Page 107 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

I drop my weight, twisting toward his thumb—the weakest point of his hold—exactly as Yakov taught me. His fingers slip. His control breaks.

And Yakov is already in motion.

What follows is a blur of brutal grace. Yakov moves like a man born to violence, every strike measured, efficient, devastating. Pablo lashes out, surprisingly skilled, but he’s outmatched before the first punch lands. In seconds, he’s on hisknees, blood streaming from his nose, Yakov’s hand wrapped around his throat.

“Yakov.” My words are soft but urgent. “We need him alive.”

Understanding crosses his features. A war between fury and restraint, between the man I know and the monster he keeps caged. For a breathless moment, I’m not sure which one will win.

Then his gaze finds mine.

The shift is subtle, but it’s there. His grip loosens slightly, though Pablo stays pinned beneath him, furious and humiliated.

“Are you alright?” The brutality of his hands doesn’t touch the gentleness in his voice.

I shake my head, stepping closer, drawn to him like gravity has rewired itself around his presence. “You found me.”

A faint smile touches his lips, softening his entire face.

Pablo makes a sharp, derisive sound. “Touching,” he sneers. “The monster finds his heart.”

Yakov’s grip tightens again, cutting him off mid-breath. “Speak to her again,” he says coldly, “and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

It should chill me. It should cross a line.

But instead, I reach for him, my hand resting on his shoulder, grounding him. Grounding us.

“The Bratva will want him alive,” I say quietly. “For interrogation.”

Yakov nods, the tension in his frame easing slightly beneath my touch. “They’re on their way. I alerted Aleksander before I left my post.”

Right on cue, the sound of engines rumbles through the alley. Headlights cut through the dark, followed by the slick professionalism of armed men moving into position. Aleksander is first to step into view, Volk at his side.

He surveys the scene. Yakov, crouched over Pablo. Me, standing too close.

“Well,” he says dryly, taking it all in, “this is…illuminating.”

Yakov rises, still holding Pablo in a vice grip, but his tone is measured. “He was going to kill her.”

Aleksander’s eyes sweep over us again, sharp and calculating. “And you left your assigned position because…?”

“Because he had to,” I cut in, stepping forward. “Yakov found me. When no one else could.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then something shifts in Aleksander’s expression—less judgment, more reluctant understanding. He gestures for his men to take Pablo. Only when they’ve fully secured him does Yakov let go.

Pablo spits blood, glaring as they drag him past. “This isn’t over,” he snarls. “Not by a long shot.”

Aleksander steps in closer, lowering his voice. “Igor’s going to be livid. You abandoned your position. Left the team?—”

“I found her,” Yakov says simply, reaching for my hand. Our fingers lace together, unflinching. “That’s all that matters.”

Aleksander sees it—the connection between us—but he says nothing. Just exhales and shakes his head.

“We’ll deal with the fallout later,” he mutters. “For now, get her out of here.”

As we move toward the waiting vehicles, Yakov keeps me close, his body angled between mine and the world. Shielding. Anchoring. I should be spiraling, reeling from the violence, the near miss, the way it could’ve ended.

But all I feel is him.