Page 29 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

PATTERN RECOGNITION

YAKOV

T he Beretta fits my hand like it never left. Steel and certainty, weight and purpose—everything clicking into place with mechanical precision. I check the magazine, the chamber, the safety. All in order.

For the first time in months, something feels right.

Aleksander watches me from the shadowed side of the SUV, arms folded, a pillar of calm calculation. Not judging. Aleksander measures people the way others read maps, cataloging risk, predicting patterns.

“Precaution,” he says, voice steady. “Igor thinks it’s premature. Nikolai and I disagreed.”

I nod, holstering the pistol beneath my coat. The morning air hits clean and cold. I draw it deep, feeling something loosen in my chest.

“Do you remember the conditions?” Aleksander asks.

“Restricted movement. Constant escort. No contact with Damien unless supervised. Stick to the mapped route.” The words spill out easily. Scripted freedom dressed in diplomacy.

But beneath them, something stirs. Not liberty. Not yet.

Leverage.

Volk circles the vehicle with alertness. Aleksander’s dog understands what I’m still learning—loyalty is earned through action, not words.

“And you understand why you’re here?” Aleksander presses.

“Because Montoya doesn’t leave shadows. And because you know I don’t need freedom to be dangerous.” I meet his gaze. “But I need this to be useful.”

A flicker passes over his face. The kind of respect that comes laced with doubt. He doesn’t trust me. Good. Trust is a leash. I’d rather he expects blood.

We slide into the SUV. Volk settles in first, then the guards—stoic, Bratva muscle with nothing to say unless ordered. Their presence isn’t security. It’s insurance.

The city blurs past. Familiar streets. Ghosts at every corner. I try not to flinch when we pass the coffee shop where Anastasiya used to meet me once a week. She’s everywhere. But so is the mission. And right now, I need clarity more than grief.

Aleksander lays out the intel, names, movements, trade routes. I listen. Sort signal from noise. Patterns start to rise like bruises under the skin.

“This isn’t about the club,” I say.

He stills. “What makes you think that?”

“The timing. The muscle. This is sleight of hand. While you’re defending the Velvet Echo, they’ll hit somewhere that matters.”

“Where?” Aleksander asks, already knowing he won’t like the answer.

“When does Nikolai’s shipment dock?”

“Tonight.”

I give him a look.

He exhales a Russian curse.

“Exactly.” Something sharp flickers awake inside me. Not rage. Not vengeance.

Purpose.

The kind of clarity that makes strategy feel like oxygen.

For the first time since the cage cracked open, I feel not just alert, but alive.

But beneath that, quieter and more dangerous, is the ache.

Two days.

Mila.

Two days since she walked out of the mansion escorted under Bratva guns and a mask of neutrality she wears too well.

Two days without her voice slicing through the noise, her gaze cutting deeper than bullets ever could.

Two days of pretending I don’t crave the one woman who looks at me like I’m still human.

And every minute without her tastes like penance.

“You’re thinking about her.”

Aleksander’s voice slices clean through the quiet, low and knowing. It’s not a question. It never is with him.

I don’t deny it. No point pretending.

“Is that going to be a problem?” My voice stays level, but the edge beneath it is sharp enough to draw blood.

He shrugs, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not for me. But Igor? He’s waiting for the first crack.”

“Igor’s been waiting for years.”

A quiet hum of agreement. “True.” He glances over, something thoughtful ghosting through his expression. “But for what it’s worth…she’s steadying you. You’re clearer now than I’ve seen you since before Ana.”

Her name lands like a stone, but it doesn’t shatter me the way it used to. The rage has dulled, tempered, honed. Still there. Always there. But manageable now. Contained.

The pain remains.

And pain, I know how to carry.

“She sees the man beneath the monster,” I admit before I can dress it in something colder. The truth escapes raw, exposed. It unsettles me to let that out where someone else can hear it. “It’s…disorienting.”

Aleksander nods, checking his weapon as the glow of the nightclub district flickers into view. “Being seen usually is. It’s easier to play the part they fear than to risk becoming someone they might care for.”

He says it like a man who knows. Because he does. Seven years clean. Pulled himself out of the fire more than once.

The Velvet Echo rises ahead—black glass and brushed steel, all sleek illusion. It looks like decadence, but I know better. I see the seams in the armor. The layers of surveillance. The soldiers in tailored suits.

This is a war zone in silk.

We enter through the service corridor. Vasiliy’s already there, nodding once in greeting. Respect laced with warning. His eyes skim over me, sharp with memory and not-quite-forgiveness.

“Show me the layout,” I say, no time for civility.

The next hour is scalpel work. I dissect the building floor by floor, sweeping for vulnerabilities no one else thought to see. I reroute guards. Adjust camera placement. Identify weak points in coverage, escape paths too exposed. The focus is clean, consuming.

But not even strategy silences her.

Mila lingers like breath against skin, never far, never still. Not haunting. Anchoring.

Would she see this as redemption? Turning the same skillset I once used to dismantle into something that protects?

The thought catches in my chest. Not weakness. Something worse.

Hope.

I’m at the rear exit when I see it—a shift in the delivery logs, something out of sync. A pattern that doesn’t belong.

Before I can trace it, my phone buzzes. The secure line. Restricted, encrypted.

Only one person outside the Bratva has this number.

Mila.

I step out of the camera’s line of sight, carving out a sliver of privacy.

“Are you safe?” The words are a snarl.

“Yes.” Her voice sends heat straight through me, tired but steady, that quiet strength I’ve become addicted to. “Igor has guards on my building. I heard about the club assignment and needed to know you were?—”

“Needed?” I catch the word, press it.

A pause. “Yes. Needed.”

That simple concern slices deeper than it should. Warms something I didn’t know was still cold.

“I’m fine,” I murmur, voice lower now, softer. “Better now that I’ve heard you.” A pause. Then truth, raw and unguarded. “I want to see you.” The admission escapes before I can dress it in strategy.

Silence. Then a sharp intake of breath that makes my pulse spike.

“Yakov.” The way she says my name, like she’s fighting the same war I am.

“I know it’s complicated. But there’s no going back now. It’s just logistics at this point.”

I feel her, even now. The taste of her. The way she burned herself into my skin.

“When will I see you?” My voice breaks a little, not with weakness. With want.

“Soon,” she says, breathless. “I’m finalizing the transfer of your case. Once it’s done?—”

“Fuck the transfer.” The words tear out, hunger and frustration tangled into one low growl. “I don’t want distance. I want you.”

She gasps, soft and sharp. She feels it too, this impossible, electric gravity between us.

“Tomorrow,” she whispers, a promise written in ash. “I’ll come to the mansion. We’ll?—”

Something on the desk catches my eye.

The delivery logs.

The manifests are wrong. Times don’t match the security rotations.

Instinct floods my system, sharp and immediate.

“Tomorrow, little doctor. I have to go now.” I disconnect before she can protest, already in motion.

Aleksander is mid-sentence with Vasiliy when I cut through their conversation.

“They’re coming tonight.”

Both men go still. The certainty in my voice slices through whatever they were discussing.

“Not through the front. Not the loading dock. They’ll use the basement of the adjacent building to breach.”

They stare at me, not in disbelief, but at the speed of the conclusion.

Vasiliy is the first to recover, suspicion coiled and ready. “How the hell do you know that?”

I spread the delivery logs across the table, pointing to the inconsistencies. “Look at the timing. Same company, but different drivers each week. Different vehicles. And this route—” I trace the pattern with my finger. “It maps every camera angle, every guard rotation.”

Aleksander leans closer. “You’re sure?”

“I designed this exact approach for the Komninos job in 2019.”

Aleksander’s gaze sharpens, features shifting as the puzzle clicks into place. “The building next door…” Aleksander’s voice trails off as the pieces click.

“I sold it six months ago. Cash buyer, no questions, 10 percent over asking.” My jaw tightens. “Should’ve been a red flag, but I needed liquid assets.”

“They’ve been planning this since then.”

Within minutes, the mood shifts. The Velvet Echo sheds its disguise as a nightclub and reverts to what it really is—a fortress. Orders fire off. Positions rotate. Firearms are drawn. And I’m in the center of the storm, commanding like I never left the field.

They listen. They move. They follow.

Because when death draws close, even the wolves know which alpha leads.

Hours vanish in a blur of strategic calibration. Every adjustment, every calculated maneuver sharpens the edge that had dulled in confinement. By evening, they send me back to the mansion, my tactical value acknowledged but not yet trusted with direct engagement.

The intercept goes exactly as I predicted: basement breach, three-man team, neutralized before they reached the main floor.

When Igor approaches afterward, his usual sneer is gone. “You were right,” he says. No thanks. No apology. Just acknowledgment.

It’s enough.

Later, Aleksander walks me back to my room. His posture is relaxed, his version of offering peace.

“Nikolai wants to expand your privileges,” he says. “Regular time with Damien. Possibly even unaccompanied movement, inside a defined perimeter.”

It’s not freedom. But it’s the closest I’ve come. A signal I’m no longer just a liability. I’m an asset. Maybe—eventually—an ally.

“And Mila?” I ask, watching him closely. “Will she stay on my case?”

A flicker of something wry touches his eyes. “Officially, no. She’s filed for transfer.”

“And unofficially?”

He meets my gaze, steady and unapologetic. “Unofficially, I’ve chosen not to fix certain surveillance blind spots. What happens in the dark stays there.”

He’s choosing to look away.

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you doing this for me?”

Aleksander glances out the window. His voice is quiet, not soft. “Eight years ago, I was barely human. A junkie. A ghost. Igor had every reason to cut me loose, but he didn’t. He saw something left worth saving.”

He turns back, gaze sharp. “Maybe this is me paying it forward.”

My phone buzzes with a new message.

Mila. Confirming her visit tomorrow. Officially for the transfer. Unofficially…for us.

My body reacts instantly—heat curling low, tension coiled and dangerous. I can already feel her close, already taste the electricity she brings with her presence. Every second apart has been a slow unraveling. Tomorrow rewrites that script.

For the first time in longer than I care to admit, the horizon feels…open. Not free. Not yet.

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.