Page 31 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“Damien is the son of a man you’ve spent years trying to destroy.” She straightens her spine. “That’s a complicated dynamic.”

“Children shouldn’t pay for the sins of their fathers.”

“Is that why you included Damien in your plans?” Her tone is steady. “To save him from Igor?”

A trap. Subtle. Either I admit to using the boy or contradict myself on innocence.

I choose a third path.

“My sister asked one thing of me before she died: protect her son.” I finally sit across from her. “Everything I’ve done since has honored that promise.”

“Even kidnapping his stepmother?” she asks. “Threatening the family he lives with?”

Clinical. Detached. And yet it cuts sharper than judgment.

“You understand nothing of this world, Dr. Agapova. Of what it means to owe a debt you didn’t choose. To carry a promise made in blood.”

“Then help me understand.”

She leans forward, and for a breath, I see the woman who let me touch her.

“Help me understand,” she repeats, softer. “Not the Bratva code. Not the vengeance. You. The man who let a child win at chess. The man who keeps promises to the dead.”

The man who touched her face and felt his world tilt.

“That man is a luxury I can’t afford.”

“Can’t?” she asks. “Or won’t?”

We’re too close. I can smell her shampoo, clean, sharp like winter air. I can see the faint circles under her eyes. Did she sleep? Did she dream of drowning? Of me?

For a moment, I almost explain it all—Bratva code, Anastasia, blood for blood. But I don’t.

Vulnerability is a currency I can’t spend.

“You want to understand the Bratva?” My voice drops. “Fine. Let me tell you about loyalty. About what happens when someone breaks it.”

I stand again, pacing. The movement is restless, compulsive.

“My father taught me that trust is a blade—useful, but it cuts both ways. Igor knew that. He knew what Anastasiya meant to me, and he took her anyway. Used her. Discarded her.”

“She fell in love,” Mila says quietly. She rises and walks toward me slowly.

“She was barely twenty,” I snap. “Naive. Desperate for something our world couldn’t give. Tenderness. Igor saw that and exploited it.”

“Like you exploit weakness?”

I stop. “Yes.”

The admission settles between us.

“But not with Damien,” she says. “With him, you were…gentle.”

“He’s innocent.”

“And I’m not? What am I, Yakov?”

We stand facing each other. Her expression flickers—disappointment?—but it’s gone before I can name it. She retreats, returns to her seat, opens her notebook. Composed again. Guarded.