Page 39 of Broken Vows

For a long moment, he studies my face. I can see him weighing options, calculating risks. Finally, he nods.

"Twenty-four hours. But Vincent—if you're wrong about this, if you're being played by that Mastroni bitch, the consequences will be severe."

"Understood."

He returns to his seat, picks up his knife and fork. "Now sit down and finish your lunch. We still have business to discuss."

I remain standing. "Actually, I have somewhere I need to be."

His eyes narrow. "Where?"

"To pay respects to someone who understood the cost of family loyalty."

***

The cemetery is quiet in the late afternoon, shadows stretching long between marble headstones.

I walk the familiar path to my mother's grave, carrying white lilies—her favorite flowers. The headstone is simple, elegant: "Alessandra Romano Russo. Beloved Wife and Mother."

No mention of how she died. No acknowledgment of the blood that bought this peaceful resting place.

I kneel, placing the flowers against the stone. "Ciao, Mamma."

The words feel strange in my mouth. I haven't spoken to her grave in years, haven't allowed myself the vulnerability of grief.

But today, with my mother's ring on Melinda's finger and lies piling up like bodies, I need... something. Absolution, maybe. Or just the pretense that someone, somewhere, might understand the choices I'm making.

"I gave her your ring," I say quietly. "The woman I'm marrying. I told myself it was just business, just another strategic move. But..."

I trail off, staring at the inscription. Alessandra Romano. She kept her maiden name even after marrying into our family, a small rebellion my father allowed because he loved her. Because love made him weak.

"She's not what I expected. Melinda. She's carrying my child, and I should see her as an asset, a useful alliance. Instead..."

Instead, I think about the way she looked at me in that corridor—like she wanted to kill me and save me in equal measure. I think about her voice when she told me about the baby, defiant and terrified and absolutely refusing to beg for my protection.

"I'm becoming like you, aren't I? Caring about things that could get me killed."

The wind rustles through the trees, carrying the scent of jasmine and earth. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolls the hour. Time is running out for the decision I've already made.

My phone buzzes with a text message.

Tony: Need to see you. Urgent. Sending photos.

The attached images make my blood run cold. Marco, my brother, sitting across from Salvatore Perezzi in what looks like a private dining room. Time stamp from this morning—hours before Benedetti's body was discovered.

Another image: Marco shaking hands with a man I recognize as one of the Perezzi family's top enforcers.

A third: Marco walking away from the meeting, checking his phone.

The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. The too-convenient timing of Benedetti's murder. The obvious Mastroni signature. The way Marco has been pushing for more aggressive action against our rivals.

My own brother is working against us.

13

Melinda

We’re here in the prenatal clinic, planning for our baby while also coordinating security against people who want us dead.

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