Page 48 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

BAIT

MILA

I can taste blood in my mouth, metallic and warm. My wrists burn from the zip ties cutting into my skin. Each breath feels like a small victory as I struggle to stay conscious. To survive.

The Sokolov hunting lodge was supposed to be our sanctuary. When Aleksander brought me here, I believed we’d be safe. Remote enough to be hidden, fortified enough to be protected. How wrong we were.

Pablo’s men must have followed us here or had inside information about Bratva safe houses. Now he’s turned our sanctuary into his trap, knowing Yakov will come to the exact location the Bratva would expect to find us.

“Comfortable, Dr. Agapova?” Pablo’s voice slithers across the room, smooth as a blade and twice as deadly. “I do apologize for the accommodations. So…rustic, no?”

I don’t answer. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing fear in my voice. But my silence only amuses him more.

“Such dignity,” he muses, circling my chair like a predator. “I admire that in a woman. It makes the breaking so much more…satisfying.”

My eyes dart to Aleksander’s motionless form across the room. Blood matting his buzzed hair, face swollen from the beating he took trying to protect me. He hasn’t moved in over an hour. I don’t know if he’s unconscious or?—

No. I can’t think about that now. Can’t fall apart. Yakov would maintain focus, would analyze the situation, find a way out. I need to do the same.

“He’s not dead,” Pablo says, noticing my gaze. “Not yet. Though my men did enjoy testing the limits of his Bratva training.” He leans closer, his breath hot against my ear. “They’re looking forward to exploring yours next.”

A shudder runs through me that I can’t suppress.

Eight of Pablo’s goons occupy the lodge, moving like shadows through rooms once meant for family gatherings.

Each carries the casual menace of men acquainted with violence, comfortable with pain.

But none frightens me like the calculated cruelty in Pablo’s eyes.

“Whatever you want from me, you won’t get it,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my throat.

He laughs, the sound oddly gentle. “Oh, you misunderstand, Doctor. You’re not the prize.” He traces one finger along my jawline, stopping to grip my chin roughly. “You’re the bait.”

Understanding dawns with sickening clarity. “Yakov,” I whisper.

“Very good.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your lover made a critical error when he chose you over our arrangement. Did he tell you about our history? About the deals we made before his…reformation?”

I remain silent, but Pablo doesn’t need my participation to continue.

“Your Yakov was quite effective—brutal, efficient. Then he developed a weakness.” His gaze finds mine. “You.”

The blow comes without warning, the back of his hand connecting with my cheek with enough force to whip my head sideways. Pain explodes through my skull.

“That was for making him forget our agreement,” Pablo says conversationally, as if commenting on the weather. “The next one will be for making him believe he could be something other than what he is.”

I taste fresh blood, feel the throb where my lip has split. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the terror building inside me. Not for myself, but for Yakov. I know him. Know he’ll come for me without hesitation, walking straight into whatever trap Pablo has set.

“He’ll kill you,” I say, meeting Pablo’s gaze with defiance I don’t entirely feel. “When he finds me like this, there won’t be anything left of you to bury.”

Pablo’s smile widens, genuine amusement dancing in his eyes.

“There she is. The woman behind the professional facade. The one who fell in love with a killer.” He leans closer, studying me like a fascinating specimen.

“Tell me, Doctor, what does that say about you? That you warm the bed of a man with so much blood on his hands?”

I think of Yakov, of his hands tracing my face in the morning light, of his rare smiles saved only for me, of the vulnerability in his eyes when he speaks of Anastasiya or Damien. Of the man beneath the reputation that follows him like a shadow.

“You don’t know him at all,” I say, meeting his stare.

“I know everything about him,” Pablo counters, voice hardening. “I know what he’s capable of when properly motivated.” He gestures to one of his men, who approaches with a blade that glints in the fading light. “Let’s see if we can provide that motivation, shall we?”

The knife is cold against my throat, pressure without breaking skin. Yet.

“Ever seen a Colombian necktie, Doctor?” Pablo asks casually. “Quite effective. The throat is cut here,” the knife traces a line under my jaw, “and then the tongue is pulled through the wound. Like a necktie, you see? Very elegant.”

My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I’m certain he can hear it. But I keep my eyes on his, refusing to look away even as tears threaten.

“My uncle perfected the technique,” Pablo continues.

“He could keep the subject conscious throughout most of the process. Imagine that, watching your own tongue emerge from your throat.” He signals his man to withdraw the blade, patting my cheek almost affectionately.

“Something to think about while we wait for your knight in bloodstained armor.”

He checks his watch, a gaudy gold thing that catches the light. “He should be here within the hour. I do hope he doesn’t disappoint. For your sake, of course.”

Pablo moves away to confer with his men, leaving me alone with my fear. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Think, Mila. Think. There must be something. Some way to warn Yakov, to help Aleksander, to get us out of this nightmare alive.

My thoughts are interrupted by Pablo’s making a phone call. His side of the conversation confirms my worst fears: he’s speaking with Yakov, taunting him with threats against me. I strain to hear, to gather any information that might help.

”…one hour to reach the lodge. After that, I start sending pieces of her back to the Bratva as a message…”

The room spins around me as terror and rage battle for dominance in my chest. Yakov will come. Not with an army, not with careful planning, but immediately. Recklessly. Trading his life for mine without hesitation.

“He’s so predictable,” Pablo says, pocketing his phone. “Love does that, makes even the most brilliant strategist act like a fool.” He gestures to his men. “Take positions. Our guest of honor will be arriving soon.”

As they disperse, he returns to me, knife in hand. This time, it’s not for show. The blade slices through the sleeve of my blouse, laying open a shallow cut along my arm. I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

“Just a sample,” he explains, wiping my blood from the blade with a handkerchief. “To properly set the mood for his arrival.”

The pain is sharp, immediate, but manageable. What’s unbearable is knowing Yakov will walk into this trap. I’ve become his weakness in a world where weakness kills.

Time crawls. Sunset casts long shadows while Pablo’s men grow restless, weapons ready. Aleksander still hasn’t moved, but I can see the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Still alive. Still a chance.

Pablo paces near the windows, occasionally stopping to check his watch or bark orders into a radio. The wait is clearly wearing on him as much as it is on me. His earlier composure frays at the edges, revealing the true nature beneath the polished exterior.

“Your Yakov is taking his time,” he says, irritation breaking through his practiced calm. “Maybe you’re not as important to him as I thought.”

I say nothing, but a small, desperate hope flares in my chest. Maybe Yakov won’t come alone. Maybe he’s smart enough to bring reinforcements, to approach with caution rather than emotion.

But I know better. I know the man who holds my heart. Know the lengths he’ll go to for those he considers his. And I am his, as completely as he is mine.

The sound of breaking glass from somewhere in the lodge shatters the tense silence. Pablo’s head whips toward the noise, eyes narrowing.

“Go,” he orders two of his men. “Check it.”

They disappear down the hallway, weapons raised. Seconds later, a muffled thud reaches us, then silence. No gunshots. No calls for backup. Nothing.

“Report,” Pablo barks into his radio. Static answers him.

A cold smile stretches across my face before I can stop it. “He’s here,” I whisper.

Pablo’s expression darkens. He crosses the room in three quick strides, hauling me up by my hair. The knife returns to my throat, pressing hard enough to draw blood this time.

“Your Bratva attack dog doesn’t understand the situation,” he hisses. “I said alone, unarmed. Now he’s changed the terms.”

Movement flickers in the shadows behind Pablo—a familiar silhouette. Relief and terror collide in my chest. Yakov is here, as I knew he would be. But he’s alone, facing impossible odds, with my life hanging by the thread of Pablo’s restraint.

Our eyes lock across the room, and in that fractured moment, everything else falls away. His gaze holds mine, fierce and determined, communicating without words.

I’m here. I’ve found you. Hold on.

No one else has seen him yet. Pablo is too focused on the door, on his radio, on pressing the knife against my skin. His remaining men scan sections of the lodge, weapons pointed in the wrong directions.

I need to buy Yakov time, to distract Pablo just enough for whatever plan is forming behind those calculating blue eyes I’ve come to love.

“Maybe he’s realized I’m not worth dying for,” I say, deliberately loud. “Maybe he’s finally thinking strategically instead of emotionally.”

Pablo’s grip on my hair tightens painfully. “Don’t test me, Doctor. When he arrives, you’ll watch him die. Then we’ll discuss your future with the cartel in great detail.”

But I barely hear his threats. My focus remains fixed on the shadow moving steadily closer, on the man who has become my everything approaching with death in his eyes.

For the first time since my capture, I feel something beyond fear.

I feel hope.