Page 7 of Broken Vows

“Yeah.” My voice comes out a little rough. “Subtract three from tonight, count them as bonuses for overtime. Anyone asks, their contracts expired and they took a vacation in Florida. Use Cody’s crew for the paperwork—he’s cleaner.” I slide my laptop across and hand over phone chips in a small tin. “Make them disappear.”

I don’t wait to see Franco nod. Habit brings my hand to the burn scar that still itches across my left collar bone. It’s an old injury, but tonight it aches—phantom pain, the kind you get when you pull the trigger too many times for the wrong reasons.

Marco’s methods used to be rare.

Now, with Dad pushing for old school fear, it’s my brother’s style getting rewarded, not mine. I have to wonder how much longer my way—silent, superior, strategic—will carry any weight.

Out by the river, the night is still noisy. Sirens, barges, the low speech of men who have seen too much to ever really sleep again.

I drive back through Lower Manhattan, windows up. When I reach the private elevator at Russo Enterprises, muscle memory takes over. I scan in with one of my three RFID tags, nod to the men in black posted by the doors, enter the security code that changes weekly. Security here is tighter than a casino vault. Dad made it clear early on: the higher you get in this family, the more people will try to cut you down.

My office is cold. Floor-to-ceiling glass looks out over a city that has no soul left for men like me. Midnight lights flicker on in blue and gold below—my legitimate empire humming on autopilot. Dry cleaning companies, logistics, software consulting, a fucking shell company that makes VR onboarding for banks. And beneath it, the trophies: accounts stuffed with laundered narco-cash, passport printers, a secure gun locker hidden between antique ledgers from my grandfather’s time.

Numbers relax me. I settle into the thrum of processing—four new legal acquisitions lined up to channel money, half a dozen dummy companies paid off to hide our burning tracks.

Behind it, though, runs a private reel in my brain. The last time someone touched me with honest hands. Blonde hair or brown, a laugh half-swallowed by exhaustion, the glint of amber eyes in the murky dark.

She comes to me then, uninvited—the woman in the penthouse.

Fuck.

I close my eyes for a second and there it is: whiskey, silk, her mouth on mine, nails raking my chest, my back. The one time in months I let go, fucked someone as if the danger could not touch us. She never gave me a name. I never pressed.

She’s not an obsession, exactly. I won’t allow that. I’m Vincent Russo. I own my choices, my impulses… my ghosts.

My phone chimes again, this time with a message from the very devil himself.

Dad:Tomorrow, 8 p.m. Charity gala. Mastroni news—you’ll be interested.

Subtle as ever.

I tap out a reply—Confirmed. I’ll be there. More on Bronx expansion later—and then set the device to silent. My father is moving pieces. The Mastronis are pushing on pharma. He wants leverage. He wants a Mastroni trophy to parade to captains, proof that old ghosts can be chained or burned.

He’ll expect me to play the seducer, the diplomat, maybe the heavy, depending on the company. I’m good at all of it. But I can’t shake the weight—like an animal scenting the storm, I sense the gala is the beginning of something big.

Out on the desk are the news clippings Dad leaves just to get under my skin. I spot one I missed—a glossy tabloid headline, black and gold:

“Notorious Mastroni Heir Weds Socialite—Rumors Swirl After Dramatic Engagement.”Photo: Max, stony-faced in a tailored tux, Cara on his arm, both tired but triumphant. Somebody cropped the headline, but the paper missed the inside story—the part where Max locked Cara up for weeks before she agreed to marry him.

That kind of chaos doesn't belong on my side of the ledger.

I stare at their photo a moment, something sour burning in my gut. Max Mastroni is unpredictable, but the marriage is a warning to every New York crew: the old rules are breaking. Kidnap a girl. Marry your enemy. A week later, the whole city whispers you’re more in love than any of us will ever be.

The Mastronis keep their women locked up tight. I know Max, know his reputation, know his wife Cara from the headlines. But his sisters? Rumor has it the spunky one is the youngest, fully in the family business. But the older one, the one who disappeared years ago? The one who got out of the world of mafia dealsand violence. She's a ghost. Even my best intelligence never got a current photo, never tracked her movements. Smart girl—she learned to protect herself, to disappear, to get out before she gets blood on her hands.

I look at the photo of Max and Cara. So “in love,” the article says.

Does love even exist, or is it just another word for leverage?

A memory needles at me—the woman from the penthouse that night, her silhouette as I pressed her against my window. The way her hands tugged greedily at me when she unbuttoned my shirt. The way she left before dawn, no name, no hope of finding her again.

If I close my eyes, I can taste her… and taste regret that I lost her, though I bury it fast. Softness is a fucking luxury. I learned that at sixteen, standing over my first body, blood soaking through my best shoes.

My father’s voice in my ear:“Family first. Weakness is death.”

But what about all the ways you kill yourself while staying strong? What about the things you want but can’t admit? The things you lose by following the rules?

I catch myself before the questions spiral. I file them away, like every other temptation.

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