Page 123 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

The words hit like a physical blow. “Intelligence?”

“Bratva security protocols. Shipment routes. Personnel movements. Weaknesses in their operations.” His voice remains controlled. “Information they could use to avoid confrontation or exploit vulnerabilities.”

“You were a spy.” The accusation comes out sharper than I mean to.

“I was a man with a score to settle,” he counters, finally meeting my eyes briefly before returning his attention to the road. “The Bratva destroyed my life, killed my sister. The Colombians offered me resources, protection, a way to get close enough for revenge.”

“In exchange for betraying the syndicate.”

“Yes.” His voice hardens. “It was a way to weaken my enemy and achieve my goal faster.”

I lean back against the seat, trying to process this. “How long?”

“Eight months. Almost a year.” He navigates through traffic easily. “I established contact through intermediaries in SouthAmerica. Built trust. Provided actionable intelligence that kept their operations from intersecting with Bratva territories.”

“Even from the mansion?”

A bitter laugh escapes him. “Especially from the mansion. The Bratva gave me everything I needed—internet access, a phone. They didn’t realize I was using it to communicate with their enemies.”

“And then?”

His hands tighten on the wheel again. “And then I met a therapist who made me question whether revenge was worth sacrificing what little humanity I had left.” He pauses, jaw working. “Then Pablo showed up as your patient. They were positioning themselves close to you. Using therapy as cover to study your routines, your vulnerabilities, your connections.”

The violation of it hits me like a physical blow. “My sessions with him?—”

“Were reconnaissance,” Yakov confirms grimly. “And the moment I realized that, I cut all contact. Stopped responding to their intermediaries. Started actively working against them instead of just withholding information.”

“So you betrayed them to protect me.”

“I chose you over everything else,” he says simply. “And they consider that the ultimate betrayal.”

“They blame me,” I say, the pieces clicking into place. “For changing you.”

“They blame you for making me human again.” His voice drops to that dangerous register that always makes my pulse race. “For giving me something worth protecting instead of destroying.”

Fear coils in my stomach, cold and insistent. “What do we do now?”

Yakov’s eyes find mine for a brief moment before returning to the road. “You come back to the mansion with me. Tonight. Until we assess the threat level.”

I should argue. Should insist on maintaining my independence, on not allowing fear to control my life. Instead, I find myself nodding. “Okay.”

His hand reaches across the console. “I won’t let them touch you, Mila.” The promise carries absolute certainty. “Not while I’m breathing.”

“I know.” And I do. Whatever happens, whatever complications arise from the Colombian cartel’s interest, I trust the man beside me with a depth that should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the only solid thing in a suddenly shifting world.

As we drive toward the mansion, toward the temporary sanctuary, I study Yakov’s profile in the dimness. The hard set of his jaw, the focused intensity, the danger radiating from him—all of it reminding me that the man I’ve chosen is capable of both tenderness and violence, of protection and destruction.

God help me, I want all of him—light and darkness, monster and man. Whatever comes next, whatever threats we face, my choice remains unaltered.

I choose him. All of him. Without reservation, without regret.

Even if it means facing the storm that’s clearly gathering on our horizon.

35

SOFT EDGES IN A HARD WORLD

YAKOV