Page 26 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

ESCAPE ROUTES

MILA

T he key feels awkward in my hand, like it belongs to a version of me I left behind. The woman who walked into Elena’s office two hours ago still believed she might by some miracle salvage her career. The woman fumbling with her apartment key now knows better.

I should feel devastated. Should be spiraling about ethics boards and career ruin and the complete implosion of my reputation. Instead, all I feel is a strange, hollow relief. Like I’ve finally stopped lying to myself.

When the lock clicks open, I step into my apartment, and it feels… staged. Spotless. Untouched. Like I’m walking into someone else’s life, the life of a woman who believed in boundaries, in ethics, in clean lines between professional and personal.

My fingers trail over familiar surfaces—the bookshelf’s dust-free spines, throw blanket corners sharp as hospital corners, vanilla candles that smell artificial after weeks of Yakov’s cedar and gunpowder scent.

The leather couch feels too soft after a few hours cradled against his chest. The silence rings hollow after his low voice in the dark.

Everything is exactly as I left it, yet nothing feels the same.

Maybe because the woman who lived here was still pretending she could have both—her pristine professional life and the dangerous man who makes her forget every rule she ever learned.

That woman died in Elena’s office, taking her carefully constructed delusions with her.

Now I’m someone else entirely. Someone who chose love over licensing. Someone who will face an ethics board with her head held high because what I found with Yakov is worth more than any credential.

The security team assured me Pablo’s presence had been scrubbed clean, but I can still feel it, the invisible fingerprints of violation. But that’s not what twists in my chest. Not really.

It’s him.

Two weeks of Yakov’s presence just down the hall. Two weeks of sessions that blurred into something neither of us could control. Two weeks of heat, tension, and then— him . His hands, his mouth, his body.

Now? Just silence. Empty rooms and too much space.

No sound of his breathing. No warmth radiating from his body next to mine.

No dangerous presence that makes every nerve ending feel alive.

Just the sterile hum of central air and the traffic outside —sounds that used to comfort me now feel like white noise compared to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

I try to shake it off, but I can’t shake Elena’s question: “Can you live with the consequences?”

The answer had been immediate, instinctive: Yes. For him, yes. That certainty should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the first honest thing I’ve said to myself in months.

“Get it together,” I mutter, focusing on unpacking. This is my life. My choice.

The next morning, I’m sitting behind my desk, the soft hum of my office grounding me.

I spent half of yesterday calling patients, offering careful apologies, referring them to colleagues, pretending like I hadn’t spent the last two weeks in a Bratva mansion falling in love with the man I was supposed to be treating.

My inbox is overflowing. My voicemail full. It should be overwhelming, but instead, it feels like an exciting new beginning.

As I gather my things to leave for the mansion, I glance out the window.

And freeze.

Pablo leans against a black car across the street, staring directly at my building. Not hiding. Not even pretending. He wants me to see him, wants me to know he’s there. Calm, patient, a predator waiting for his prey to step into his line of sight.

Ice floods my veins. My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat, my wrists, behind my eyes. I stumble back from the window, legs unsteady, bile rising. My hands shake as I grab the desk, the room tilting.

My phone is already in my hand, Igor’s number glowing on the screen. Protocol . That’s what we agreed—any sign of Pablo, and I call the Bratva.

My thumb hovers over Igor’s number, then swipes to a different name.

Yakov.

The call connects before I can second-guess myself.

He answers on the second ring, his voice low and steady. “Mila.” Just my name, but the way he says it grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of panic.

“He’s here.” My voice is barely a whisper, like Pablo might hear me across concrete and glass. “Outside my office. Watching.”

There’s no panic on Yakov’s end. No wasted words.

“Listen carefully.” His voice becomes my anchor, sharper than fear, steadier than my own breath. “Elevator to the garage. Emergency stairs to avoid cameras. East wall to the service corridor, it exits on the side street.”

I freeze for half a second. “How do you know that?”

A pause. “I mapped every exit the day after he first showed up.” His voice drops, almost gentle. “I won’t let him take you.”

The weight of that sinks in. He’s been planning for this. Preparing for me . It should unsettle me. Instead, it feels like the only safety I’ve got.

“What about my car?”

“Forget it. Subway, two stops. Taxi to the mansion.”

I’m already moving, essentials shoved into my purse. “Okay.”

“Mila.” His voice drops, softer now but no less firm. “Stay on the line. Don’t hang up until you’re safe.”

I don’t argue. I just move, slipping into the hallway with my phone pressed tight to my ear, Yakov’s quiet breathing a lifeline.

Three floors down. Emergency stairs. Each step echoes with the weight of what’s stalking me outside.

My palms are slick with sweat against the metal handrail. Every shadow could hide one of Pablo’s men. Every sound—the creak of settling concrete, the distant hum of an elevator—makes my pulse spike. The corridor smells of industrial cleaning fluid and my fear.

The service corridor is exactly where he said it’d be—dim, silent, forgotten by most.

“I’m at the side exit,” I murmur. My hand hovers over the push bar. “What if he’s got someone watching this door?”

“You’ll see them before they see you.” That absolute certainty in his voice wraps around me like armor. “Look first. Move fast. Don’t hesitate.”

I take a breath and crack the door open. Scan. Clear.

I slip out, walking fast but controlled, resisting every instinct to sprint. I feel exposed until I’m swallowed by foot traffic.

“I’m on the street,” I breathe, adrenaline flooding my system in a delayed wave that leaves my knees weak.

“Subway. Two stops. Then taxi,” he reminds me, as steady as ever. “Stay alert.”

I follow his instructions like gospel, his voice in my ear keeping me grounded.

Only when I’m finally in the back of a taxi, city lights streaking past like tracers, does my body betray me.

My hands shake so violently I can barely hold the phone.

Cold sweat slicks my palms, my back. I taste copper and realize I’ve bitten my tongue.

“I’m okay,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.

“You did well,” Yakov says quietly, pride threading through his calm.

And for the first time since spotting Pablo, I believe I’ll make it through this. Because Yakov Gagarin made sure of it.

“I’ll be waiting,” Yakov says before the line goes dead; three simple words, heavy with both promise and comfort.

By the time I reach the mansion, security waves me through without question. They’ve been briefed, probably by Yakov himself. I expect to be led to the therapy room. It’s almost time for our session. Instead, I’m escorted straight to Igor’s office.

The knot in my chest tightens. Relief crashes headfirst into disappointment.

Igor doesn’t bother with greetings. He’s pacing, jaw tight, eyes sharp with barely restrained fury. The moment I step inside, he rounds on me like a storm breaking.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice cuts like a blade. “One instruction, Mila. Call me. Not the man we’re keeping under armed guard.”

“I got out, didn’t I?” I snap back, adrenaline still buzzing under my skin.

“Because you called Gagarin ?” He spits the name like it’s poison. “The man under constant surveillance? The same man who kidnapped women tied to my family?”

I lift my chin, steady and unapologetic. “Yes. I knew Yakov would know what to do.”

His eyes narrow, reading between the lines. “ Yakov ,” he repeats, voice dripping with implication. “On a first-name basis now, are we?”

Heat creeps up my neck, but I don’t look away. “He knew exactly how to get me out. Every blind spot, every exit. “

“And that doesn’t concern you?” Igor steps in, crowding my space like proximity will make me see reason. “That he’s been mapping escape routes this whole time?”

“For me ,” I bite out. “Not for himself. After Pablo’s first appearance, he made sure I’d have a way out.”

Igor falters, confusion clouding his anger. “Why would he do that?”

The truth hovers on the tip of my tongue, but there’s no version of it that won’t set off alarms. So I give him the only answer I can.

“Because he’s not the monster you keep telling yourself he is.”

Igor’s gaze sharpens, his anger cooling into something worse—concern. His voice drops, dangerously quiet. “How close have you gotten to him, Mila?”

My pulse kicks, but my face stays neutral. Years of training weren’t for nothing. “He’s my patient.”

Technically, he still is. Technically, I still have my license.

“That’s not an answer.”

I meet his stare without flinching. “I trust him.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Maybe I’m smart enough to know the difference between manipulation and protection,” I counter, voice softer but no less firm. “He didn’t have to help me today. But he did.”

Igor shakes his head, frustration bleeding into helplessness. “Judging a man like Yakov by his latest good deed is how people end up dead.”

I should argue. Should remind him I’m not some naive girl blinded by charm. But the truth is, I don’t care about justifying this to Igor. Or anyone else.

“Your session with Gagarin is canceled today,” he says finally. “You’ll stay here tonight. We’ll reassess tomorrow.”

I nod, outwardly compliant, while my mind is racing ahead, calculating routes, guard shifts, blind spots Yakov’s taught me to notice.

While I’m escorted to my assigned room, my gaze flickers down the hall toward the east wing, where I know he is. I can’t see him, but I feel him, a pull I stopped resisting.

Tonight, I promise myself. I’ll find my way to him.

Because while Igor sees a dangerous man under surveillance, I see the one person who spent weeks planning my escape routes. Who answered my panicked call. Who guided me to safety with a voice steady enough to anchor me through terror.

That’s not the behavior of a predator.

That’s protection. And I’m done pretending I don’t need it.

Yakov Gagarin isn’t just a dangerous habit I can’t break.

He’s the danger I’ll run toward.