Page 43 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)
NEW BEGINNINGS, OLD ENEMIES
MILA
T wo weeks since our new normal began, since Yakov took the position at Volkov Enterprises, and we stopped pretending this was temporary. Two weeks of attempting to build a new life while navigating waters neither of us has charted before.
I’ve spent the morning reviewing proposals from three different universities, each offering guest lecture opportunities in trauma psychology.
My patient referrals are complete, every case transferred to trusted colleagues who won’t ask uncomfortable questions about my sudden career pivot.
The consulting contracts are still in negotiation, but the interest is there.
Corporate wellness programs, law enforcement psychological evaluations, private practice supervision—work that doesn’t require the license I’m certain will be revoked within the year.
It’s strange, dismantling one professional life while building another. But I refuse to wait for the inevitable. If they’re going to strip away my credentials, I’ll be ready with alternatives.
Yakov’s security system beeps softly as I gather my things—there’s cameras everywhere, motion sensors, direct lines to Bratva security and his phone.
It took a week of negotiations before they agreed to let me return to my apartment, and only with these modifications.
Every window wired, every entrance monitored, panic buttons in every room.
Obsessive attention to detail, all of it designed with the precision of a man who refuses to leave anything to chance when it comes to my safety.
“Excessive,” I’d called it when he’d first outlined his plans.
“Necessary,” he’d countered, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that brooked no argument. This was the compromise. “Your apartment, their terms, my execution.”
My phone buzzes with a text.
Yakov: Outside. Ready when you are.
A flutter of anticipation rises in my stomach, the same one I feel every time I know I’ll see him.
It’s ridiculous. We’ve shared a bed, shared our bodies, shared pieces of ourselves that neither of us has revealed to anyone else.
Yet the thought of seeing him still makes my pulse quicken like a teenager with her first crush.
When I step outside, I spot him immediately.
He leans against a sleek black car, arms crossed over his chest, his posture alert despite the casual stance.
The sight of him in a tailored suit instead of the simple clothes he wore at the mansion still catches me off guard.
He looks powerful, dangerous in an entirely different way, less the caged predator and more the controlled weapon.
He spots me across the sidewalk, and warmth floods through me at the naked hunger in his gaze.
“Dr. Agapova,” he says as I approach, the formal address a private joke between us now. “You look beautiful.”
“Mr. Gagarin.” I match his tone, though my body betrays me by leaning toward him as if magnetized. “Punctual as always.”
He opens the car door for me, his hand brushing the small of my back in a touch that’s innocent and possessive all at once. The brief contact sends tingles skating down my spine. Even these small touches leave me breathless.
“How was your day?” he asks once he’s behind the wheel, studying every detail of my appearance, assessing my mood with the same precision he once used to plan Bratva takedowns.
“Productive.” I watch his hands on the steering wheel, remembering those same hands on my body last night, and desire pools between my thighs. “Yours?”
“Interesting.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Nikolai has me analyzing security protocols for all Volkov and Sokolov properties. The existing measures are…inadequate.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m sure you told him that with your usual diplomatic touch.”
“I was professional.” His hand finds mine across the console, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy. “I simply outlined the seventeen critical vulnerabilities that could be exploited by a determined adversary.”
“Only seventeen? You’re losing your edge,” I tease, squeezing his hand.
The look he gives me is pure predator—focused, intense, promising. “I can demonstrate how wrong you are about that, little doctor.” He smirks, sliding his hand up my thigh and giving me a playful squeeze.
He’s chosen a waterfront restaurant, upscale but understated. As we’re seated, curious glances follow us, whispered comments in our wake. This is our first real public appearance together, a statement neither of us takes lightly.
“People are staring,” I observe as we’re seated at a corner table with clear sightlines to all exits—Yakov’s nonnegotiable requirement.
“Let them,” he replies with that calm certainty that’s both infuriating and oddly comforting. “They’re trying to reconcile the savage from the stories with the man before them.”
“And which one are you tonight?” I ask, studying him in the candlelight that softens the hard angles of his face.
His eyes meet mine, holding that intensity that makes my heart race. “Whichever one keeps you safe.”
The dinner passes with ease, conversation flowing naturally between discussions of his work, my new ventures, books we’ve both read. It’s shockingly normal—yet beneath the civilized veneer, electricity crackles between us with every shared glance, every casual touch.
When his fingers brush mine as he refills my wine glass, it sears like a brand.
When I cross my legs beneath the table and my foot grazes his ankle, his eyes darken with a hunger that makes my core tighten in anticipation.
Our bodies speak in a private dialect while we debate the surrealism and satire of Bulgakov’s prose— The Master and Margarita , Heart of a Dog —interwoven with talk of security protocols.
“Dessert?” he asks, and the word drips with suggestion, promising indulgence far beyond what’s printed on the menu.
Before I can answer, movement catches my eye. A man approaches, slim, well-dressed, walking with stalking confidence. Yakov tenses instantly, his posture shifting from relaxed to combat-ready in a heartbeat.
“Mr. Gagarin,” the stranger says, his accent distinctly Hispanic. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Yakov’s expression reveals nothing, but I feel the change in him, the killer awakening beneath the veneer of civilization. “I doubt that.”
The man smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. “I come only to deliver a message.” His gaze shifts to me, assessing in a way that makes my skin crawl. “For both of you.”
“Say it and leave,” Yakov responds, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I haven’t heard since the night he found me in the alley with Pablo.
The Colombian’s smile widens. “The cartel remembers everything, Mr. Gagarin. Every debt. Every insult.” He adjusts his cufflinks. “Don Emilio particularly remembers those who harm his family.”
Pablo’s uncle. The revelation sends ice through my veins. He must be furious with the Bratva for keeping his nephew locked up—I know that much, though no one would tell me the details of his confinement.
“Is that a threat?” Yakov asks, his tone conversational, though I can see the calculation in his eyes, measuring distance, angles, potential weapons within reach.
“Consider it a reminder.” The man’s gaze moves between us. “New beginnings are fragile. So easily disrupted, especially when they involve charming companions.”
Yakov stands, his movement so fluid it seems casual to anyone watching, but I recognize the lethal intent behind it. “Your message is delivered. Now leave, while you still can.”
The Colombian laughs softly. “Until next time, then.” He nods to me. “Dr. Agapova.”
Terror slides down my spine like ice water. As he walks away, the restaurant seems suddenly cold, exposed, dangerous.
Yakov’s hand finds mine across the table, his touch grounding me. “We’re leaving.”
I don’t argue. The spell of normalcy has been broken, reality crashing back like a physical blow. Within minutes, we’re in his car, Yakov driving with controlled precision that barely masks his fury.
“He knew my name,” I say, breaking the tense silence. “How did he know my name?”
“They’ve been watching us.” His voice is flat, emotionless in the way I know disguises rage. “Studying our patterns, our relationship.”
“Because of Pablo.” It’s not a question. “They’re looking for him.”
“Because of me,” he corrects, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Because I chose you over their operation. Because I hurt one of theirs.”
I study his profile in the dim light from passing streetlamps. “What operation, Yakov? What did you choose me over?”
His jaw works, tension radiating from every line of his body. For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then: “Before the mansion. Before therapy. Before you.” He takes a sharp turn onto a quieter street. “I was feeding them intelligence.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “Intelligence?”
“Bratva security protocols. Shipment routes. Personnel movements. Weaknesses in their operations.” His voice remains controlled. “Information they could use to avoid confrontation or exploit vulnerabilities.”
“You were a spy.” The accusation comes out sharper than I mean to.
“I was a man with a score to settle,” he counters, finally meeting my eyes briefly before returning his attention to the road. “The Bratva destroyed my life, killed my sister. The Colombians offered me resources, protection, a way to get close enough for revenge.”
“In exchange for betraying the syndicate.”
“Yes.” His voice hardens. “It was a way to weaken my enemy and achieve my goal faster.”
I lean back against the seat, trying to process this. “How long?”
“Eight months. Almost a year.” He navigates through traffic easily. “I established contact through intermediaries in South America. Built trust. Provided actionable intelligence that kept their operations from intersecting with Bratva territories.”
“Even from the mansion?”
A bitter laugh escapes him. “Especially from the mansion. The Bratva gave me everything I needed—internet access, a phone. They didn’t realize I was using it to communicate with their enemies.”
“And then?”
His hands tighten on the wheel again. “And then I met a therapist who made me question whether revenge was worth sacrificing what little humanity I had left.” He pauses, jaw working.
“Then Pablo showed up as your patient. They were positioning themselves close to you. Using therapy as cover to study your routines, your vulnerabilities, your connections.”
The violation of it hits me like a physical blow. “My sessions with him?—”
“Were reconnaissance,” Yakov confirms grimly. “And the moment I realized that, I cut all contact. Stopped responding to their intermediaries. Started actively working against them instead of just withholding information.”
“So you betrayed them to protect me.”
“I chose you over everything else,” he says simply. “And they consider that the ultimate betrayal.”
“They blame me,” I say, the pieces clicking into place. “For changing you.”
“They blame you for making me human again.” His voice drops to that dangerous register that always makes my pulse race. “For giving me something worth protecting instead of destroying.”
Fear coils in my stomach, cold and insistent. “What do we do now?”
Yakov’s eyes find mine for a brief moment before returning to the road. “You come back to the mansion with me. Tonight. Until we assess the threat level.”
I should argue. Should insist on maintaining my independence, on not allowing fear to control my life. Instead, I find myself nodding. “Okay.”
His hand reaches across the console. “I won’t let them touch you, Mila.” The promise carries absolute certainty. “Not while I’m breathing.”
“I know.” And I do. Whatever happens, whatever complications arise from the Colombian cartel’s interest, I trust the man beside me with a depth that should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the only solid thing in a suddenly shifting world.
As we drive toward the mansion, toward the temporary sanctuary, I study Yakov’s profile in the dimness.
The hard set of his jaw, the focused intensity, the danger radiating from him—all of it reminding me that the man I’ve chosen is capable of both tenderness and violence, of protection and destruction.
God help me, I want all of him—light and darkness, monster and man. Whatever comes next, whatever threats we face, my choice remains unaltered.
I choose him. All of him. Without reservation, without regret.
Even if it means facing the storm that’s clearly gathering on our horizon.