Page 16 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“Confidentiality, Nikolai,” I say firmly, though not unkindly. “You know the rules.”

He nods, accepting it without protest. That’s one thing I respect about him; he knows when to push and when not to.

We end up at a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach—quiet, unmarked, clearly Bratva owned. The staff greet Nikolai with subtle nods that speak volumes. We’re shown to a private alcove. No menus. No questions. Vodka arrives unbidden.

“To boundaries,” Nikolai says, raising his glass. His eyes hold a hint of amusement. “And the people who test them.”

I clink my glass gently against his. “And the professionals who maintain them.”

We eat. We talk. He doesn’t pry. I don’t vent. The conversation drifts to safer topics: Katarina, the aftermath of the kidnappings, the quiet reshuffling of power behind the scenes.

“She worries about you,” Nikolai says. “Working with Yakov.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “He’s just another patient.”

He gives me a look that saysno, he isn’t, but he lets it slide.

Then, “Has Yakov said anything about Colombian cartel activity?”

I blink. “No. Why would he?”

“Before all this…revenge, Yakov had dealings in South America. He kept ties to certain factions, quiet ones. If anyone’s heard whispers about territorial shifts, it’s him.”

A cold knot forms in my stomach.

Business expansions. New territories. Pablo’s voice echoes, too smooth to be accidental.

I set my glass down slowly. “Why the sudden interest in the cartels?”

Nikolai studies me for a moment before answering. His expression sharpens, not Bratva boss, not protective friend. Strategist.

“There’s movement,” he says. “Quiet. Strategic. Small incursions into our territory that don’t match any known rival patterns. Nothing overt yet. But someone’s testing fences.”

“And you think Yakov’s involved?”

“I think Yakov knows more than he lets on.” His voice lowers, just a shade. “He always knows more. The question is whether he plans to be an asset or a complication.”

“Do you think Yakov can change?”

Nikolai doesn’t answer right away. He considers it like it matters, which, for Yakov, it does.

“Bratva’s not something you’re born into,” he says at last. “It’s something you choose. Or think you do, until you realize it’s shaped everything about you.”

He swirls the vodka in his glass but doesn’t drink. His voice is quieter now, edged with something rougher.

“We’re taught to survive, to command, to strike first and think later. Loyalty, violence, silence. It gets in your blood. In your instincts.”

He pauses.

“But we can change. Not easily. Not without cost. It takes something bigger than pride or pain to pull a man off the path he’s carved for himself.”

He looks at me then, steady.

“Sometimes, if the reason is strong enough, we don’t just change. Wechooseto become something else.”

“And what was your reason?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Katarina.”