Page 61 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

He returns to his chair, but the movement isn’t casual, it’s heavy, as though the act of remembering has pulled the energy from his bones. When he sits, it’s with the gravity of a man who’s just laid his oldest ghost bare.

“When I held him for the first time, still slick with her blood, crying like he knew what had been lost…I made a promise.” His voice firms around the edges, like he’s anchoring himself in that vow. “He will not become me. He will not inherit our war. He will know what love feels like when it’s not attached to loyalty or control. He will choose his own life.”

For the first time, I understand what drives Yakov—not just vengeance or guilt, but a fierce, protective hope. Damien isn’t just his nephew. He’s Yakov’s penance. His purpose.

“And now?” I ask gently, wary of touching the rawness he’s just revealed. “Do you still believe you can keep that promise?”

“The vow holds,” he answers, and this time, it’s not wounded, it’s absolute. “Only the strategy has changed.”

That sentence lands like a declaration of war and absolution all at once. He’s still fighting, but not for revenge anymore. For Damien.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s full and weighty. I feel the shift in the room like a pressure drop before a storm.

“Thank you,” I say, simply. “For trusting me.”

His eyes meet mine, direct, unguarded, unflinching. “You asked who I am. This is it. That night. That boy. Everything else spins out from there.”

It’s the closest he’s ever come to surrendering control in front of me. And I know better than to ruin it with analysis or questions.

The moment stretches between us, fragile and electric. I want to reach for him, to offer comfort that has nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me.

But before I can move, before I can speak, the spell shatters.

A sharp knock cracks the air. The door swings open.

Igor stands in the threshold, flanked by two guards. His face is carved from stone. “We’re going into lockdown.”

I rise, heart thudding. “What happened?”

“Pablo Montoya was spotted near the perimeter. Armed. Possibly alone, but we’re not assuming anything.” Igor’s eyes cut to Yakov, then to me, and I see it—the suspicion, the calculation.

Yakov’s body goes still in that way only dangerous men can. “This location isn’t in any external files.”

The message is clear: someone betrayed them.

“We’re looking into it,” Igor snaps. “In the meantime, Mila’s being moved to another room.”

I step forward without thinking. “I should stay. We’re in the middle of?—”

“You’re done,” Igor says flatly. “Therapy can wait. Your safety can’t.”

He turns to gesture for the guards, but Yakov moves first, placing himself between me and Igor like a wall of quiet menace.

“The room next to mine is fortified.” His voice is deadly calm. But I catch something else underneath, something possessive and protective that has nothing to do with strategy.

He’s not just suggesting better security. He’s making sure I’m close enough to protect.

Igor doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw flexes. “We’ll discuss it outside.”

“No,” Yakov says, voice like ice. “You’ll make the call now.”

The guards shift, unsure, caught between two apex predators. I stand frozen, adrenaline buzzing, every nerve screaming the same truth.

Something’s changed.

Not just between Yakov and me. But inside him.

And this time, it’s not about vengeance.