Page 35 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

THE LANGUAGE OF SILENCE

YAKOV

I lean forward, studying the satellite images scattered across the conference table. Tension hums through the room, thick, expectant. After months of captivity, the promise of action tastes sharp on my tongue.

My finger traces the property line of an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn. “Central command,” I say, tapping a specific section. “Regular patrols with deliberate gaps. They’re trying to look abandoned while maintaining security.”

Nikolai nods grimly. “Our informant confirms Pablo’s been operating from here. Planning something big.”

Every eye tracks my movement—Nikolai, Igor, Aleksander, half a dozen operatives I’ve learned to read. All calculating the same question: can they trust the monster they’ve kept caged?

I shift to the thermal imaging. “Too many bodies for simple surveillance. He’s gathering forces.”

“The question is for what,” Aleksander observes, ice-blue eyes dissecting each detail with surgical precision.

“Not what.” Igor’s voice cuts like winter. “Who.”

The room goes dead silent.

I don’t need to look up to feel every gaze shift to the same inevitable conclusion. The same name hanging unspoken in the air between us.

Mila.

My jaw locks. Muscle memory from years of violence coils through my shoulders, but this isn’t the cold calculation I’ve relied on. This is something primal. Protective. The kind of instinct I once would have called weakness.

“We draw him out,” Nikolai says finally. “Force an error.”

“How?” one of the lieutenants asks. “He’s been surgical so far.”

Nikolai’s gaze finds mine for a heartbeat before sweeping the table. “We use what he wants most.”

The implication crystallizes before he speaks.

“Mila.”

Blood roars in my ears. Vision tunnels. Images flash unbidden: Mila exposed, vulnerable, Pablo’s predatory focus fixed on her like a scope finding its target.

“No.”

The word tears out of me, sharp enough to cut glass. Every conversation stops. Every eye turns.

“No,” I repeat, steadier but no less absolute. I meet Nikolai’s stare head-on. “Pablo’s too experienced, he’ll smell the trap.”

“We’ll have a full security detail,” Nikolai counters, watching me with interest. “A controlled environment with minimal exposure.”

“And when it goes wrong?” The restraint in my voice cracks slightly. “When he has contingencies you missed? Men in positions you haven’t mapped?”

Igor’s eyes narrow with dawning understanding. “We’ve run ops like this before, Gagarin. Acceptable risk for the potential gain.”

“Not with her.”

The words hit harder than I intended, revealing too much. I catch the recognition flashing across Aleksander’s face, confirmation of what he’s knows already.

I force control back into my breathing. Strategy over instinct.

“There are alternatives.” I lean over the maps again, fingers steady despite the storm in my chest. “Movement patterns show Pablo values this lieutenant.” I tap a surveillance photo—scarred face, always present. “Critical personnel. Hit him instead.”

For the next hour, I methodically destroy their plan to use Mila as bait. Tactical alternatives. Weakness assessments. Strategic options that accomplish the objective without placing her in Pablo’s sights. I feel Aleksander’s approval, Igor’s grudging reassessment, Nikolai’s careful neutrality.

When the meeting breaks, Nikolai catches my arm as the others file out.

“Impressive analysis,” he says quietly. “But we both know strategy wasn’t your only motivation.”

I hold his stare. “My concerns were valid.”

“Yes.” He studies me with the patience of a man who’s survived decades in this life. “And so is my observation. You care about her. More than a patient. More than an asset.”

Silence serves as confirmation.

“Be careful, Yakov.” His voice carries the weight of experience, of losses counted and prices paid. “Men like us make attachments dangerous. For everyone involved.”

He leaves me with those words echoing as I navigate the mansion’s halls, seeking the one person who occupies my thoughts even when I’m planning war.

I find Mila in the garden, afternoon light catching the dark silk of her hair as it lifts in the breeze.

She’s lost in thought, profile soft against the backdrop of winter roses, and for a moment, I just watch.

This woman who slipped past every defense I’ve built.

Who looks at the monster and sees the man beneath without flinching.

She senses me before I make a sound, turning with that small smile that sends heat cascading through my chest.

“How was the meeting?”

“Productive.” I stop just out of reach, close enough to catch her scent, far enough to maintain the illusion of propriety.

“That’s not an answer.” Those sharp eyes catch everything, even when she pretends otherwise.

“They’ve located Pablo’s headquarters.” I scan the grounds out of habit, cataloging sight lines, exit routes. “Planning an intervention.”

“Good.” But something in my expression makes her pause. “Isn’t it?”

The frustration I’ve been containing since the conference room finally breaks free. “They want to use you as bait.”

Her reaction isn’t fear; it’s that calm assessment I’ve come to expect. “That could work.”

“No.” The word comes out flat, absolute. “I’ve given them alternatives. Better strategies.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “The great Yakov Gagarin, dictating terms to Bratva leadership?”

“They listened to reason.” Though her assessment isn’t wrong. “The plan was flawed.”

She steps closer—too close if anyone’s watching—but I can’t make myself retreat. “And your personal feelings about putting me at risk? Those had nothing to do with it?”

“It had everything to do with it.” The honesty surprises me. “I won’t let them endanger you. Not for this. Not for anything.”

Her expression softens. Her hand finds my chest, palm flat over the embarrassing intensity of my heartbeat. “Yakov?—”

“I can’t lose you.” The words tear out before I can stop them. “Not when I’ve finally found something worth?—”

The words die in my throat.

“Worth what?” Her voice is gentle but relentless.

I turn away, jaw locked against the admission. Years of suppressed emotion, of channeling pain into cold calculation, have left me without language for what burns in my chest when I look at her.

“Yakov.” Her fingers find my cheek, guiding me back. “What am I worth to you?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with everything that’s stuck behind my teeth. I meet those eyes that see too much, that have become essential as breath.

“Everything.” The word comes out broken, costing me more than blood ever has. “You’re worth everything to me.”

Something shifts in her expression—relief, understanding, joy bleeding together. “Then tell me. Not with protection or strategy or control. Tell me what I am to you.”

But the words are trapped. Decades of emotional suppression, of survival through calculation rather than feeling, have left me mute when it matters most.

“I—” Frustration mounts at my own inadequacy. “Mila, I can’t?—”

“Can’t what?” An edge creeps into her voice. “Can’t admit this is more than protection? More than possession? That somewhere between therapy sessions and training and stolen moments, it’s all changed?”

“Of course it’s changed.” I rake a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding into fury. “Everything’s changed. I wake thinking of you. Plan my days around glimpses of you. Fall asleep with your scent on my skin, your taste on my tongue. Is that what you want to hear?”

Her eyes widen at the raw admission. “It’s a start.”

“A start?” A harsh laugh escapes me. “What more do you want? I’ve compromised my position with the Bratva for you. Revealed vulnerabilities that could be exploited. Placed your safety above tactical advantages that could secure my freedom. What more can I possibly give?”

“Your heart.” The simplicity of her answer cuts deeper than any blade. “The truth of what you feel. Not just what you’re willing to do.”

I turn away, pacing. Trapped between the walls I’ve built and this woman who sees straight through them. “My feelings are irrelevant. What matters is keeping you safe. Making sure Pablo never?—”

“Your feelings are important.” She steps into my path, forcing me to stop. “And they terrify you more than Pablo ever could.”

She’s always seen too much. From that first session, those slate-gray eyes cutting through every defense.

“I can’t lose you.” The words come out strangled. “I survived Ana’s death by becoming someone else. Someone harder. There’s nothing left of me to become if I lose you too.”

Understanding softens her expression. “You think admitting what you feel makes losing me more real.”

My silence confirms what we both know.

“Oh, Yakov.” She closes the distance, her hand finding mine with gentle insistence. “Not saying it doesn’t make it less real. Doesn’t make the risk disappear.”

I study our joined hands, this simple connection that represents all I’m terrified to lose. “I’m not good at this. This…vulnerability.”

“Then let me.” Her voice stays steady despite the emotion in her eyes.

“I care about you. Deeply. Beyond every boundary I should have maintained. I care about the man behind the calculations, behind the protection. The man who remembers what dress I wore weeks ago, who teaches me to fight with infinite patience, who looks at me like I’m the answer to questions you never thought to ask. ”

Something unlocks in my chest, a tightness I’ve carried so long I’d forgotten it wasn’t permanent.

“I care about you too.” The admission costs me everything. “More than I should. More than makes sense.”

It’s not enough. Nowhere near enough to capture what she’s become to me. But it’s all I can force past the years of emotional silence.

Disappointment flickers in her eyes before she masters it. “It’s a start,” she says quietly, squeezing my hand before releasing it.

A mask of composure slides back into place as a guard approaches from across the garden.

She walks away, and I’m left with the weight of all that remains unspoken. For the first time since Ana died in my arms, I wish for the language—not for tactical advantage, but simply to make Mila understand that she’s become more essential than breath.

But the words stay trapped.

I watch her go, the savage in me calculating threats while the man screams truths I can’t speak aloud.