Page 14 of Broken Vows

5

Vincent

The city’s asleep, but I’m not. I don’t really sleep anymore.

Too much noise inside my head, too much at risk.

The penthouse is full of glass, cold steel, and shadows. Nothing cozy about it.

Manhattan glittering out the window, a place for kings and killers. I stand at the bar in my office, pour myself three fingers of Macallan—none of that cheap blended shit. Never. I drink it slow, studying the caramel swirl in the glass.

There’s a faint bloodstain on my cuff from the warehouse the day before. Meaningless, but I don’t bother changing. You get used to blood in my business.

I tap the tablet on my desk. Security footage from the hospital rolls grainy and colorless on the screen. Melinda Mastroni. The doctor operating under the last name Mason. So clever using what I now know is her mother’s maiden name in her professional practice. The one who left that ache in my bones and her scent on my sheets, back bent under my hands, mouthopen, eyes wild, pleasure written all over her face. Now she’s Russo property, like it or not. My child, just announced to me tonight at the gala. Four months along, she said, eyes full of amber fire and disgust.

I study her face frame by frame, pausing where she argues with head nurses, where she waves off flowers at her desk—stubborn, controlled. No visitors. No regular boyfriend. Never noticed by my outside men, never flagged until now. She couldn’t have known who I was that night. She kept herself in isolation—work, sleep, repeat.

Fuck.

That was my question, wasn’t it? If that one explosive night was another Mastroni plot. But her story checks out.

I shoot a message to Tony, my most trusted lieutenant, to double the detail on her tomorrow. Discreet, nothing flashy. Don’t give Max any excuse to start a war. She’ll need the extra protection. The city’s about to wake up goddamn angry about a Russo-Mastroni baby. Rumors will spread like poison. It always ends up that way, no matter how carefully we guard our secrets in this line of business.

My phone buzzes. Dad, again. I ignore it for now. I’ll call him when I’m ready.

I prop my feet on the desk, stretch out, rolling my shoulders. The glass in my hand is steady, no tremor. I don’t shake, not anymore. It’s all control. This is what my father beat into me. Power means never losing your cool, even when your hands are dirty or your brother has gone off the rails. Especially then.

I bring up my files on Melinda. There’s a full folder, courtesy of my private investigator. Her Harvard undergrad records, medschool transcripts, published articles—some shit about trauma protocols. Volunteered for Doctors Without Borders when she was nineteen, went to the worst war zones. No family support, no mention of the Mastroni name. She’s done everything to cut herself away from that legacy and still walks like a woman who sees ghosts in every hallway.

She’s good. Maybe better than good. Got some steel in her. I respect that. But she’s still fucked. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

A blip of pain tugs at my collar bone, the old burn scar twitching under my suit jacket. I rub the spot reflexively. I remember iron bars, red-hot steel, the filth of that basement where I learned what my last name cost. And I learned something else—never trust anyone, not even blood. Especially not blood.

Tonight at the gala, Melinda looked at me like I was a fucking loaded gun pressed to her belly. Maybe I am. Hell, I probably am.

The phone buzzes again. Tony, this time. “Boss, got eyes on her. She left the gala with Max. No deviation. You want a tail to stick close, or just a perimeter?”

“Keep distance,” I tell him. “They’re expecting heat. Anyone follows too close, Max will start shooting. I want her safe, not a war. Let me know if anything looks off around her building.”

“Copy that. You want an inside hand at the hospital? Or too risky?”

Too risky for now. If the Mastronis smell my men inside their girl’s world, it’ll turn ugly. Perimeter only. I’ll handle contact myself.”

He grunts approval and hangs up.

I lean my head back, close my eyes. Melinda, in that deep red silk, curves for days. The memory’s in my bones. She hates me now. Maybe she always did. Life’s cruel like that. Some women you want to save. Some, you want to own. Melinda... I don’t know yet. She doesn’t want to be owned by anyone, and I almost respect that. Almost.

I don’t want to admit it, but she’s in my head. Could be trouble for me. Could be the end.

The city stirs below, sirens slicing the quiet. Someone’s bleeding somewhere, someone’s getting their brains blown out in a Bronx alley, a package moved off a boat in Red Hook. Life goes on, bodies drop, and the world keeps spinning on a pile of corpses.

My mind wanders to Marco—my brother, my knife in the back, my headache. He didn’t like my move at the gala, didn’t like that I stepped into his shadow with more power than he’ll ever carry. He wants to be Don, but all he brings is fire and noise. No vision besides violence. He’s dangerous. Not because he’s smart, but because he doesn’t care about the rules. Rules hold me together. Marco likes to break them just to see who’ll die this time.

I finish my scotch and pour another. My father would kill for a son who drinks til numb, but I do it to remember. His voice in my head, always: “Never show emotion, Vincent. Never let love cloud your power. It’s a liability.” But what the old man never understood is that real power’s personal. The only thing that makes you step out in front of a bullet is blood.

My mind drifts. Melinda’s scent still clings to the memories in my bedroom. Her lips on my cock, her back arching, nails raking my scar. She gave as good as she got, biting, cursing, moaninginto my mouth. I’ll never get that sound out of my head—not even if I burned the city to ash. I want to see how she handles this next storm. Most women run from the fire. She walks into it barefoot, daring anyone to take a shot.

I snap out of it, professional again. This isn’t about desire. That’s kid shit. This is about the family, about securing legacy.

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