Page 30 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

WHAT WE PROTECT

YAKOV

T he drive to Igor’s house feels different this time.

No armored convoy, no tactical formation, just Aleksander behind the wheel of a black BMW, me beside him, Volk in the back seat.

Like a man going to visit family instead of a prisoner being transported.

The shift is subtle but significant. Trust, measured in small increments.

“Two hours,” Aleksander says as we pull through the gates of Igor’s compound. “Unsupervised, but within the perimeter. Guards will maintain distance unless called.”

I nod, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air. The house sprawls before me, modern lines softened by careful landscaping, a fortress disguised as a family home. Through the windows, I catch movement. A small figure racing across what looks like a living room.

Damien.

The front door opens before I reach it. Igor stands in the threshold, and for a moment, we simply assess each other. Former enemies. Current allies. Father and uncle to Ana’s son. The definitions shift constantly when blood and betrayal intersect.

“He’s been asking about you,” Igor says without preamble. “Every day since he visited you at the mansion.”

“And you told him what?”

“That you were busy. That you’d visit when you could.” His jaw tightens. “I didn’t tell him you were earning the privilege.”

The honesty surprises me. Igor has never been one for sentiment, but perhaps fatherhood has changed him. Or perhaps he simply understands what Damien represents—the future we’re all fighting to protect, despite the history between us.

“Uncle Yakov!” The voice carries from somewhere inside the house, high and excited. Footsteps thunder on hardwood.

Damien appears in the hallway behind Igor, practically vibrating with energy. He’s grown over the last few weeks, it seems. My chest constricts at the resemblance to Ana.

“You came!” he says, barreling past Igor to wrap his arms around my waist.

The impact hits me harder than any physical blow I’ve ever taken. This easy affection, this uncomplicated joy at my presence. When was the last time someone was simply happy to see me? Not because they needed something, not because I was useful, but because I mattered to them.

“I promised I would,” I tell him, kneeling to his level. “I keep my promises.”

His grin could power the entire city. “Father said you might teach me something new today. Something cool.”

I glance up at Igor, who shrugs. I’m not sure what Igor has told Damien, but there’s something calculating in his expression, a recognition, perhaps, of my capacity for more than destruction.

“What do you think?” I ask Damien. “Want to shoot some hoops?”

“Yes!” The enthusiasm is immediate and absolute. “I’ve been practicing!”

Igor leads us through the house to a large back room that’s been converted into a home gym.

In one corner stands a basketball hoop mounted at regulation height, with a smaller adjustable hoop set lower for Damien’s use.

Equipment is meticulously arranged, but the afternoon light streaming through tall windows keeps it from feeling oppressive.

“I’ll be in my office,” Igor says. “Call if you need anything.”

The careful neutrality in his voice doesn’t mask the underlying tension. We’re still finding our way, Igor and I—former enemies learning to coexist for the sake of the boy who connects us.

And then it’s just Damien and me, uncle and nephew, separated by eight years and a lifetime of violence that he doesn’t yet understand.

Damien immediately grabs a basketball, dribbling it with surprising coordination for his age. “Watch this!” he says, taking a shot at his lower hoop. The ball bounces off the rim.

“Good form,” I tell him honestly. “Your follow through needs work, but the stance is solid. Who taught you?”

“Father. And some videos on the internet.” He retrieves the ball, tries again. This time it goes in, and his grin could power the city.

I take the ball when he passes it to me, feeling the familiar weight and texture. It’s been years since I’ve played—another lifetime, when I was young enough to believe sports mattered more than survival.

“Want to see something?” I ask, moving to the regulation hoop.

I take a shot from the free-throw line. Nothing but net. Muscle memory from high school, from the brief period when I thought I might have a normal life ahead of me.

“Whoa,” Damien breathes. “Can you teach me to do that?”

“It takes practice,” I tell him. “Lots of practice. And patience with yourself when you miss.”

“How much practice?”

“Years. But the good news is, every shot you take makes you better, even the ones you miss.” I pass him the ball. “Try again.”

He lines up carefully, tongue poking out in concentration. The shot goes wide.

“What happened there?” I ask.

“I missed,” he says with eight-year-old logic.

“But why? What felt different?”

He considers the question seriously. “I think I was trying too hard?”

“Good insight. Sometimes when we want something too much, we get in our own way.” I demonstrate the shooting motion slowly. “Relax your shoulders. Let your wrist do the work.”

“Uncle Yakov?” he says during a water break, looking up at me with Ana’s eyes. “Why didn’t you visit me before? When I was little?”

The question is delivered with childish directness, no accusation or hurt, just curiosity. But it cuts deeper than any blade.

“I was…sick,” I tell him, which is both truth and evasion. “I needed to get better before I could be the uncle you deserved.”

“Are you better now?”

Such a simple question. Such a complicated answer.

“I’m trying to be.”

He nods as if this makes perfect sense. “Father says trying is the most important part. Even when it’s hard.”

More wisdom from Igor. When did he learn to be a father? When did he become someone who understood that effort matters more than outcome?

“Your father is a smart man,” I say, meaning it.

“He is,” Damien agrees solemnly.

I dribble the ball between my legs in a controlled rhythm. “Basketball is about timing and trust. You have to believe the ball will be there when you reach for it.”

He tries, fails, tries again. The ball bounces away, and he chases it with determination that reminds me painfully of his mother.

“I can’t do it,” he says after the fifth attempt.

“You can’t do it yet ,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I couldn’t do it the first time either. Or the tenth time. But I kept trying because I wanted to get better.” I retrieve the ball, hand it back to him. “The secret isn’t being perfect. It’s being willing to look stupid while you learn.”

He considers this with typical eight-year-old gravity. “Were you scared the first time you tried?”

“Scared of what?”

“Looking stupid?”

“Terrified.” I chuckle. “I was about your age, and I was trying to impress some older kids. I thought if I could do this one cool move, they’d think I was worth paying attention to.”

“Did it work?”

“I tripped over my own feet and face-planted in front of everyone,” I tell him honestly. “They laughed so hard one kid nearly passed out.”

Damien’s eyes widen. “That’s mean!”

“It was embarrassing,” I agree. “But you know what happened next?”

“What?”

“One of the older kids helped me up. Showed me what I was doing wrong. And by the end of the summer, I could do it better than any of them.” I bounce the ball to him. “Sometimes the worst moments turn into the best lessons.”

He tries the move again, this time with less tension in his shoulders. The ball almost makes it through.

“Better,” I tell him. “What changed?”

“I stopped worrying about messing up?”

“Smart kid.” I ruffle his hair. “The fear of failure is usually worse than the failure itself.”

We spend the next hour working on various skills—dribbling, shooting, footwork. Nothing advanced, just the fundamentals that build confidence. But somewhere in the middle of it, watching Damien’s face scrunch with concentration as he lines up shots, I realize something has shifted inside me.

The careful control I’ve maintained for months is cracking, not under pressure but under something far more dangerous.

Love.

Not the complex, charged thing I feel for Mila, but something simpler and fiercer. The protective instinct that made me promise my sister I’d watch over her son. The part of me that wants to build instead of destroy.

“Uncle Yakov?” Damien’s voice pulls me back to the present. “Are you okay? You look sad.”

Perceptive kid. Too much like his mother.

“Just thinking,” I tell him.

“About what?”

I could deflect. Should deflect. But something in his earnest expression stops me.

“About your mother,” I say quietly. “You remind me of her. The way you think about things, the way you ask questions. She was like that too.”

His face lights up. “Father doesn’t talk about her much. He says he didn’t know her very well. That they didn’t have a lot of time together before she died.”

“Your mother was…” I search for words an eight-year-old can understand. “She was light. Made everything brighter. She was brave and smart and kind, and she loved you more than anything in the world.”

“Even though she never got to know me?”

The question breaks my heart. “Especially because she never got to know you. She spent nine months imagining who you’d become, what you’d look like, what your first words would be. She used to tell me stories about the man you’d grow up to be.”

“What kind of stories?”

I settle back against the mirror, and Damien climbs into my lap with the easy trust of childhood. For a moment, we’re just family. Uncle and nephew, sharing memories of someone we both miss.

“She said you’d be curious about everything, that you’d ask a thousand questions and actually listen to the answers. She said you’d be brave but not reckless, strong but not cruel.” I smooth his hair back from his forehead. “She was right about all of it.”

“Do you think she’d like who I am now?”