Page 19 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

PERIMETER brEACH

MILA

I ’m three minutes late, and I know he’s noticed. After what happened in our last session—the way he kissed me, the way I let him—timing feels loaded with meaning I don’t want to examine.

I’ve spent the past day trying to convince myself it was an aberration. A moment of weakness I won’t repeat. But my hands shake as I turn the door handle, and the red lipstick I swore I wouldn’t wear again is back on.

I step into the therapy room, trying to wear professionalism like armor that actually fits. But Yakov’s already there, and the moment our eyes meet, I know my armor is paper-thin.

He turns at the sound of the door. No smirk. No heat. Just that unnerving stillness that always feels like the moment before something breaks.

“You’re late,” he says. His voice is different. Not the cold control I’ve grown used to, but warmer. More intimate. Like we share a secret.

Which we do.

“Security briefing ran over,” I answer, setting my notebook down with care. “Igor’s revising protocols while I’m here.”

His expression shifts, subtle but not lost on me. “And how long will you be staying?”

“Until they decide it’s safe enough for me to leave.” I lower myself into the chair across from his, knowing better than to estimate time in this world. “A few more days. Maybe longer.”

Yakov doesn’t sit. He starts to pace, slow and contained. But there’s a ripple of something under his skin today. Not just tension. Restlessness.

“I’d like to try something different,” I say, hoping to redirect us both. “No structured prompts today. Just…tell me something you think I should understand about you.”

He stops pacing and turns, looking at me like he’s weighing what it would cost to let me see past the walls he’s spent a lifetime fortifying. Watching me with that unnerving intensity.

But today it feels different. Like he’s made a decision about something.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he begins, settling into his chair. “About trust. About letting someone see past the walls.”

My pulse quickens. “And?”

“And I think you’re right.” His voice drops, intimate. “Maybe it’s time I stopped hiding from you.”

The words land like a challenge and an invitation all at once. He’s offering me something precious, access to the man beneath all the damage. But I can see the calculation behind his eyes too. This isn’t just vulnerability.

It’s strategy.

And somehow, that makes it more dangerous, not less.

Then he speaks. One word. A name.

“Anastasiya.”

My heart stumbles.

We’ve circled around her for weeks. She’s been a shadow in every session.

“I’d like that,” I say quietly, afraid to shatter whatever fragile thread he’s following.

Yakov leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands laced tight. A man on the verge of confession.

“Everyone knows how she died,” he says. “Giving birth to Damien.”

His voice is careful and controlled. Until it isn’t.

“What they don’t know is that I was there. That I delivered my nephew with my own hands while my sister bled out in front of me.”

I don’t move to reach for the pen. I try not to breathe too loudly. There are moments in therapy that don’t belong to the process, they belong to the patient. This is one of them.

“Tell me,” I say gently.

His gaze drifts, from the room, from me. Somewhere far away.

“She got pregnant after Igor seduced her. She thought their relationship was more than what it was. But Igor…” He shakes his head. “He never needed much more than a willing body and an empty promise.”

I say nothing. He’s not looking for absolution. He’s not even looking for agreement. He’s remembering.

“By the time our father found out, Ana was already showing. There was talk of…removing the problem. You don’t let a Gagarin daughter carry the child of a Sokolov. Not if you care about appearances.”

“And she refused,” I guess softly.

“She was calm when she said it. But she was immovable. She wanted the baby. Didn’t care what it cost.”

He lets out a breath that sounds older than him.

“Our father moved her upstate. Kept her hidden. Safe, I guess, in his own twisted way. I visited when I could. Brought books. We’d play chess like we used to.”

He pauses. His jaw works once, twice.

“The baby wasn’t due yet when the storm hit.”

He rises without warning, retreating to the window like he needs the glass between him and the memory he’s about to excavate.

“It was February. Early. The worst blizzard I’ve seen in my life. Three feet of snow overnight. Roads gone. Phones useless.” His voice has shifted, thinner, not quieter. Like he’s speaking through the echo chamber of his own past. “She woke me at four in the morning. Labor had started. “

He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. Just stares out as if he can still see it—the snow, the panic, the helplessness.

“I called the doctor. He tried, but he couldn’t get through. Roads were closed, trees down, power lines everywhere. He stayed on the line, told me what to do. But the connection kept cutting out. It was just…me.”

I keep still. This is the story he’s never told—maybe not even to himself—and I won’t risk breaking it open before he’s ready.

“She was calm. Too calm. I think…I think she knew. She kept saying it would be okay. That she trusted me. That I’d get her through it.” His knuckles press white against the windowsill. “And I did. The baby came. Screaming. Healthy. Perfect.”

He turns, finally, and the look on his face stops my breath. All those layers of control and calculation are gone. He looks hollowed out.

“But Ana kept bleeding. Wouldn’t stop. The doctor said a piece of the placenta probably hadn’t come out, that it was causing the bleeding.

I did everything he told me, applied pressure, even tried to reach in and pull it out like he said.

But I didn’t know what I was feeling for.

My hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold on to her, let alone help her.

I tried…but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t save her. ”

The room is silent. The weight of what he’s said—what he’s carried alone—settles like a second atmosphere.

“She held him. Kissed his forehead. Told me to protect him. Said she loved him. Her lips were pale by then, her hands cold. And then…she was gone.”

He doesn’t need to describe it further. I can see it in the way his posture folds inward, in the way his voice refuses to rise above a whisper. A man kneeling in the ruins of what he couldn’t save.

“You held it together,” I say quietly. “You saved Damien.”

“I failed her.” His gaze finds mine, sharp and hollow all at once. “I should’ve taken her to a hospital sooner. Should’ve fought harder, done more. There’s always more you should’ve done when someone dies in front of you.”

“There’s not,” I reply, carefully. “You did the impossible. You delivered her son and held her hand while she died. You did everything.”

He shakes his head, not in denial, but in disbelief. “And afterward, I turned all of it, every drop of grief, guilt, rage, into one purpose. Punish Igor. Make him pay for her death.”

“And that’s why Damien matters,” I say. “Because he’s more than your nephew. He’s your redemption.”

His mouth tightens at the word. It lands like something too sharp, too exposed.

“He’s the only thing I’ve done right,” Yakov says. “And if I can’t protect him now, then Ana died for nothing.”

The silence that follows isn’t just heavy with grief, it’s charged with something else. The awareness that he’s just given me a piece of himself no one else has ever seen. That this sharing is as much seduction as it is therapy.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask softly.

His eyes meet mine, direct and unashamed. “Because you wanted honesty. Because you’ve earned it.” A pause. “Because I want you to understand who I am when I’m not trying to be what everyone else needs me to be.”

The last part is barely whispered, but it hits me like a physical touch. This isn’t just confession, it’s courtship. And it’s working.

I want to reach for him, to say something that makes it better. But there’s nothing that will. So I sit with him in the silence instead, holding space for the pieces of him he’s never shown before.

And for the first time, I understand what makes Yakov dangerous. It’s not the violence or the control. It’s how fiercely he loves, how much he still bleeds beneath the armor.

And how much he’s willing to destroy to keep that one last promise.

Something shifts in his expression. The grief doesn’t fade, but it steadies, settles into something weightier.

“Every time I look at him, I see her. But I also see what she never had. What I never had.” His voice is quieter now, more reverent.

“Possibility. He’s not marked by this world yet.

Not branded by blood or duty. He’s…clean. ”

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.