Page 16 of Broken Vows

Tomorrow, I move first.

6

Melinda

The Mastroni estate study feels cold today.

I settle into the wingback chair across from Max's mahogany desk, my feet planted firmly on marble that’s seen more than its fair share of confessions.

The walls are lined with first editions and family photos—perfectly framed, never showing what’s really buried under this legacy.

The security footage isn't the only reason I'm back in this room I swore I'd never enter again. Two weeks ago, someone put a bullet through my villa window in Italy—a warning shot that missed my head by inches while I was making coffee. So much for my sabbatical.

Turns out it was Salvatore Perezzi. The same asshole who’s been bankrolling Marco’s side deals. Max said the intel came through last week—confirmed by one of their soldiers before he died.

I was an easy target. A Mastroni asset on neutral ground, without security. They weren’t aiming to kill me, not yet. Just shake the tree. Let us know we weren’t untouchable anymore.

I cut the trip short, but trouble followed me.

The second attemptcame when I was back to work in NYC: a car that tried to run me down outside the hospital where I was doing my surgical rotation. That's when I knew my carefully constructed life outside the family was over. So I had no choice but to reach out to Max for help. For protection.

Max hasn't said a word since we walked in. He's reviewing security footage on the monitor, his jaw working like he's chewing glass. Maya perches on the desk's edge, legs swinging, fingers drumming against wood. She looks deceptively casual, but I know that rhythm—it's the same beat she taps before she kills someone.

The footage shows Vincent and me in the museum corridor. No audio, but our body language tells the story clearly enough. His hand on my arm. My palm pressed protectively against my stomach. The moment I told him about the baby.

"Well," Max finally says, voice flat as a blade. "That explains the sudden return home."

I meet his stare without flinching. "I didn't know who he was that night."

"Bullshit." Maya's voice cuts through the room. "You don't accidentally fuck a Russo, Mel. Not without knowing exactly what you're getting into."

Heat flashes through my chest. "I was drunk. I was exhausted. I wanted to forget everything about this goddamn family for one night." I lean forward, letting them see the steel beneath my careful composure. "Forgive me if I didn't run a background check before getting laid."

Max's expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind his eyes. Understanding, maybe. He knows what it's like to want escape from the burden of our name.

"Four months along," he says, more statement than question.

"Yes."

"And you're certain it's his?"

The question hits like a slap. "Vincent Russo is the only man I've been with in over a year."

Maya laughs, sharp and bright. "A Russo baby. Jesus Christ, Mel. Do you have any idea what this means?"

I know exactly what it means. A child with blood from both families. Leverage. Weakness. Power. Everything these people reduce human life to in their endless games.

"It means I'm fucked," I say quietly. "Which is why I need your help."

Max finally moves, walking to the bar cart and pouring three glasses of whiskey. He slides one across the desk to me, but I shake my head.

"The way I see it," Maya says, accepting her glass, "this could work in our favor. Vincent's his dad's favorite son, heir apparent. A marriage between our families would give us access to every Russo operation from here to Chicago."

My blood turns to ice. "Marriage?"

"Strategic alliance," Maya continues, warming to her idea. "You marry Vincent, we get inside information on their territory. When the time's right, we strike."

I stand so fast the chair scrapes against marble. "Absolutely not."

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