Page 72 of Broken Vows

"Understood."

The foyer is intimidating by design—marble floors, oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors, and the subtle bulges of concealed weapons on every man present. Maya appears from a side corridor, moving with that grace that makes smart men nervous.

"Well, well," she purrs, circling me like a shark scenting blood. "The Russo prince comes calling. Should I curtsy or just shoot you in the face?"

"Maya," Melinda warns.

"What? He's got some nerve showing up here after his brother—" She stops.. "Oh. Daddy cut Vincent off or something??" Her eyes look haughtily into mine.

Max's expression doesn't change, but something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "What’s changed to cause this… meeting?"

The silence stretches like a drawn blade. Melinda looks at me, a question in her amber eyes—how much truth, how fast?

"The game’s changed since we all spoke about Marco," she says simply.

If I expected shock, I'm disappointed. Max just nods slowly, like this confirms something he's already suspected. He looks at me. "That explains why you're here instead of defending Russo territory."

"My brother tried to kill us both last night," I say bluntly. "Professional hit team, the works. He's convinced my father that I'm compromised by Mastroni influence."

"Are you?" The question comes from an older man I recognize as Benedetto, the family consigliere. His weathered face shows decades of survival in this business.

"I'm compromised by not wanting my unborn daughter to inherit a world where families slaughter each other for sport," I reply. "If that makes me weak, so be it."

Maya snorts. "A daughter? How do you?—"

"We had an ultrasound yesterday," Melinda interrupts. "Before the attack."

The room goes quiet again. In our world, daughters are protected differently, valued differently. They're often kept hidden from the violence that shapes their brothers.

"Marco's been planning this for months," I continue, pulling out my phone and showing them the intelligence I've gathered. "Financial records, communication intercepts, evidence of his alliance with the Perezzi family. He wants both families todestroy each other so he can claim leadership after the dust settles."

Max examines the documents, his expression growing darker with each revelation. "This level of coordination... he's been planning war."

"And my father's given him permission to wage it." The admission tastes like acid. "Antonio Russo has chosen tradition over strategy, blood over sense."

"What are you proposing?" Benedetto asks.

"Alliance. Real alliance, not the surface cooperation we've maintained for appearances." I look around the room, meeting each pair of eyes. "Share intelligence, coordinate security, present a united front against anyone who wants to exploit the chaos."

"In exchange for what?" Max demands.

"In exchange for survival. For both families, for the next generation." I gesture toward Melinda. "Our child will carry both bloodlines. She'll either inherit peace or perpetual war, depending on what we decide in this room."

My phone buzzes with an encrypted message. I glance at it, and my blood turns to ice.

"What is it?" Melinda asks, noting my expression.

I show her the screen. The message is from Tony, my most trusted lieutenant:Boss, sorry. Direct order from your father. You're now designated hostile. All units have shoot-on-sight authorization. Whatever you did, fix it fast or disappear.

The room erupts in movement—hands moving to weapons, security teams taking defensive positions. But Max raises a hand, calling for calm.

"Well," he says dryly. "Looks like you just became a dead man walking."

"Looks like it." I pocket the phone, surprised by how calm I feel. The last bridge has been burned, the final choice made. "So the question becomes—do we face this storm separately, or together?"

Max studies me for a long moment, then extends his hand. "Together. But Vincent? If you betray my family, if you hurt my sister or that baby, I'll make you beg for a bullet."

I shake his hand, feeling the calluses that speak of violence personally delivered. "Understood. And if any Mastroni harms what's mine, you'll see why the Russo name still makes grown men cross themselves."

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