Page 86 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

Purpose.

The kind of clarity that makes strategy feel like oxygen.

For the first time since the cage cracked open, I feel not just alert, but alive.

But beneath that, quieter and more dangerous, is the ache.

Two days.

Mila.

Two days since she walked out of the mansion escorted under Bratva guns and a mask of neutrality she wears too well. Two days without her voice slicing through the noise, her gaze cutting deeper than bullets ever could. Two days of pretending I don’t crave the one woman who looks at me like I’m still human.

And every minute without her tastes like penance.

“You’re thinking about her.”

Aleksander’s voice slices clean through the quiet, low and knowing. It’s not a question. It never is with him.

I don’t deny it. No point pretending.

“Is that going to be a problem?” My voice stays level, but the edge beneath it is sharp enough to draw blood.

He shrugs, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not for me. But Igor? He’s waiting for the first crack.”

“Igor’s been waiting for years.”

A quiet hum of agreement. “True.” He glances over, something thoughtful ghosting through his expression. “But for what it’s worth…she’s steadying you. You’re clearer now than I’ve seen you since before Ana.”

Her name lands like a stone, but it doesn’t shatter me the way it used to. The rage has dulled, tempered, honed. Still there. Always there. But manageable now. Contained.

The pain remains.

And pain, I know how to carry.

“She sees the man beneath the monster,” I admit before I can dress it in something colder. The truth escapes raw, exposed.It unsettles me to let that out where someone else can hear it. “It’s…disorienting.”

Aleksander nods, checking his weapon as the glow of the nightclub district flickers into view. “Being seen usually is. It’s easier to play the part they fear than to risk becoming someone they might care for.”

He says it like a man who knows. Because he does. Seven years clean. Pulled himself out of the fire more than once.

The Velvet Echo rises ahead—black glass and brushed steel, all sleek illusion. It looks like decadence, but I know better. I see the seams in the armor. The layers of surveillance. The soldiers in tailored suits.

This is a war zone in silk.

We enter through the service corridor. Vasiliy’s already there, nodding once in greeting. Respect laced with warning. His eyes skim over me, sharp with memory and not-quite-forgiveness.

“Show me the layout,” I say, no time for civility.

The next hour is scalpel work. I dissect the building floor by floor, sweeping for vulnerabilities no one else thought to see. I reroute guards. Adjust camera placement. Identify weak points in coverage, escape paths too exposed. The focus is clean, consuming.

But not even strategy silences her.

Mila lingers like breath against skin, never far, never still. Not haunting. Anchoring.

Would she see this as redemption? Turning the same skillset I once used to dismantle into something that protects?

The thought catches in my chest. Not weakness. Something worse.