Page 42 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

LETTING GO

MILA

I stand outside Yakov’s door at nine in the evening, my heart thundering against my ribs. I know Nikolai and Igor visited him earlier today, and the anticipation of what they have decided has left me on edge all day.

The guards stationed down the hall barely acknowledge me as I approach. They’ve grown accustomed to my presence over these months, and with Yakov’s increased privileges, security has relaxed significantly. I smooth down my emerald silk dress before knocking.

“Come in,” his voice calls from within, that familiar baritone sending electricity down my spine.

When I enter, Yakov stands by the window—his thinking spot, as I’ve come to know it.

He’s dressed simply in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.

The evening light catches in his hair, highlighting angles of his face that I’ve memorized over our weeks together.

But tonight feels different. There’s anticipation crackling in the air between us.

“Is everything alright?” I ask, closing the door behind me. “How did the meeting go with Nikolai and Igor?”

He turns, those penetrating blue eyes finding mine across the room. “Better than expected.” There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read—a cautious hope, perhaps, that seems foreign on his usually guarded features.

“Tell me,” I say, moving further into the room but maintaining a careful distance. The air between us already feels charged.

“They’ve made me an offer,” he says, watching me with that intensity that seems to see straight through every facade I’ve ever constructed. “A position at Volkov Enterprises. Security consultation.”

My breath catches. “That’s…good. That’s what you’ve been working toward—freedom, a purpose beyond these walls.”

“It comes with conditions,” he adds, moving away from the window, closing some of the space between us with deliberate steps. “Monitoring. Restrictions. Regular check-ins.”

“But still, it’s a beginning,” I say, unable to keep the smile from my face. “That’s wonderful, Yakov.”

“It means changes, Mila.” He studies my reaction carefully.

The implication hangs between us, unspoken but impossible to ignore. Whatever has been growing between us these past months exists in a peculiar bubble—outside normal life, outside conventional relationships. What happens when that bubble bursts?

“What kind of changes?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

He moves close enough that I can smell his cologne. “My quarters here will remain, but I’ll be permitted supervised movement within predefined parameters. The job begins next week.”

“That’s good,” I say softly. “You’ve wanted that since you woke up in that hospital bed.”

“Freedom was my objective,” he acknowledges, his gaze never leaving mine. “But objectives change. Priorities shift.”

“And what are your priorities now?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

“You.” The single word carries weight beyond its simplicity. “You’ve become my priority in ways that defy strategic advantage or rational explanation.”

The confession steals my breath. Though we’ve acknowledged the bond between us, though we’ve given in to it more than once, hearing him state it so plainly makes it suddenly, terrifyingly real.

“That’s a refreshing admission from a man like yourself,” I say softly.

“For a killer, you mean.” His voice carries no bitterness, just a calm statement of how he sees himself, or how he once did.

I shake my head, closing more of the distance between us. “Is that still who you are? How you think of yourself?”

“It’s who I was,” he says, and I see the struggle in his eyes, the man wanting to step into a new identity. “Who I could still be, under the right circumstances.”

“But not who you want to be anymore.”

His hand lifts, hesitating just shy of touching my face, as if giving me one last chance to step away. “No. Not since you.”

I lean into his palm, the simple contact sending shockwaves of awareness through me. “What happens when everything changes? When you’re working at Volkov Enterprises and building a life beyond these walls?”

“What do you want to happen?” His thumb traces my cheekbone with exquisite gentleness that belies the violence those hands are capable of.

“I want…” The words stick in my throat, the final admission that would shatter any remaining pretense. “I want this. Us. Whatever that means, whatever it costs.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief, desire, determination all mingling together. “Say it again,” he demands, his voice dropping lower as his other hand finds my waist, drawing me closer.

“I want us,” I repeat, my hands sliding up his chest to feel his heart pounding beneath my palms. “I’ve made my choice, Yakov. I choose you, not the strategic ally to the Bratva, not the made man everyone fears, but you.”

The last threads of his control snap visibly. He pulls me against him with a growl, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that obliterates any pretense of restraint. I respond instantly, arms winding around his neck, body arching into his, giving as good as I get.

His hands tangle in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against mine in a dance we’ve perfected in stolen moments.

I can taste his desire, his need, his hunger that matches my own.

My fingers find the hem of his sweater, slipping beneath to touch warm skin stretched over hard muscle.

“I want this,” I breathe, the confession freeing after months of denial. “I want you, Yakov. All of you.”

His eyes darken at my words, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains. With deliberate slowness, he backs me toward the bed, our bodies never losing contact. When my legs hit the mattress, he pauses, studying my face with that penetrating gaze that misses nothing.

“No more pretending this is temporary,” he says, his hands framing my face. “I’m not letting you go.”

The possessiveness in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it sends a thrill through me, a recognition that this man—dangerous, complicated, brilliant—wants me with the same consuming intensity that I want him.

“Good,” I reply, reaching for the side zipper of my dress. “Because I’m not planning to leave.”

His eyes follow the movement of my fingers, watching as I slowly lower the zipper. The hunger in his gaze is almost palpable, a tangible weight against my skin. When I’ve lowered it halfway, his hand covers mine, stopping me.

“Let me,” he says, his voice rough with need.

I let my hands fall to my sides, surrendering this small control to him. His fingers replace mine, working the zipper with agonizing precision. His breath catches audibly, eyes darkening further as I let the garment slip from my shoulders, revealing the black lace beneath.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, hands sliding to my waist, the dip of my spine. “Too beautiful to be real.”

I reach for him again, pulling his mouth back to mine, needing his kiss like oxygen.

This time, when our lips meet, the last barriers between us crumble completely.

There’s no turning back, no pretending this is anything but what it is: two people who’ve found each other against impossible odds, who see each other with a clarity that’s both terrifying and essential.

I arch into him, his palms slipping beneath the lace bra to cup my breasts.

He murmurs something in Russian, his thumbs grazing my nipples before tracing patterns across my sensitive flesh, desire curling tighter in my belly.

His patience infuriates and arouses me in equal measure—this man, who’s always controlling circumstances, orchestrating events, matching wits with those who’d oppose him—is teasing me with purposeful slowness.

I want to urge him on, demand he rid himself of the last of his clothes, and fulfill the promise I see burning in his eyes.

I want this to last forever.

When his mouth breaks from mine, trailing down my neck to trace the line of my collarbone, I catch the slightest hint of a smirk. Arrogant bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and he likes it.

The thought drives me crazy in the best possible way.

His lips close over the swell of my breast just above the edge of lace, tongue swirling in a maddening pattern that borders on torture.

I thread my hands into his hair, urging him lower, encouraging the tension building between us.

In response, he scrapes his teeth over the delicate skin there, a clear warning not to rush him.

I’ll take the risk.

“Please,” I gasp, as his mouth closes over my nipple through the thin fabric, biting hard enough to send sparks of pleasure straight to my core. “Please, Yakov.”

“All of this is mine now, milaya .” Another graze of teeth. “Every sigh, every touch, every part of you.”

“Yours,” I whisper, and the admission, while terrifying, brings a strange relief as well.

He groans against my skin, finally slipping the lace bra away, cupping my bare breasts with deceptive gentleness.

Then he begins his torturous journey down the plane of my stomach, tongue and teeth and lips leaving no inch untouched.

When his fingers reach my panties, teasing along the edge, I feel my knees weaken.

“Bed,” I plead, shivering with anticipation as he strips the damp lace down my legs.

He stands to remove his clothing quickly, efficiently, with none of the performance I’m used to in male lovers.

Yet, there’s no denying his strength, the control that radiates from him even now, his need tempered by patience that both frustrates and thrills me.

When he’s finally naked, I’m temporarily frozen, taking in his lean, powerful form, the broad chest, the corded muscle in his arms and thighs, the incredible hardness between his legs.

Then he’s back, the weight of his body pressing me into the bed, the heat of his skin a sharp contrast to the cool sheets.

I let my legs part in invitation, pressing my hips into his, seeking friction.

As if sensing my impatience, he guides himself against me, hard and thick and demanding, but doesn’t press further.

My hands find the hard planes of his back, nails digging in slightly. “Yakov, I?—”

“I know,” he interrupts, sensing what I was about to say.

In that moment, everything else fades into the background—his complicated history, my professional code, the thousand reasons why this should never have happened. There’s only him and me, each lost in the other.

He guides himself into me, inch by inch, and I hear his ragged inhale as I welcome him.

The sensation is familiar yet different, entirely new, and then he’s fully inside me, surrounding me, claiming me completely.

My body responds with an animal urgency, my hips meeting his, wordlessly begging him for more.

He obliges.

Yakov sets a relentless pace, withdrawing and thrusting in a punishing rhythm that steals my breath.

I respond in kind, writhing beneath him, giving myself to him without restraint.

He leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear, and I feel the dam inside me give way, a tidal wave of need crashing through me, his name on my lips like a prayer.

The world narrows to the points where our bodies meet, to sensation and hunger and the overwhelming rightness of the way he feels inside me, claiming me, filling me with him. I wind around him, pulling him deeper, nails scraping down his back, his breathing ragged and low against my neck.

“Mine,” he murmurs. “My Mila.”

With a ragged groan, he loses his last restraint, moving in sharp, unmeasured thrusts.

I lose myself in the pulsation of his body, release building inside me, pulling him tighter.

The pleasure peaks, and we soar together, muscles straining against each other, bodies molded into one single form, neither willing to let the other go.

A shout tears from his lips, and the sound joins my moan, mingling in the air like the most secret language, an unspoken promise.

When he spills himself inside me, he whispers my name like a sacred vow, and the sound of it—this dangerous man, so powerful and controlled—is enough to send me spiraling into the white-hot light behind my eyes.

He collapses against me, our heavy breathing echoing, his heart pounding against mine. Long moments pass, and neither of us is ready to acknowledge the moment when the world spins back into focus, when we’ll have to let each other go.

But for this suspended moment, in this fairytale castle where all of this began, the connection between us grows, solidifies, tethers us to each other despite the uncertainty ahead.

Even if we can’t define exactly what we’ve found, we have each other, and at the moment, that’s enough.

Tonight, it’s enough.