Page 37 of Broken Vows

The honest answer is complicated. Safety for my child. Protection from enemies I can't fight alone. A chance to channel my darker instincts into something productive rather than destructive. And if I'm being completely truthful, Vincent Russo fascinates me in ways that probably aren't healthy.

"I get to survive," I say simply. "We all do."

Max studies my face for a long moment, reading the subtext I'm not saying aloud. Finally, he nods. "Three conditions. First, the wedding happens here, on Mastroni territory, with our priest and our security. Second, any children remain connected to this family—they carry both names, learn both traditions. Third, if Vincent ever hurts you, I kill him personally."

"Agreed," Vincent says without hesitation.

12

Vincent

The Palazzo feels different when you're about to betray everything your father taught you about loyalty.

I sit across from Antonio Russo in his private dining room, watching him slice into his perfectly prepared food with practiced ease.

Each cut is deliberate, controlled—the way he approaches everything in life. The way he's taught me to approach everything in life.

"The Dover sole is excellent today," he says without looking up. "Francesco outdid himself."

I haven't touched my food. My stomach churns with something that might be nerves if I were anyone else. But Vincent Russo doesn't get nervous. Vincent Russo makes strategic decisions and executes them flawlessly.

"I'm marrying Melinda Mastroni."

His knife pauses mid-cut. For exactly three seconds, the only sound in the room is the soft tick of his antique Patek Philippe watch. Then he continues slicing, each movement now carrying an edge of violence barely contained.

"Interesting." His voice remains conversational. "And when did you decide this?"

"After the gala."

"Without consulting me." Still cutting. Still calm. But I know that tone. I've heard it before men disappeared forever.

"It's a strategic alliance," I continue, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Access to their pharmaceutical networks, legitimate medical connections, clean money streams we've never been able to touch."

He sets down his knife and finally looks at me. Those dark eyes—the same ones I inherited—hold the kind of cold fury that's destroyed empires. "You want to explain to me how fucking the enemy's daughter advances our interests?"

"She's pregnant."

The words hang in the air like smoke from a discharged weapon. Antonio's expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. Calculation replacing rage. Numbers running through his head.

"Yours?"

"Yes."

He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying me like I'm a problem that needs solving. "A Russo-Mastroni heir."The words roll off his tongue, testing their weight. "How... convenient."

"It wasn't planned."

"Wasn't it?" His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "You expect me to believe my Harvard-educated son accidentally knocked up the one woman in New York who could give us access to every Mastroni operation? You expect me to believe in coincidence?"

Heat flashes through my chest, but I keep my voice level. "I expect you to see the opportunity."

"Or the trap." He picks up his wine glass, swirls the burgundy liquid like blood. "The Mastronis aren't known for their generosity, Vincent. They don't give gifts. They set snares."

"She didn't know who I was that night."

"So you say." He takes a sip, savoring it. "But Melinda Mastroni is no innocent. She's been trained since birth to recognize threats and opportunities. Just like you."

I lean forward, keeping my voice low. "The pharmaceutical expansion we've been planning for three years—this gives us instant access. Clean laboratories, medical licenses, distribution networks already in place. It's worth billions in legitimate revenue."

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