Page 89 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

But possible.

And at the center of that possibility is Mila, with her relentless honesty, her piercing mind, her refusal to flinch. She sees the man underneath the beast and doesn’t look away.

Redemption’s too clean a word for what I’m after. What I want is simpler: the chance to be something other than what I was.

The guards outside move in new patterns now, still watching, but with less suspicion. I’m not reformed. Not redeemed.

But I’m no longer just the captive in the cage.

And if I’m something new tomorrow, it’s because Mila handed me the choice.

And I, for once, chose to reach for more.

23

WHAT WE PROTECT

YAKOV

The drive to Igor’s house feels different this time. No armored convoy, no tactical formation, just Aleksander behind the wheel of a black BMW, me beside him, Volk in the back seat. Like a man going to visit family instead of a prisoner being transported. The shift is subtle but significant. Trust, measured in small increments.

“Two hours,” Aleksander says as we pull through the gates of Igor’s compound. “Unsupervised, but within the perimeter. Guards will maintain distance unless called.”

I nod, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air. The house sprawls before me, modern lines softened by careful landscaping, a fortress disguised as a family home. Through the windows, I catch movement. A small figure racing across what looks like a living room.

Damien.

The front door opens before I reach it. Igor stands in the threshold, and for a moment, we simply assess each other. Former enemies. Current allies. Father and uncle to Ana’s son. The definitions shift constantly when blood and betrayal intersect.

“He’s been asking about you,” Igor says without preamble. “Every day since he visited you at the mansion.”

“And you told him what?”

“That you were busy. That you’d visit when you could.” His jaw tightens. “I didn’t tell him you were earning the privilege.”

The honesty surprises me. Igor has never been one for sentiment, but perhaps fatherhood has changed him. Or perhaps he simply understands what Damien represents—the future we’re all fighting to protect, despite the history between us.

“Uncle Yakov!” The voice carries from somewhere inside the house, high and excited. Footsteps thunder on hardwood.

Damien appears in the hallway behind Igor, practically vibrating with energy. He’s grown over the last few weeks, it seems. My chest constricts at the resemblance to Ana.

“You came!” he says, barreling past Igor to wrap his arms around my waist.

The impact hits me harder than any physical blow I’ve ever taken. This easy affection, this uncomplicated joy at my presence. When was the last time someone was simply happy to see me? Not because they needed something, not because I was useful, but because I mattered to them.

“I promised I would,” I tell him, kneeling to his level. “I keep my promises.”

His grin could power the entire city. “Father said you might teach me something new today. Something cool.”

I glance up at Igor, who shrugs. I’m not sure what Igor has told Damien, but there’s something calculating in his expression, a recognition, perhaps, of my capacity for more than destruction.

“What do you think?” I ask Damien. “Want to shoot some hoops?”

“Yes!” The enthusiasm is immediate and absolute. “I’ve been practicing!”

Igor leads us through the house to a large back room that’s been converted into a home gym. In one corner stands a basketball hoop mounted at regulation height, with a smaller adjustable hoop set lower for Damien’s use. Equipment is meticulously arranged, but the afternoon light streaming through tall windows keeps it from feeling oppressive.

“I’ll be in my office,” Igor says. “Call if you need anything.”