Page 37 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)
SHOTS IN THE DARK
YAKOV
T he taste of Mila lips anchors me to the present as the chaos of the alley fades into background noise.
I shouldn’t be kissing her here—exposed, vulnerable, with Bratva soldiers watching.
Yet I can’t bring myself to care as her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me closer with a desperation that matches my own.
When we finally draw apart, breathless, the urgency remains. Mila stares up at me, her hand still gripping my sweater, her chest rising and falling in time with mine.
“I was terrified,” she whispers, releasing me slowly. “That I’d never see you again.”
“I won’t let that happen.” I speak without conscious thought, but as the words emerge, I realize I’ve never meant anything more.
“We need to leave. Now.” Aleksander’s voice breaks through the moment, his tone carrying urgency rather than judgment.
I reluctantly pull away, keeping Mila close as we move toward the waiting SUV. We’re halfway there when the night explodes with gunfire. Pablo’s men have found us.
“Get down!” I shove Mila toward the vehicle, shielding her with my body as bullets ping off metal and shatter bricks around us. The familiar ice-cold calculations take over—distance to cover, angle of fire, available weapons, escape routes.
Aleksander is already returning fire, providing cover support as Bratva soldiers move to secure Pablo. Movement flashes to our left—a gunman behind a dumpster, rifle trained on Mila. I lunge without thinking, intercepting his shot.
The bullet grazes my shoulder, a hot line of fire that I barely register.
I’m on the shooter in seconds, disarming him with a move I’ve executed a thousand times.
He’s good—military trained, not cartel muscle—but I’m fighting with a clarity I haven’t felt in months.
Each strike precise, defenses anticipated, counters executed with mechanical accuracy.
As I engage him, memories of my fight with Nikolai flash before me—the one that crushed two vertebrae and left me in a wheelchair years ago. I woke up in the hospital unsure if I’d ever walk again. I’d been so certain then, so convinced of my righteousness. So ready to die for my cause.
This is different. I’m not fighting for vengeance or for myself. I’m fighting for her.
My opponent lands a lucky strike on my injured shoulder, and pain blazes white-hot through my nerves. I use it, channel it, let it sharpen my focus rather than dull it. Three moves later, he’s unconscious at my feet, and I’m already scanning for the next threat.
“Yakov!” Mila’s voice cuts through the gunfire. She’s crouched by the SUV, eyes wide with fear—not for herself, but for me. The realization hits harder than any bullet could.
“Stay down!” I shout, making my way back to her as Bratva soldiers advance, pushing Pablo’s men back.
Blood soaks my shirt, but I barely feel it as I reach her, pulling her behind the engine block for better cover. Her hands immediately find my wound, pressing firmly to stem the bleeding.
“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice steady despite the chaos around us.
“It’s nothing.” I cup her face with my free hand, needing to touch her, to confirm she’s real and unharmed. “Are you hit?”
She shakes her head, eyes never leaving mine despite bullets flying overhead. “You took that shot for me.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “I’d take a thousand more.”
The simple truth of it resonates between us. In this moment, with bullets flying overhead, there’s no room for anything but honesty.
“We need to get you both out of here,” Aleksander says, appearing beside us, weapon drawn. “We have Pablo. Our men are pushing the Colombians back. Our window is now.”
With Mila’s help, I rise, ignoring the pain radiating from my shoulder. Aleksander covers us as we make our final dash to the SUV, bullets kicking the pavement around our feet. I keep Mila pressed to my side, using my body to shield her even as she supports my weight.
The vehicle door closes behind us and then we’re accelerating, tires screaming on wet pavement as our driver executes a perfect escape maneuver. In the relative safety of the backseat, Mila immediately turns her attention to my wound.
“Let me see,” she demands, gently peeling back the torn fabric.
I sit still, allowing her to examine me with a clinical detachment that does nothing to mask the concern in her eyes. Her fingers are gentle but firm as they probe the injury.
“Clean through. You’re lucky,” she says, her voice catching slightly. “Two inches to the right and?—”
“But it wasn’t,” I interrupt, catching her hand in mine. “I’m still here.”
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For saving me.”
“I always will,” I tell her, the words emerging with an intensity that surprises even me. “No matter where, no matter when.”
Her eyes darken at my declaration, and she leans forward, pressing her forehead to mine. “I know.”
Those two words break through barriers I’ve held since Ana’s death. She knows. She sees me—the monster and the man—and chooses to believe in the latter.
The SUV races toward the safety of the mansion, and I know the reckoning awaits. Breaking security protocols, engaging directly in combat—all violations that won’t go unpunished. Igor will be furious. Nikolai calculating. The fragile trust I’ve been building could shatter in an instant.
Yet with Mila’s hand in mine, her steady presence beside me, I find I cannot regret a single decision that led us here.
“What happens now?” she asks quietly, as if reading my thoughts.
“They’ll question us. Look for inconsistencies. Assess my loyalty, your judgment.”
“And then?”
I could offer her reassurance I can’t guarantee. But she deserves better than comforting falsehoods.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Best case, they recognize the tactical advantage of my involvement and extend my privileges. Worst case…” I don’t finish the thought.
“They won’t send you back to confinement,” she says with surprising conviction. “They need you. Pablo’s just the beginning, and they know you understand cartel operations better than anyone.”
Her faith in my position is touching, if optimistic.
“It’s not that simple. Sokolov’s wanted me eliminated from the beginning.
They only agreed to this arrangement because Galina and my father convinced them of my potential value.
Tonight, I disobeyed orders. That calls my loyalty and usefulness into question. ”
“Then we’ll make them understand that you’re more valuable with me than without me,” she says, that determined glint in her eye that I’ve come to recognize—and admire. “That we’re stronger together than apart.”
The conviction in her voice kindles dangerous hope. I’ve spent so long calculating odds, anticipating betrayal, expecting the worst. Hope is dangerous. I haven’t allowed myself that luxury since Ana died in my arms.
As the mansion gates come into view, I pull Mila closer, needing one more moment of connection before we face whatever comes next.
“No matter what happens,” I say against her hair, “remember that everything I did tonight was my choice. My decision. You bear no responsibility for the consequences.”
She pulls back to look at me, fierce protectiveness in her expression. “We’re in this together, Yakov.”
The SUV stops, and I see them waiting—Igor, his expression thunderous; Nikolai, strategizing as always. Judgment waits on their faces.
Before we exit, I take Mila’s face in my hands, memorizing every feature as if it might be the last time. “Stay strong,” I whisper.
“You too,” she replies, then presses her lips to mine in a kiss that feels like both promise and defiance.
As we step into the night, her hand finds mine one last time before Bratva security separates us. The physical distance is immediate and painful, but something of her remains with me—warmth where cold calculation once lived.
I’ve been their monster for years. Tonight, for her, I’ll try to be the man she sees in me.
Whatever the cost.