Page 46 of Broken Vows

He laughs, unphased by the sixty-story drop behind the glass. "There he is. The real Vincent. Not the polished businessman you pretend to be for Daddy."

"What do you want, Marco?"

"I want to understand how my brother—the heir apparent, the golden boy—decides to fuck the enemy and call it love." His blue eyes glitter with malice. "Did you think you could play house with a Mastroni whore and expect the family to approve?"

The word “whore” snaps something inside me. My hand moves to his throat, pressing just hard enough to make breathing difficult. "Call her that again."

"What? Whore? That's what she is, isn't she? A Mastroni whore carrying a bastard Russo?—"

I slam him against the glass again, harder this time. The window flexes but holds. "You have exactly five seconds to apologize before I throw you through this fucking window. And if you so much as breathe wrong near her or my child—I’ll bury you so deep your own fucking ghosts won’t find you.”

"You wouldn't." But uncertainty flickers in his eyes. "Dad’ll killyou. Plus, he fucking needs me."

"Dad needs results. You've been providing chaos." I lean closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "For the last time, if you ever threaten my wife or my child again, I'll dismantle you piece by piece. I'll start with your fingers, work my way up to more important parts. By the time I'm finished, you'll be begging me to put a bullet in your brain."

Real fear crosses Marco's features. He knows I don't make idle threats.

"Vincent." Tony's voice cuts through the tension. He's standing in the doorway, expression carefully neutral. "We've got a problem."

I release Marco, who stumbles back, straightening his tie with jerky hands. The fear in his eyes has been replaced by cold hatred—dangerous, but manageable.

"What kind of problem?" I ask Tony, not taking my eyes off my brother.

"Warehouse Seven. Hit about an hour ago." Tony's voice is clipped, professional. "Three men down, cocaine shipment destroyed. Clean work—professionals."

My blood chills. Warehouse Seven handles our most sensitive operations, the kind that can't be traced back to legitimate business. "Survivors?"

"None. But they left calling cards." Tony slides a tablet across my desk, showing crime scene photos. Spray-painted on the concrete wall in blood-red letters: "MASTRONI JUSTICE."

Marco laughs, sharp and bitter. "Well, well. Looks like your new in-laws aren't as trustworthy as you thought."

"This is a setup." I study the photos, noting details that don't fit. "The timing's too convenient. Someone wants us at war."

"Or," Marco continues, circling my desk like a hyena who’s toying with its prey, "the Mastronis are using your cock-struck stupidity to get inside our operations. Feed you a pretty face, let you think with your dick, then strike when your guard's down."

"Shut up." But doubt gnaws at me. The attack is professional, coordinated. The kind of operation that requires inside knowledge of our security protocols.

Tony clears his throat. "Boss, there's more. Witnesses saw three vehicles leaving the scene. Black SUVs, no plates. But..." He hesitates.

"But what?"

"One of the shooters left this behind." He produces a small evidence bag containing a gold chain with a distinctive pendant—a Mastroni family crest.

Marco's grin widens. "Still think it's a setup?"

I take the bag, studying the pendant. It's real—old gold, authentic craftsmanship. But something feels wrong. "Too obvious. If the Mastronis wanted to hit us, they wouldn't leave their fucking business card."

"Unless they wanted to send a message," Marco suggests. "Unless your pregnant whore convinced them you're weak enough to manipulate."

The insult hits like a match to gasoline. I grab Marco by the throat again, but Tony steps between us.

"Boss, we need to move fast. Word's already spreading. Our people are asking for orders."

He's right. In this business, hesitation is weakness, and weakness gets you killed. But starting a war with the Mastronis means putting Melinda and my unborn daughter in the crosshairs.

"Set up a meet with Max Mastroni," I decide. "Neutral ground. I want to hear his side before we start shooting."

Marco snorts. "You're going to negotiate with the people who just murdered our men?"

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