Page 41 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

AFTER THE CAGE

YAKOV

H eavy footsteps approach—four, maybe five men. The sharp click on marble is too precise for soldiers.

Dread coils in my gut. I stay seated, spine straight, forcing stillness into my limbs, calm into my expression.

The door opens without a knock.

Nikolai enters first, unreadable as ever. Igor follows, tension carved into every line of his frame. Then Aleksander, cool, calculating, his ice-blue stare analyzing rather than condemning. Vasiliy steps in next, silent and towering. But it’s the final figure who steals my breath.

My father.

“Quite the welcoming committee,” I say, not bothering to stand. Another small rebellion, maintaining what little control I can in this cage that’s been my home for months.

“We need to talk,” Nikolai responds, taking the chair opposite mine without waiting for an invitation.

The others remain standing, except for my father, who hesitates, glancing between the remaining empty chairs as if uncertain whether he’s allowed to sit.

The uneasiness in his posture clashes with the image I’ve held onto since Ana’s death—a man unafraid to make difficult decisions.

My father looks smaller somehow, uncertain in a way that clashes with the strong leader I remember.

“About Pablo,” I state rather than ask. “About what happened in that alley.”

Igor’s jaw tightens visibly. “About your unauthorized excursion. About breaking security protocols. About compromising the operation.”

“About saving Mila’s life,” I counter, unable to keep the edge from my voice. Memories of her flood through me—distractions I can’t afford right now. I force them away, focusing on the dangerous men surrounding me.

“Yes,” Nikolai acknowledges unexpectedly. “About that too.”

A subtle shift occurs in the room, a realignment of power I can feel more than see. Nikolai and Igor exchange glances, some unspoken communication passing between them.

“After considerable discussion, we’ve reached a decision regarding your status,” Nikolai continues.

“Last night’s events forced us to reassess.

Your actions violated protocol, but they also demonstrated capabilities we’d underestimated.

” He pauses. “We’re not here to deliver punishment, Yakov. We’re here with an opportunity.”

“What you did was reckless. But it was also effective. You read the situation faster than our security detail and neutralized the threat.” Igor pauses. “That’s valuable.”

My pulse quickens, though I maintain my neutral expression.

“We already have enough enemies,” Vasiliy adds, speaking for the first time. “We don’t need you to be one of them.”

The statement hangs in the air, loaded with implications I hadn’t anticipated.

“What exactly are you saying?” I ask, caution tempering the spark of hope threatening to ignite in my chest.

“We’re offering you a position,” Nikolai replies. “At Volkov Enterprises. Security consultation initially, with potential for expansion based on…performance.”

I stare at him, searching for the trap, the hidden agenda beneath this unexpected proposal. “A job.”

“A purpose,” he corrects. “Beyond these walls. Beyond revenge.”

My father steps forward, unable to contain himself any longer. “They’re giving you a chance, Yakov.”

I glance at him, noting the naked hope in his eyes. I haven’t seen that expression since before Ana died, before I got swallowed by darkness.

“Why?” I ask, directing the question to Igor, the least likely to offer me anything but continued captivity. “Why now?”

Igor’s eyes narrow, assessing. “Your actions during the Pablo situation demonstrated your worth. Tactical insight we can utilize. And a certain unexpected…attachment. Loyalty.”

The implication is clear—they’ve noticed my feelings for Mila. The thought of her sends another surge through me, memories of her lips against mine just hours ago, her whispered confession against my skin.

I choose you, Yakov .

“There will be conditions,” Aleksander adds, his calm voice cutting through my momentary distraction. “Monitoring. Restrictions. Regular check-ins.”

“Of course,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral despite the storm of emotions threatening to break through my carefully maintained control. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“You’ll be able to see Damien more frequently,” Igor says, surprising me with what sounds almost like a concession.

The thought of spending more time with my nephew—of fulfilling my promise to my sister in ways I couldn’t before—sends an unexpected jolt through my chest.

“When does this start?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“Immediately,” Nikolai answers. “Your quarters here will remain, but you’ll be permitted supervised movement within predefined parameters. The job begins next week.”

My father’s hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing with emotion he rarely displays. “This is what we’ve been working toward, Yakov. A new beginning.”

I should feel triumphant. This is what I’ve wanted since waking up in that hospital bed months ago—freedom, or at least the first steps toward it. Yet a strange conflict twists inside me, an uncertainty I can’t immediately identify.

“We’ll leave you to consider the details,” Nikolai says, rising. He places a folder on the table between us. “Review these. We’ll discuss specifics tomorrow.”

They file out one by one, my father lingering last, silently pleading for me to accept. I nod once, and relief floods his features.

When the door closes, I’m left alone with the folder and the tumultuous thoughts racing through my mind. I cross to the window, my preferred thinking spot in this luxurious prison, staring out at the grounds beyond.

Freedom. Purpose. A path forward that doesn’t end in blood or vengeance.

My reflection stares back at me from the window glass, features I hardly recognize anymore.

The cold strategist who orchestrated kidnappings and planned the Bratva’s downfall seems like someone else entirely.

Not gone—I’m not naive enough to believe in such complete transformation—but altered, evolving into a man I don’t yet understand.

I turn back to the folder, opening it to review the terms of my conditional freedom. The details are exactly what I expected: monitored movement, regular check-ins, restricted access to certain locations. A leash rather than prison bars, but still a constraint.

Yet constraint is preferable to captivity. And perhaps necessary, given who I’ve been. Who I still could be under the right circumstances.

My phone vibrates. Mila’s name on the screen makes my pulse quicken.

I reach for it with unsettling eagerness, warmth unfurling in my chest at the simple text message:

Mila: Will I see you tonight?

My body responds instantly to the innocent question, knowing there’s nothing innocent about what happens when we’re alone together. I type a quick reply:

Me: Yes. 9 p.m. I have news.

Her response comes seconds later:

Mila: Good or bad?

I stare at the screen, considering how to answer. Freedom should be unequivocally good news. Purpose, likewise. The chance to see Damien more often—definitely positive.

Yet the uncertainty remains, centered around the woman who’s become more essential to me than oxygen. What will these changes mean for us? For the fragile, forbidden connection we’ve been nurturing in secrecy?

Me: Complicated

Me: I’ll tell you tonight

I set the phone down, returning to the window. The grounds stretch before me, sun glinting off newly bloomed spring flowers. Soon, I’ll be able to walk those paths without armed escorts, breathe air that doesn’t taste of captivity.

But it’s not the promise of relative freedom that makes my pulse quicken. It’s the thought of tonight, of Mila in my arms again, her body responding to mine with that perfect combination of surrender and demand that drives me to the edge of control.

The way she makes me feel like a man rather than a monster.

Every minute until nine feels like an eternity.