Page 19 of Broken Vows

Vincent

I arrive at Marcello's forty minutes early, which is exactly what I planned.

The maître d' recognizes me immediately—the Russo name opens doors in this city, sometimes literally.

He escorts me to the private dining room I reserved, a corner space with windows overlooking the street and only one entrance. Old habits.

Tony insisted on sweeping the room for surveillance devices, and I let him.

His paranoia has kept me breathing for eight years, so I don't argue when he runs his hands along the walls, checks under the table, tests the table’s decor for bugs. When he's satisfied, he positions himself by the door.

"Boss, I don't like this," he says for the third time today. "Meeting her alone, no backup?—"

"I'm not alone. You're here."

"Outside the room. If something goes wrong?—"

"Then you'll hear about it and react accordingly." I adjust my cufflinks, check my watch. "She's not coming here to eliminate me, Tony. If the Mastronis wanted me dead, they wouldn't use a pregnant woman as their weapon."

He grunts, unconvinced. "What if this is some kind of setup? Get you emotional, off your game?"

"Melinda Mastroni doesn't strike me as the type to play games with pregnancy." I pour myself a glass of water, ice clinking against crystal. "Besides, I've done my homework."

The file Davide compiled sits on the table beside me, thick with information gathered in eighteen hours of intensive research. The woman is brilliant, which shouldn't surprise me. The Mastronis don't breed stupid children.

What does surprise me is the genuine dedication. Letters of recommendation that praise her compassion, her tireless work ethic, her ability to save lives under impossible pressure. No mention of family connections or special treatment. She earned every achievement through merit alone under an assumed last name, fighting to distance herself from the bloodstained legacy of her family’s last name.

"You sure about this approach?" Tony asks. "Marriage proposal in the first real conversation?"

"It's not romantic; it's practical." I flip through medical journal articles she's published, studies on trauma protocols and emergency procedures. "This is not about feelings. It's about protecting assets."

Tony shakes his head. "You keep telling yourself that, boss."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just—be careful. This woman's got you twisted up already, and you haven't even talked terms yet."

I study her photo from the hospital directory—professional, controlled, but there's something in her look that speaks to the fire I remember from that night. The same intensity that made her rake her nails down my back, the same stubborn pride that made her walk out without looking back.

My phone buzzes. A text from my father:Call me. Now.

I ignore it without responding. Whatever Antonio Russo wants can wait until after I've secured my future. Our future.

"He's not going to like being ignored," Tony warns.

"He'll like a war with the Mastronis even less." I close the file and slide it into my briefcase. "This conversation happens first. Everything else can wait."

"And if she says no?"

"She won't."

"You sound pretty confident for a guy proposing to a woman who hates his guts."

I consider this. Melinda doesn't hate me—not exactly. She hates what I represent, hates being trapped by circumstances neither of us planned. But there was something else in her gaze at the gala, underneath the anger and disgust. Recognition. Understanding. We're both products of the same brutal world, shaped by the same unforgiving rules.

"She's smart enough to see the logic," I say finally.

"Logic." Tony snorts. "Yeah, women love logic in their marriage proposals."

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