Page 54 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

There it is. Not a visit. A probe.

I step toward the window, spine straight, voice even. “And you’re hoping I’ll help. Offer intelligence. Something actionable.”

He doesn’t deny it. “You still have connections. Knowledge. If there’s anything that can give us an advantage, we need it now. This isn’t business anymore, it’s about territory, lives.”

And leverage.

I turn to face them. Vasiliy watches with stillness. Galina’s posture shifts subtly as the baby stirs. My father, he’s waiting and calculating. Measuring which version of me he’s speaking to: the weapon or the son.

“What makes you think I’d help?” I ask.

My father’s reply is quiet steel. “Because when the Bratva bleeds, it doesn’t matter whose name the boy carries, he bleeds too.”

And there it is. The threat.

“Loyalty,” I say with a hollow smile. “How very…on brand.”

Galina’s voice cuts clean through the space between us. “Is it working?”

I look at her, really look. A survivor wearing her strength like silk. She knows how to survive men like Matvei. Men like me. And she’s not afraid to meet my eyes.

That earns a flicker of respect.

But it doesn’t mean I’m giving them what they want. Not yet.

“Perhaps,” I allow, stepping away from the window and claiming the armchair across from my father. A small concession. Let them read into it whatever they want.

Vasiliy’s posture eases—barely—but the wariness in his eyes doesn’t fade. “About time,” he mutters.

“The one pushing is Emilio Diaz,” I begin, selecting my words with the precision of a surgeon. “He’s no longer content with drug routes and shadow operations. He’s transitioning, moving into legitimate business covers, embedding himself with bureaucrats, lobbying leverage disguised as investment. He’s modeling himself less after Escobar and more after us.”

My father nods, slow and thoughtful. “We suspected as much. And the nephew, Montoya?”

Ah. So Mila’s been talking. Good. Or bad. I haven’t decided yet.

“Montoya is the bite behind the smile,” I say. “He establishes footholds. Builds rapport. Finds the cracks people don’t know they have, then applies pressure until they break. His interest in Dr. Agapova isn’t a coincidence.”

Vasiliy leans forward now, all pretense of casual posture gone. “What do you know?”

“I know she’s marked,” I say evenly. “Because of her proximity to this house. To your families. To the private sessions she’s been having with me.”

The shift in the room is immediate—awareness, alertness, calculation. Galina’s arms tighten subtly around the baby. Vasiliy doesn’t blink. My father leans back, waiting to see how far I’ll go.

“How do you know any of this?” he asks, skepticism sharpening his voice.

I give him a thin smile. “Before I became…singularly focused on personal matters, my interests were diverse. South American markets among them.” I let the implication hang.

Mutual associates. Mutual enemies. Mutually assured destruction.

“And where will they strike next?” Vasiliy asks, too fast to be anything but genuine concern.

I weigh my words, letting silence stretch until my father shifts in his chair. Information is currency, and I don’t spend it lightly. “The clubs might be targets,” I say finally. “Places with legitimate fronts.”

Galina’s eyes narrow. “The Velvet Echo.”

“Exactly.” I look to my father. “They won’t hit the Bratva where you expect it. They’ll hit where it’s soft. Where your defenses are personal, not strategic.”

There’s a beat of silence. Just long enough for my point to sink in.