Page 1 of Bound Vows
Chapter 1
Maya
There’s a reason I never drink red at mafia dinners. It stains too easily.
“To peace,” my brother-in-law says as he raises his glass of Barolo across the pristine white tablecloth.
“To profitable peace,” I correct, because peace without profit is just a fancy word for surrender.
Vincent Russo married my sister Melinda two years ago, which makes him family, whether I like it or not.
Tonight, I like him well enough to keep him alive during his meeting with representatives from the Colombo organization. My older brother Max wanted someone to watch Vincent’s back, and I had drawn the short straw.
“The Colombos should arrive any moment.” Vincent checks his watch—a wedding gift from Melinda that looks like it costa fortune. “Remember, Maya, we’re here to discuss territorial boundaries, not to start a war.”
“Poster child of diplomacy,” I say. “Unless someone laces your osso buco. Then, I get stabby.”
The restaurant is filled with patrons who have no idea they’re dining next to one of the biggest crime families in New York. At least we have a separate room off to the side so we can conduct business in private. The maître d’ knows better than to ask questions when men like Vincent book private dining rooms.
“Your sister would kill me if she knew I brought you along.”
“My sister is busy growing tiny humans. She doesn’t have time to supervise me.” I take another sip of wine, savoring the sweetness. “Besides, someone needs to make sure you don’t get yourself murdered before you can give her more babies.”
Vincent’s mouth twitches upward. “How generous of you.”
“I live to serve.” I gesture around the dining room with my butter knife. “Though I have to ask—why here? The Colombos prefer their own establishments.”
“Lorenzo Colombo made the suggestion. Said he wanted neutral ground for preliminary discussions.”
Something about that doesn’t sit right with me, but I can’t put my finger on what. The Colombos have been allies for three generations. Their territory borders ours in Queens, and we’ve maintained peaceful coexistence through carefully negotiated agreements that benefit everyone involved. Why would we need neutral ground?
“When did territorial boundaries become complicated enough to require face-to-face meetings?” I ask.
“When someone started moving product through their neighborhoods without permission,” Vincent replies. “Lorenzo thinks it might be connected to the Russians.”
I pause my piece of bread halfway to my mouth. “Which Russians?”
“The ones who’ve been making noise about expanding into Italian territories. Same group that’s been hitting family businesses in Brooklyn.” Vincent gives me an oddly concerned look before adding, “We think it’s the same crew that jumped you outside that nightclub.”
The memory slams into me like a punch to the gut. Wet streets. Screams. Blood on my blade. That night feels like yesterday, not six months ago.
“Maya?” Vincent’s voice cuts through my mental replay. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just remembering something unpleasant.” I set down my roll and reach for my wine glass. “Tell me about these Russians. What do we know?”
“Not much. They’re organized, well-funded, and smart enough to avoid confrontation with established families. Until recently.”
“‘Recently’ meaning…”
“Three hits in the past month. All on Italian family operations. All professional.” The muscle in Vincent’s jaw ticks. “Max thinks they’re testing our responses.”
The dining room door opens, and three men enter wearing the kind of suits that whisper money and menace in equal measure. I recognize Lorenzo Colombo immediately—silverhair, patrician features, and the bearing of a man who’s been giving orders since before I was born.
The two men flanking him are unfamiliar, which puts me on edge. Business meetings don’t include strangers unless someone is planning something.
“Vincent.” Lorenzo approaches our table with a smile that looks anything but genuine. “Thank you for meeting on such short notice.”
Vincent stands to shake hands, and I remain seated because standing shows deference I haven’t earned. “Lorenzo. I wasn’t expecting additional guests.”
