Page 114 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“He’s made his choice clear,” I say quietly.

“And have you made your choice?”

I stare into my coffee cup as if it might hold the answer, but I already know. Have known since that night in his arms when the world narrowed to just us, when boundaries dissolved and possibility bloomed between us.

“I already chose him,” I whisper, the words both terrifying and liberating. “I torched my whole life for him.”

Katarina smiles, approval in her eyes. “Then don’t back out now, Mila. There are enough external obstacles without adding your own.”

“When did you get so wise about love?” I ask, attempting to lighten the moment.

She laughs; the sound bright against the café’s ambient noise. “Somewhere between being kidnapped by a Bratva bossand building a life with him. Love isn’t for the faint hearted in our world, Mila. But it’s worth every battle.”

As we finish our coffee; we change the subject to lighter and easier topics. Gradually, bit by bit, I feel a shift inside me, a decision crystallizing, a path opening before me that’s neither safe nor certain, but undeniably right.

Yakov Gagarin has shattered every ethical code I’ve prided myself to have lived by. He’s made me question my judgment, my principles, my understanding of myself.

And yet, when I imagine walking away from him, continuing my life without the intensity of his gaze, or the strength of his arms, or the surprising tenderness in his voice when he whispers my name in the darkness, I can’t breathe.

Some choices define us not because they’re wise, but because avoiding them betrays who we are.

Tonight, I’ll see him again. Tonight, I’ll tell him what I’ve just admitted to Katarina—that despite everything logical and rational, despite my professional ethics and his complicated past, I choose him.

I choose us.

And whatever storms that choice brings, we’ll weather them together.

31

THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

YAKOV

The morning air carries a hint of spring, crisp and clean against my skin as I watch the light play across Mila’s face. Her presence here, beside me, still seems impossible sometimes. The Bratva insists she remain until they’re certain Pablo’s capture hasn’t triggered retaliation from his uncle’s organization. “Precautionary,” Nikolai called it, though we both know it’s an excuse that serves everyone’s interests—including ours.

She sits across from me on the terrace, steam rising from her coffee cup, her dark hair catching the sunlight in ways that make my fingers itch to touch it. I shouldn’t be allowed this, these quiet moments outside my gilded prison, this semblance of normalcy with a woman who should have run from me the moment she understood what I am.

And yet, here we are.

“You’re staring,” she says, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth without looking up from her cup. Those perceptive eyes miss nothing, not even when she pretends otherwise.

“I’m observing,” I correct her, allowing myself the ghost of a smile. “Old habits.”

Now she glances up, meeting my stare with that unflinching directness that first drew me to her. No fear. Only clarity and warmth that makes my chest tighten.

“Observations worth sharing?” she asks, the professional distance we once maintained dissolving further with each passing day. Officially, she transferred my case, but the Bratva’s request for her to continue overrode protocol. They trust her, and trust doesn’t come easily in my world. These coffee meetings masquerade as therapy sessions, but we both know they’re becoming something more honest than our formal appointments ever were.

“You slept poorly,” I say, noting the slight shadows beneath her eyes, the tension she carries in her shoulders. “Bad dreams?”

She considers lying—I see the impulse flash across her features—then chooses honesty instead. “Different ones. The dream about my mother…it’s gone. Now it’s Pablo.”

The name sends a familiar surge of cold rage through me, though I keep my expression neutral. “He’s secured. He can’t reach you now.”

“I know. And I know it’s been a week.” She sets her cup down, fingers tracing the rim absently. “That’s not what keeps me awake.”

I wait, giving her space to continue. Another change in me, this new patience that I’m still learning to navigate. The old Yakov would’ve pressed, demanded control. The man I’m becoming waits for her trust.

“I keep thinking about what happened in that alley,” she says finally. “About the moment when you had him at your mercy. Before Aleks arrived.”