Page 88 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

They stare at me, not in disbelief, but at the speed of the conclusion.

Vasiliy is the first to recover, suspicion coiled and ready. “How the hell do you know that?”

I spread the delivery logs across the table, pointing to the inconsistencies. “Look at the timing. Same company, but different drivers each week. Different vehicles. And this route—” I trace the pattern with my finger. “It maps every camera angle, every guard rotation.”

Aleksander leans closer. “You’re sure?”

“I designed this exact approach for the Komninos job in 2019.”

Aleksander’s gaze sharpens, features shifting as the puzzle clicks into place. “The building next door…” Aleksander’s voice trails off as the pieces click.

“I sold it six months ago. Cash buyer, no questions, 10 percent over asking.” My jaw tightens. “Should’ve been a red flag, but I needed liquid assets.”

“They’ve been planning this since then.”

Within minutes, the mood shifts. The Velvet Echo sheds its disguise as a nightclub and reverts to what it really is—a fortress. Orders fire off. Positions rotate. Firearms are drawn. And I’m in the center of the storm, commanding like I never left the field.

They listen. They move. They follow.

Because when death draws close, even the wolves know which alpha leads.

Hours vanish in a blur of strategic calibration. Every adjustment, every calculated maneuver sharpens the edge that had dulled in confinement. By evening, they send me back to the mansion, my tactical value acknowledged but not yet trusted with direct engagement.

The intercept goes exactly as I predicted: basement breach, three-man team, neutralized before they reached the main floor.

When Igor approaches afterward, his usual sneer is gone. “You were right,” he says. No thanks. No apology. Just acknowledgment.

It’s enough.

Later, Aleksander walks me back to my room. His posture is relaxed, his version of offering peace.

“Nikolai wants to expand your privileges,” he says. “Regular time with Damien. Possibly even unaccompanied movement, inside a defined perimeter.”

It’s not freedom. But it’s the closest I’ve come. A signal I’m no longer just a liability. I’m an asset. Maybe—eventually—an ally.

“And Mila?” I ask, watching him closely. “Will she stay on my case?”

A flicker of something wry touches his eyes. “Officially, no. She’s filed for transfer.”

“And unofficially?”

He meets my gaze, steady and unapologetic. “Unofficially, I’ve chosen not to fix certain surveillance blind spots. What happens in the dark stays there.”

He’s choosing to look away.

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Aleksander glances out the window. His voice is quiet, not soft. “Eight years ago, I was barely human. A junkie. A ghost. Igor had every reason to cut me loose, but he didn’t. He saw something left worth saving.”

He turns back, gaze sharp. “Maybe this is me paying it forward.”

My phone buzzes with a new message.

Mila. Confirming her visit tomorrow. Officially for the transfer. Unofficially…for us.

My body reacts instantly—heat curling low, tension coiled and dangerous. I can already feel her close, already taste the electricity she brings with her presence. Every second apart has been a slow unraveling. Tomorrow rewrites that script.

For the first time in longer than I care to admit, the horizon feels…open. Not free. Not yet.