Page 46 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

INTO THE STORM

MILA

T he mansion has transformed into a military compound by the time we pull through the gates—black SUVs lined up like sentinels, armed men positioned at strategic points, and enough firepower visible to outfit a small army.

“Jesus,” I breathe, taking it in.

Yakov’s expression darkens as he surveys the scene. Before we can even park, Nikolai emerges from the main entrance, his usual composed demeanor replaced by urgent efficiency. Igor flanks him, barking orders into his phone while Aleksander coordinates with a team of men I don’t recognize.

“Gagarin,” Nikolai calls out the moment we step from the car. “Emergency council.”

I feel Yakov’s tension ratchet higher, his body shifting into that predatory stillness I’ve learned to recognize. “Now?”

“Pablo’s escape wasn’t opportunistic,” Igor snaps, ending his call. “Intelligence suggests he had inside help. We need you in the war room stat.”

My stomach drops. The implications hit me immediately. If Pablo has insider knowledge, nowhere is truly safe.

Yakov’s hand finds mine, squeezing once. “How long?”

“Could be hours,” Nikolai replies grimly. “We need to identify the leak and strategize response protocols.”

I can see the war raging behind Yakov’s eyes—duty versus protection, Bratva obligations versus his need to stay close to me. It’s the same conflict that’s defined our entire relationship.

“Go,” I tell him, squeezing his hand back. “I’ll be fine here.”

His jaw tightens. “Mila?—”

“Look around,” I gesture to the fortress surrounding us. “Short of a military invasion, I’m probably safer here than anywhere else. And they need you.”

The truth is, I understand the politics at play. This emergency meeting isn’t just about Pablo; it’s about Yakov’s reinstatement, his value to the organization, his future with them. Our future.

Aleksander appears at my shoulder, his presence both comforting and commanding. “I’ll personally oversee her security while you’re in the meeting.”

Yakov studies his face for a long moment, some silent communication passing between them. Finally, he nods.

“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” he says, cupping my face in his hands.

The kiss he gives me is fierce, possessive, a promise and a claiming all at once. When he pulls away, his eyes burn with intensity that makes my pulse race.

“Be careful,” I whisper.

“Always am.” The lie sits easily on his lips, but the small smile that accompanies it is genuine.

I watch him disappear into the mansion with the other men, then follow Aleksander to the main living area.

The domestic warmth has been stripped away, replaced by tactical efficiency.

Maps cover the coffee table, laptops display security feeds, and communication equipment hums quietly in the background.

“This is more than standard precaution,” I observe.

Aleksander nods grimly. “Pablo’s network is more extensive than we initially assessed. His escape suggests coordination we didn’t anticipate.”

The hours crawl by with agonizing slowness.

I try to read, but concentration proves impossible.

Every sound makes me jump—footsteps in the hall, car engines outside, the crackle of radio communications.

The weight of being watched, protected, and trapped presses down on me until I feel like I can’t breathe.

Aleksander keeps me updated with fragments of information. The meeting is intense. They’ve uncovered disturbing intelligence about Pablo’s resources. Yakov’s input is proving valuable. But the specifics remain locked away in that room where men like Yakov make decisions about life and death.

I must have dozed off on the couch because I wake to the soft sound of footsteps. The room is dimmer now, evening shadows stretching across the floor. Most of the tactical equipment has been cleared away, and the mansion feels marginally more like a home again.

“Any word?” I ask Aleksander, who’s monitoring security feeds from a laptop.

“They’re wrapping up. Should be finished soon.”

The hours continue to drag. By ten o’clock, exhaustion weighs heavy on my shoulders, but I don’t want to go upstairs without Yakov. Aleksander tries to convince me to rest, but I shake my head.

“I’ll wait a little longer.”

But by eleven-thirty, my eyelids feel like lead. I finally give in and head to my room. I change into sleep clothes and climb into bed, determined to stay awake until he comes back.

I try to fight the pull of sleep, but the emotional exhaustion of the day finally wins. I drift off, still listening for his footsteps.

I wake to the bed dipping beside me and familiar warmth sliding under the covers. Strong arms pull me against a solid chest, and I breathe in Yakov’s scent.

“You’re back,” I murmur drowsily, turning in his arms to face him.

“Mm.” He sounds tired as he settles me more securely against him. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“How did it go?” I ask, my hand finding his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“Long. Complicated.” His fingers stroke through my hair, the gentle touch at odds with the tension I can feel in his body. “But we have a path forward now.”

I want to ask more, but the exhaustion in his voice and the way he holds me—like he needs this peace as much as I do—stop me. Instead, I press closer to him, offering comfort through presence rather than words.

“Sleep,” I whisper. “I’m here.”

His arms tighten around me, and I feel some of the tension leave his body. “I love you,” he murmurs against my hair, the words soft and unguarded in the darkness.

“I love you too.”

We fall asleep wrapped around each other, and for a few hours, the world feels safe again.

I wake gradually to sunlight streaming through the windows and the comfort of Yakov’s arms around me. He’s still deeply asleep, exhaustion evident in the relaxed lines of his face. I decide to let him rest. After the intensity of last night’s meeting, he needs it.

But then his phone starts buzzing insistently on the nightstand. I glance at the screen and see Igor’s name flashing. Nothing good ever comes from Igor calling this early.

“Yakov,” I murmur, shaking his shoulder gently. “Igor’s calling.”

He comes awake instantly, that soldier’s alertness that never fully leaves him. One glance at his phone, and his expression shifts to grim efficiency as he answers.

“What is it?” His voice is sharp, all business.

I can’t hear Igor’s words, but I can make out the urgency in his tone through the speaker. Yakov’s jaw tightens as he listens.

“When? …How long ago? …Understood. Twenty minutes.”

He ends the call and is already moving to get dressed.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Pablo made contact with one of our shipping operations,” he explains, quickly pulling on clothes. “We think we’ve found his location.”

My stomach drops. “Yakov?—”

He’s already reaching for his holster. “I have to go, but I’ll be back by noon. You’ll be safe here. Aleksander has his instructions.” He leans down to kiss me, hard and quick. “Stay close to him until I get back.”

And then he’s gone, leaving only the scent of his cologne and a growing sense of unease.

I shower and dress, then head downstairs for breakfast. The mansion feels different this morning—more guards posted, more tension in the air. Aleksander is waiting in the kitchen with coffee and a plate of fruit, but his usual calm demeanor seems strained.

“Everything alright?” I ask, settling at the kitchen island.

He nods, but something in his posture suggests there’s more to it.

I’m halfway through my coffee when my new phone rings, the secure line that only Yakov and key Bratva members have the number for.

Unknown Number.

We stare at it for three rings before Aleksander motions for me to answer. “Keep him talking while we trace the call.”

My hand trembles slightly as I swipe to accept, putting the call on speaker. “Hello?”

“Dr. Agapova.” Pablo’s voice is cultured, accented, terrifyingly familiar. “I hope you slept well.”

Ice floods my veins. Aleksander’s face goes pale as he recognizes the voice too, his hand already moving to his weapon.

“What do you want?” I manage, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“To chat, of course.” His laugh is soft, amused. “I trust Yakov is enjoying his little reconnaissance mission at the docks?”

The implication hits me like a physical blow. He knows exactly where Yakov is, what he’s doing. This was all orchestrated—a trap.

“I have a message for your boyfriend,” Pablo continues conversationally. “Tell him I’ll call his phone in exactly ninety minutes. He’ll want to take that call if he hopes to see you breathing again.”

“You’re making a mistake,” I say, surprised by the strength in my own voice. “The Bratva won’t?—”

“The Bratva sent their best weapon away from their most valuable asset,” he interrupts. “Poor strategy, don’t you think? Almost like someone wanted you vulnerable.”

Aleksander is already on his phone, typing, the kitchen erupting into silent chaos around me.

“Tick tock, Doctor,” Pablo says, his voice dropping to something colder. “Ninety minutes. Make sure Yakov understands what happens if he’s late.”

The line goes dead.

Aleksander’s hand is on my arm before I can even process what just happened. “We’re moving you. Now.”

“But Yakov?—”

“Will be contacted the moment you’re secure.” His jaw is tight with barely controlled anger as men appear from hidden positions throughout the house. “Pablo orchestrated this separation. Drew him away so he could get to you. We’re not giving him that chance.”

Within minutes, I’m being hustled toward a waiting SUV, the mansion transforming around me into a military evacuation. As our convoy races toward an unknown destination, one thought echoes in my mind.

By the time Yakov gets Pablo’s call, everything will have changed.