Page 8 of Broken Vows

The city lights blink as I review acquisition files. Tomorrow, I’ll smile and shake hands at the gala, while my real job—war by other means—never pauses. I’ll find out what the Mastronis really want, who’s compromised and who’s selling out, why their eldest daughter is suddenly back in the family’s fold again after half a decade gone. If I play this right, maybe by dawn I’ll havesomething I haven’t held in years: an advantage no one else can see yet.

Out the window, the East River catches the moon, shimmering in shades of dirty silver.

2

Melinda

This dress might fit, but nothing else does.

In my childhood bedroom, I stare into a gilded mirror older than my medical career—older than my memories of safety, for that matter.

I keep waiting for my reflection to lose the haunted look around her eyes.

No luck.

I smooth the burgundy gown over my hips. The color is deep, a Mastroni color, the kind my mother would’ve pressed on me before a feast or a funeral.

It fits perfectly, tailored for someone who eats more salads than lunch breaks allow time for, who runs on caffeine and emergency adrenaline.

My hair’s too glossy, fingers too steady.

Professional. Controlled. To the professional world, I am Dr. Melinda Mason, using my mother’s last name for anonymity.

I’m a product of Columbia Med, eldest daughter of New York’s deadliest family, and right now, I feel like I’m pretending at both.

I lean closer to the mirror and pull my sleeve just high enough to study the thin puckered line on my right wrist—my first real scar. Given everything that happened in this house, I should probably have more.

Instead, I kept my wounds hidden, stitched up by my own hand or my brother’s, never once letting the hospitals record the evidence. My mother said a Mastroni girl never shows weakness. My father never allowed me to forget why.

I force a breath past the weight on my sternum. That old pine dresser, still crowded with medical textbooks, competes for space with my ballet trophies and a drawer that still cradles a nine-millimeter Beretta in velvet, untouched in five years but respected like a holy relic.

The room is a curation of someone I tried desperately not to be.

I pick up my clutch and slide a pill into my mouth—ondansetron, anti-nausea, the secret weapon in the war that is my first trimester.

Four months and counting.

I keep a bottle in every coat pocket; the mask of professionalism I wear can’t survive a bout of sudden vomiting. Especially not now, not tonight, not with the Mastroni name at the center of the gala.

There’s a knock on the door, hard knuckles on ancient wood. It’s Max. He doesn’t say “open up.” He doesn’t need to.

I let him in. He fills up the entire threshold, six-feet-something and power woven into his bones, tux crisp, eyes sharp. He gives me one clinical sweep like he’s cataloging threats, not admiring the work of the family tailor.

“You look... expensive,” he says, arching one eyebrow.

“Trust me, I’d rather be in scrubs.” I can’t help the edge in my voice.

Max steps inside, gaze flicking to the pistol drawer as if expecting trouble to leap out. The memory of him bleeding on our mother’s rug streaks through my mind—a territorial dispute, two bullets in his thigh, my hesitant hands learning to suture skin slick with blood… and fear. I think that was when I started planning my escape from the madness that is our family’s work.

“You ready?” he asks, quiet. There’s an undertone of something besides command. Worry, maybe. Or guilt, unspoken.

“For which part?” I ask. “Smiling at people who’d slit my throat if they thought Dad wouldn’t notice? Or pretending I’m just here for family values?”

He half-smiles. “Both. And if anyone blinks at you wrong, Maya’s got your back. She’s bouncing off the walls already.”

I glance down at my watch—a faint scuff at the crystal, the one luxury I allowed myself during residency. I catch the shudder in my breath before he can notice. “Did you double the security tonight?”

His mouth tenses. “Tripled. After your incident in Italy—” Max stares at a crack in the wall when he says it, like the details are written there. “We still don’t know who ordered the hits. But don’t worry my men are on it and we’ll find them.”

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