Page 9 of Broken Vows

My fingers clench around the clutch so hard the edge bites my skin. “Well, they missed. If they come back, I won’t be so easy.”

He looks at me for a stretch of silent seconds like he wants to argue. We both know why been trying to run from this place since I was eighteen.

Max notices—he always does. “You didn’t have to come back early from your sabbatical, Mel,” he says, using the nickname he gave up for years when I walked out that door. “When you called me from Italy after I handled Cara’s dad, well, I knew you were in deep shit. But I could’ve handled it for you.”

I snort softly. “Yeah, if you want me dead, try that plan.” I meet his gaze. “I called you when someone tried to put a bullet through my villa window in Italy. Tried to shoot me. I had to come back. But I’m not staying long. I just… I need to know who’s after me. On my turf.”

I shake my head. “Besides… it’s not just me anymore.”

The words slip out louder than I meant but not loud enough for him to catch on.

Down the hall, I hear someone coming—the only person in this house who can move without Max’s explicit permission.

Cara appears, a vision in blue silk, hair in soft waves, wedding ring flashing when she tucks a strand behind her ear. “You look—wow. Like a Vogue shoot interrupted by a medical drama.”

I allow myself a small smile. “I’d settle for not puking on the mayor.”

Her eyes narrow with friendly suspicion. Cara could’ve been a trophy wife, but there’s sharpness beneath the gloss. “Nerves? I guess after years away, anyone would be nervous tonight. Islipped a chocolate bar into your clutch. In case you need to self-comfort with all the vultures circling.”

She’s always mothering me, now. I wonder how much of it’s affection and how much is trauma from the way she was… what, acquired? Kidnapped, then loved, then married.

The photo of their wedding sits on my dresser, recentering so many things I thought I understood. It feels like a lifetime ago, Cara’s pale hand clinging to Max’s, bruises only half-faded. People talk in whispers, like love’s a consequence, not an accident.

Cara looks softer tonight, her armor more socialite than soldier. But her voice changes when it’s just us. “Maya’s still offering to ‘accidentally’ stab anyone who brings up why you left for all those years. For the record, the family’s better since you’ve come back.”

“Hardly.” I can’t help the bitterness in my voice. I force my face into something like gratitude. “It wasn’t just a career move, you know.” I risk the confession. “I was burnt out. I needed a break, honestly. I almost hurt a patient, two weeks ago. I thought I could push through after that threat on my life. But—” I hesitate. “I’m still not quite myself. I couldn’t risk making a mistake with a patient.”

Cara’s expression softens even more. “You’ve been out of this world for so long. Being threatened like that isn’t something you can just forget, Melinda. If you need to bail, tonight or ever, just say the word.”

“You make it sound like a prison break, not a gala.” I brush imaginary lint off my gown, looking for something to anchor me.

“Max is channeling his inner warden, ever since the wedding.” Cara slides a sidelong glance at the door, where his hulking presence waits. “He still checks security tapes before I get home.”

“I’ve always done that.” He grunts from the doorway. “Let’s go, before Maya explodes.”

He leads the way down the sweeping staircase. The house is loud tonight—security everywhere, staff chattering in corners.

I try to focus on the rotunda’s wallpaper instead, arranging my features into serene professionalism.

My baby sister Maya intercepts me halfway down the stairs, all bold energy, eyeliner sharp as the blades she hides on her thighs. She hugs me with bone-squeezing force, whispers in rapid-fire Italian so only I catch her words. “Two shooters outside last night, you know? Next fucker who tries, I’ll turn him inside out and mail the pieces back.” She’s brash and beautiful and would probably slit a throat for me, if I asked.

“I’d prefer you didn’t send packages,” I reply, almost smiling.

She grins, showing white teeth. “I’ll save it for my wedding.”

At the car, one of Max’s men opens the back door. He scans me for weapons, not because he doubts me but because it’s policy. I flash him my most withering doctor glare, and he turns pink—he can break bones with his hands, but he won’t challenge a real Mastroni woman to her face.

The city rushes by us through armored glass. On the way, Max reviews the security plan in clipped phrases, more for his own reassurance than mine. Cara chats lightly, weather andperfumery and art, code for admitting, “I see you. I know you’re scared. I’ll deflect for you tonight.”

It’s almost comforting. I realize too late I’ve pressed my palm against my lower abdomen, a protective gesture that’d give me away in a second if anyone noticed. My belly feels different already. This baby is real now.

Sometimes, I want to say everything—to confess to Max that I’m not just tired, I’m terrified, that every wave of nausea is both worry and hope. That I never wanted to bring a child into this world. That I’m furious about fate, about family, about nights where the only man I’ve been emotionally vulnerable with in years turned out to be a stranger with dangerous eyes.

I’m not allowed that luxury. I can’t tell my family about this baby because then it becomes the family’s baby, not just mine. They’ll tell me how to raise it, how to train it into a Mastroni. I don’t want that.

When we reach the gala, the street is lined with black town cars and paparazzi. Security hustles us in, one hand at the small of my back.

Inside, chandeliers gleam and men in suits nod in that wordless, dangerous way. I recognize distant cousins and childhood friends who now carry pistols beneath their tuxedos. Everyone whispers, eyes on Max, on me, on how long it’s been since the Mastroni princess was seen in public.

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