Page 17 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT

YAKOV

O utside my door, my father’s clipped cadence is layered over Vasiliy Volkov’s steadier baritone, punctuated by the softer lilt of a woman’s voice. Galina, no doubt. The air hums with civility.

I adjust the sleeves of my navy sweater with measured control. Every inch of me composed. Unannounced family visits are rarely about family.

The door opens. My father enters first, his expression a masterclass in studied concern.

Behind him, Vasiliy flanks Galina, who carries an infant nestled against her shoulder.

Something cold settles in my gut. Not the baby, but what he represents.

Another generation, born into a world built on power and threat, inheritance and blood.

“Yakov,” my father says. “You look well.”

“Better than the last time you saw me being wheeled in here,” I reply coolly. “What is this? Family hour in the rehabilitation ward? Do I get a sticker if I behave?”

Vasiliy’s jaw shifts. Galina places a calming hand on his arm. Always the balance in the storm, that one.

“We thought a visit might be welcome,” my father says, settling into the nearest armchair. “Too much solitude can be…corrosive.”

I don’t sit. Let them feel the imbalance. “And the baby? You brought him for what, emotional conditioning? Symbolic innocence? Or are we just pretending this is a social call?”

Galina’s gaze sharpens, then smooths. “Vasya was sleeping. We brought him because leaving him would’ve been more disruptive.” A pause. “Besides, sometimes it helps to remember what matters.”

“Children are good for that,” I murmur. “Innocence has a way of making guilt louder.”

But we’re circling the real reason. Always the preamble before the ask.

My father finally cuts to it. “There’s been movement. The Colombians are pressing beyond Volkov and Sokolov fronts. They’re hitting across the Bratva.”

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.

My father studies me with a sharper kind of focus. “You’re being unusually cooperative.”

“I have my reasons.” I meet his stare without blinking.

“Damien,” he says.

Among others.

I don’t respond. I don’t need to. They know. They’ve always known that the only lever that moves me anymore is the boy with Ana’s eyes.

But it isn’t just Damien.

It’s Mila.

Montoya circling her like a shark triggers something primal in me, something I thought I buried the day Ana died. Possession. Protection. Rage. I don’t like it, but it’s real.

The baby stirs against Galina’s shoulder, blinking up at the room with wide, green eyes. Her eyes. Innocence in a house built on strategy. It’s almost cruel.

“He has your expression,” I say to Vasiliy before I can stop myself. “That same calculating stare.”

He’s startled, but the smile that breaks through is real. “Poor kid.”

It slips between us, something like humor. Disarming. Unsettling. Human.

My father clears his throat, dragging us back to the business of violence.

“Is there anything else?” he asks. “A flaw in their operation we can exploit?”

I consider the question, choosing my words with care. “Diaz runs his operation more like a dynasty than a syndicate. Everything revolves around blood. Family isn’t a convenience, it’s the foundation. Loyalty is inherited, not negotiated. That kind of structure breeds absolute allegiance.”

My father leans back slightly, folding his hands. “Not like us.”

I nod once. “No. The Bratva is built on structure, not sentiment. Rank, respect, obedience. Blood matters, but it’s not sacred. Not if it compromises the organization.”

A flicker crosses his expression, but he doesn’t argue. Because he knows I’m right.

The jab lands exactly where I intend it. A reminder that I’m sitting here as a prisoner, not a son. Useful, not loved. My father’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. He rarely does.

“Thank you,” Vasiliy says, his voice the kind of formal that signals the end of a meeting. He rises smoothly. “We’ll act on what you’ve given us.”

“I’m sure you will,” I reply, standing as well. “Though I can’t help but notice this was a one-sided exchange.”

My father looks at me with that infuriating mask of patience. “What do you want, Yakov?”

“Information,” I say. “Updates on Damien. And assurances about Dr. Agapova’s safety.”

Something flickers behind his eyes—sharp, amused, far too perceptive. “Concerned about your therapist?”

“She’s an asset,” I reply evenly. “It would be counterproductive to lose her midway through treatment.”

“Of course,” he says, with the false sincerity he’s mastered over decades. “We’ll see to it.”

As they prepare to leave, my father lingers a moment longer. Vasiliy and Galina step into the hallway, the baby fussing quietly against her shoulder.

Then, lower: “Be careful, Yakov. Attachments like this…they’re dangerous. For everyone involved.”

I meet his gaze, steady and cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” His voice drops, calm as ever, but I see the precision behind the words. “The cameras in this house don’t just track movement. They capture everything.”

A beat.

The kitchen.

I keep my expression neutral. “Then I’m sure you saw nothing more than a patient testing boundaries. A clinical dynamic under review.”

He doesn’t believe me. I see it in the way his mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Until next time, son.”

After they leave, I stay by the window. Processing. Calculating. Adjusting. I’d underestimated the surveillance, a rare but dangerous oversight. It won’t happen again.

Thirty minutes pass before my door clicks open, and one of the guards delivers the reminder: my session with Mila is about to begin.

When I enter the therapy room, she’s already seated, pen poised, posture straight. Today, she’s dressed differently—a sleek black dress, loose hair, a slash of subtle color on her mouth. Not deliberate, perhaps, but devastating all the same.

“Dr. Agapova,” I say, but the formality tastes like ash after what passed between us in the kitchen.

“Mr. Gagarin.” She doesn’t look up immediately. When she does, her mask is perfectly in place. “I understand you had visitors.”

“Family always brings complications.” I don’t take my usual seat. Instead, I move to the window, letting silence stretch between us. “Though I’m more interested in discussing what happened two nights ago.”

Her pen stills against the page. “That was a lapse in professional judgment. For both of us.”