Page 28 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

TO BE BOTH BAIT AND TARGET

MILA

R ain streaks down the bulletproof windows in endless patterns. I trace one with my finger until it disappears—temporary, like everything else these days.

Three days since I referred out every one of my patients. Three days of hiding behind bulletproof glass while my life sits on pause.

I told myself this was strategy, not surrender.

But the truth is sharper than any threat Pablo Montoya poses; it’s not the cartel keeping me awake at night. It’s the absence of the one man who made me feel alive instead of just safe.

Three days without Yakov’s voice. Without his presence filling a room like controlled lightning.

Three days of silence where his voice should be. Of remembering his hands on my skin, the way he made me forget every rule I’d built my career on.

The doctor in me knows this distance is necessary. The woman in me? She’s ready to burn the house down just to feel his hands on her again.

A commotion at the entrance pulls me from the spiral—heavy boots, clipped orders, the unmistakable sound of weapons being checked. My pulse spikes, traitorous hope blooming where fear should live.

I smooth my blouse. A pointless reflex, but control is scarce these days.

The door opens and Aleksander enters first, all quiet authority and diplomatic grace.

Then I see him.

Yakov is in the doorway behind him, flanked by guards but somehow diminishing them. Three days of absence compressed into this single moment of impact.

His presence fills the space, pulling every fragmented thought in my head straight to him. Our eyes lock across the room. The air changes—thicker, electric, charged with memory. For a heartbeat, I’m back in his bed, skin against skin, his name on my lips.

“Mila.” Aleksander’s voice cuts through the spell. It takes physical effort to look away from Yakov, to pretend my pulse isn’t hammering.

“Alek,” I manage, offering a faint smile as he pulls me into a brief embrace. The comfort is fleeting, nothing compared to the storm building behind those blue eyes across the room.

Over Aleksander’s shoulder, I catch Yakov watching the contact with something that looks dangerously like possession. The intensity in his gaze makes my skin burn.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” I say, stepping back.

“Just returned from Moscow.” Aleksander’s assessing gaze lingers. “You look well.”

I let out a breathless laugh, brittle at the edges. “For someone living in a fortress because a psychopath has her on his shit list? Sure. Let’s call it that.”

His mouth tightens, but there’s reassurance in his tone. “That’s why we’re here.”

No, you’re here for that.

I know exactly why he’s here, and the heat simmering beneath my skin has nothing to do with cartel threats.

My gaze flicks to Yakov again—still silent, still watching. He’s dressed in jeans and a shirt, but nothing about him is ever plain. Not when every inch of him reminds me how it felt to lose myself under him, against him.

I clear my throat, forcing composure back into place.

“I wasn’t informed Mr. Gagarin would be consulting.”

“Not everyone’s thrilled,” Aleksander says, leading me toward the conference room. “But his insights might keep you alive.”

I fall into step beside him, hyper aware of the man behind me, the weight of Yakov’s presence brushing against my senses like a forbidden touch.

“How are you really?” Aleksander’s voice lowers, laced with concern meant for my ears alone.

“I’m managing.” The lie slips out too easily.

Because surviving isn’t the same as living .

Not when the one thing I crave is the one thing I shouldn’t want.

We reach the war room—maps, photos, weapons laid out like a shrine to paranoia. Igor and Nikolai barely glance up, their disdain for Yakov crackling in the air as he enters.

“Let’s get this over with,” Igor snaps, waving us to sit.

I choose a seat in the middle, neutral ground, or as neutral as possible when my pulse betrays exactly where my loyalties are starting to drift.

“We’ve confirmed Pablo’s disappeared from New York,” Nikolai begins, his tone all business. “Apartment cleared out. Cards dead. No digital trail for forty-eight hours.”

“He hasn’t disappeared.”

Yakov’s voice slices through the room, low, controlled, dangerous. A sound that makes my pulse skip for reasons no one here should ever guess.

All eyes snap to him, including mine. I force myself to look at him like he’s just another asset in this operation, not the man whose mouth was on my skin, whose name I whispered in the dark.

“Explain,” Igor bites out, every word dripping with contempt.

Yakov leans forward, elbows on the table like he owns the space, despite the guards hovering at his back. There’s a calm certainty in him that demands attention.

“Pablo’s not running scared. He’s regrouping.” His gaze finds mine briefly—deliberate, claiming. “He showed himself to gauge our response. Now he waits for us to get careless.”

A chill skates down my spine, but it’s not fear of Pablo that tightens my throat.

It’s how intimately Yakov understands this predator.

Because it takes one to know one.

Igor mutters something under his breath, but no one argues. Nikolai leans forward with grudging interest. Even Igor’s scowl softens into something like reluctant respect. But I see the calculation in their eyes, weighing Yakov’s value against their distrust. Because we all know Yakov’s right.

I keep my expression composed, my hands folded neatly on the table, but beneath the surface, my thoughts are anything but calm.

Pablo Montoya may be the threat outside these walls.

But Yakov Gagarin is the threat I let inside.

“And you know this how?” Igor challenges, his tone laced with suspicion.

“Because it’s exactly what I’d do,” Yakov replies, calm and unapologetic. “And because I’ve watched the cartel operate this way before.”

I can’t tear my eyes from him as he takes control of the room, not with force, but with precision. He speaks in measured tones, outlining Colombian tactics with such ruthless clarity that even Igor’s scowl begins to fade into something closer to begrudging attention.

Yakov moves to the maps, fingers trailing over streets and sectors like he’s rearranging a battlefield only he can fully see.

He highlights surveillance points no one else considered, infiltration routes hidden in plain sight, vulnerabilities that make the Bratva’s so-called impenetrable security look amateur.

With every word, admiration coils tighter inside me, respect tangled with something far more unsettling.

This is Yakov unleashed. A man who doesn’t just anticipate his enemies, he dismantles them before they even realize they’re being hunted. It’s mesmerizing. And terrifying.

“They won’t strike head-on,” he says, tapping a cluster of locations near my apartment and office. “They’ll embed themselves here first. Businesses that seem harmless—restaurants, couriers, cleaning services. Access disguised as convenience.”

Nikolai leans forward, a flicker of realization crossing his face. “We’ve already flagged unusual interest in commercial leases in those areas.”

Yakov’s mouth curves, barely a smile, more a warning. “Then you’re already chasing shadows. Those inquiries are just noise. You need to look at high-end residential buys, condos with direct lines of sight to her movements.”

The conversation sharpens, shifting from skepticism to reluctant reliance as even the Bratva leaders can’t deny the value of what Yakov brings to the table. For two hours, strategies are redrawn, weaknesses exposed.

I stay composed, my voice steady as I offer insights from my encounters with Pablo—detached, efficient. But beneath the surface, every time Yakov’s gaze finds mine, a tremor runs through me. A reminder of the line we crossed. Of the line I want to cross again.

“We’ll start implementing these changes immediately,” Nikolai says at last, his tone signaling the end of the meeting. “Mila stays here until every gap is closed.”

As chairs scrape back and men begin to file out, I speak before I can second-guess myself.

“I need a moment alone with my patient. To assess his psychological state after today’s…events.”

Igor’s eyes narrow, suspicion radiating off him. But Aleksander steps in smoothly, his eyes snapping between Yakov and me. “Ten minutes. The guards will stay outside.”

The door shuts behind them, sealing us in heavy silence.

For the first time since that night, we’re alone.

The air tightens. Yakov watches me, that unreadable expression settling over his features. I wait a beat, steadying my breath before turning to face him fully.

“Is this where you pretend to be my doctor again?” he asks, voice low, threaded with that familiar challenge that always makes my pulse skip.

“No.” I step closer, not too close, but enough to feel the gravity pulling between us. “I need to know if any of this is real. Your cooperation. Your concern. Or is this just another game to you? Another move on a board only you can see?”

For a moment, something shifts behind his eyes, the cold strategist cracking just enough to let something raw slip through.

“My motivations aren’t simple,” he says, circling the table.

“Elaborate.” I force steadiness into my voice even as he moves closer.

“I’d be an idiot not to use this situation.” He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back. “Cooperation buys me credibility. Makes them see me as reformed instead of just contained.”

His proximity is calculated, a test and a temptation.

“But that’s not why I’m here.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. “And?”

His voice drops, dark velvet wrapping around something far too dangerous to touch. “And I’m here because the thought of Pablo getting close to you again makes me want to burn down half of New York to find him.”

The raw honesty in his voice stops my breath. I search his face for the angle he’s working.

All I see is truth.

“That’s not tactical thinking,” I whisper.

“No. It’s not.” His hand lifts toward my face, stopping just short of contact. “It’s the kind of weakness that gets people killed. But I can’t seem to help myself.”

“I shouldn’t trust you,” I whisper, the confession scraping against everything I know to be right.

A glint of dark amusement flashes in his eyes. “No. You shouldn’t.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

“And yet…”

“And yet,” I echo, understanding what he’s not saying. Despite everything, despite knowing better, I do trust him. In ways I can’t fully explain or justify.

He lifts his hand, hesitating just shy of touching my face. The restraint costs him; I can see it in the tension of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze. “I miss you,” he admits quietly. “More than I should.”

The confession sends warmth curling through me. I shouldn’t respond, shouldn’t encourage this impossible connection. Instead, I find myself leaning slightly into his outstretched hand until his palm cups my cheek.

“This is complicated.”

“Everything was already complicated.” His thumb traces my lower lip with exquisite gentleness. “Now it’s just complicated in more interesting ways.”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “Is that your professional assessment of this clusterfuck of a situation?”

“It’s my personal one.” His eyes darken as they hold mine. “And if we weren’t surrounded by armed guards with every reason to shoot me if I make a wrong move, I would demonstrate exactly how interesting I find these complications to be.”

A blaze spreads through my body at his words, imagination filling in what that demonstration might entail. Before I can respond, there’s a warning knock at the door. Our time is up.

Yakov steps back instantly, mask sliding into place effortlessly. But his eyes still burn when they meet mine.

“Thank you for the assessment, Dr. Agapova,” he says for the guards’ benefit. Then, lower, meant only for me, “Until next time.”

A promise and a threat wrapped in three words.

I watch as they lead him away, his posture confident despite his captivity.

When he glances back just before the door closes, the look we exchange contains everything we can’t say aloud —desire, connection, and an understanding that whatever is developing between us is too powerful to deny, regardless of the consequences.

I sink into a chair after they’re gone, heart pounding, body aching with unfulfilled need. This attraction, this connection, should terrify me. Instead, I’m counting the hours until I might see him again, strategic and ethical complications be damned.