enough to span her entire bicep. Fuck, I remember how those arms looked tangled over my head.

She wrenches free, breathing hard, staring at me harder. A cold sneer twists her pretty lips. “Congratulations, Vincent. You figured it out. I’m pregnant and it’s yours.” She punches the words out like bullets.

The world tips. I can’t breathe. For a second, there’s only the sound of her voice echoing off marble and generations of blood. Then the anger is back, hotter than ever.

“Was this the plan?” I seethe. “Get knocked up by a Russo, drag both families to the table?”

She shoves me, not hard but not gentle. “Go fuck yourself. You think I wanted any of this? I got out of this hell. I built a life. I didn’t want you, your name, or this goddamned world of dirty deals and violence.”

I almost smile—the fury in her, it’s real. She’s not lying. But I don’t relax because in my world, even honesty can cut deepest. I step back, restoring space because if I don’t I’ll pound my fist through the wall. Or worse—I might kiss her.

There’s commotion from the ballroom—applause and laughter, a thousand secrets hidden in every voice. We’re alone, but I can hear the footsteps of both our pasts closing in.

“You know what happens now, right?” I say quietly. “There’s not a family in New York that won’t want a piece of this kid. Mastroni and Russo blood in one body? Doesn’t matter if we hate each other, they’ll try to take you both.”

She meets my stare without fear. “I know. I grew up with this. I’m not afraid.” It’s true. Her eyes are dark amber, stubborn, so fucking alive.

I want to kiss her or kill her or protect her from everything outside this room. Instead, I leave it at this. “We’re going to talk. Soon. Somewhere secure.”

She turns her back on me—her way of saying fuck you, I don’t need you. But I see the tremor in her hand as she tucks hair behind her ear. She’s scared. She has every right to be.

I linger for a moment watching her walk away, the weight of generations pressing on my chest. My phone buzzes in my pocket—a coded message from Tony: “All quiet. Target on move. Gala secure.”

Bullshit. Nothing is secure now. The game just changed. Everyone’s going to want a piece of us, and I still don’t know if I’m playing executioner or savior.

I take a slow breath, let my anger bleed into control. I am Vincent Russo. Heir. Killer. Now, maybe father. I will not lose. But for the first time, I realize I want something I can’t take with a bullet or a bank account.

I want her—and the child growing in her, my child—safe. Alive. Even if it means blowing up both of our families from the inside.

As I blend into the darkness of the museum, already planning for war, I know this:

The Mastronis won’t see me coming. And if I have to burn this city to the ground to keep what’s mine, so be it.

After all, a Russo never leaves his blood unclaimed.

4

Melinda

It’s a fucking joke, me standing here in silk, pretending to be someone’s little princess.

I stare at my reflection in the guest lounge mirror—nothing about me says innocent. Not after stitching up gunshot wounds. Not after that night in the penthouse.

I look polished, expensive, like I belong in this world. But tonight my face is tight, almost sick.

I wrinkle my nose, taste acid at the back of my throat. The baby hates this crowd, maybe. Or maybe my body is allergic to family politics. I grip the cold porcelain edge of the sink, willing myself to breathe.

I think about my father’s voice: “Always control the room, Melinda. Never show weakness. Weakness gets you dead.” I was eight and blood was already screaming under my nails.

Outside, the party is a living thing, pulsing with dirty secrets, deals, silent threats. It’s not lost on me that tonight’s auction lot is a painting last seen in the home of a rival boss’s wife.

You’d have to be blind not to see what really moves this city—and this city wants me back under Mastroni control. “It’s for your protection,” Max says. “You’re family.” It always means property.

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