Page 53 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)
NEW BEGINNINGS - MILA
The crystal flute feels cool against my fingers as I watch Yakov from across the room. Even after a year together, the sight of him in a tailored suit still makes my body respond in ways that should embarrass a woman with my credentials.
Though technically, I no longer have credentials.
The ethics board’s decision had been swift and final—license revoked, no possibility of reinstatement.
But instead of devastating me, it freed me to find work I actually love: teaching brilliant graduate students and consulting on cases that challenge me intellectually without the ethical minefield of direct patient care.
Sometimes life forces you down a path that feels like punishment, only to reveal it was actually a gift.
I’d spent years thinking I had to follow my mother’s footsteps exactly, but losing my license opened doors I never knew existed.
What seemed like professional destruction became liberation.
He’s deep in conversation with Nikolai and Aleksander, posture relaxed yet alert, always alert, even here among people I’ve known most of my life.
The transformation in him over the past year leaves me breathless.
The calculated coldness has softened, though it never entirely disappears.
The savage is still there, dormant beneath the man, waking only when necessary.
I catch his eye across the crowded room, and the heat in his gaze makes my skin flush instantly. One look, that’s all it takes. One year together, and still, he renders me speechless with a glance.
“You’re staring again,” Katarina murmurs beside me, amusement coloring her voice. “Though I can hardly blame you. Who would have thought Yakov Gagarin could clean up so nicely?”
I smile, taking a sip of champagne. “Certainly not the terrified psychologist who first walked into his prison.”
“And yet here we are.” Katarina’s arm loops through mine, the familiar gesture of a friendship spanning decades. “If anyone had told us during those sleepovers that you’d end up with the most feared man in the Bratva, I would’ve laughed myself sick.”
“Life has a strange way of working out,” I say, watching as Damien runs up to Yakov with childish enthusiasm. The same way young Katarina and I used to race through these halls, with Igor and Aleksander chasing after us, Mikhail too small to keep up, wailing to be included.
The tenderness with which Yakov lifts his nephew makes my heart constrict.
Those hands that have broken bones and ended lives are so gentle with the boy, so careful.
He catches me watching and raises an eyebrow—a silent question I answer with a small nod.
Yes, I’m fine. Yes, I still want this. Yes, I still choose you, monster and man alike.
Every day is a choice for us both. A choice to build something neither believed possible.
“I’m going to check on Lev,” Katarina says, squeezing my arm before moving toward where her son plays with Sofiya, Igor and Katya’s daughter. “Try not to fuck Yakov with your eyes in front of the entire family.”
I laugh, the sound coming easily in this place where I spent half my childhood.
Despite growing up outside the Bratva, these people have always been family in ways my distant father never was.
I weave through the crowd, accepting Galina’s embrace and stopping to chat with Igor, who offers me a rare smile.
“Aleksander was asking about you,” he tells me, his usual gruffness softened by the occasion. “Says you haven’t been to family dinner in weeks.”
“Some of us have actual jobs, Igor,” I tease, falling into our comfortable childhood rhythm. “Teaching and consulting takes up a lot of time.”
“Still can’t believe they let you lecture at Columbia after everything,” he says, but there’s pride in his voice. “Though I suppose Trauma Psychology and Criminal Behavior is right in your wheelhouse.”
I smile, thinking of my twice-weekly lectures and the private consulting work that’s proven more fulfilling than traditional practice ever was. “Losing my license was the best thing that ever happened to my career. Turns out I’m better at teaching future therapists than being one myself.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s fondness there. “Mikhail called from Moscow this morning. Says he’ll be back for Christmas. Wanted me to tell you he expects a proper introduction to the man who’s finally convinced you to settle down.”
The mention of the youngest Sokolov brother brings a pang of nostalgia. “Tell him I miss him. And that Yakov isn’t afraid of his shovel talk.”
“He should be,” Igor mutters, but his attention is already drawn elsewhere as Katya calls him over.
I continue toward Yakov, who watches my approach with an intensity that makes my knees weak. His hand finds the small of my back the moment I reach him, possessive and grounding.
“You look beautiful,” he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. “Though this dress is a particular form of torture.”
I smile innocently, though we both know my choice of burgundy was deliberate. “I have no idea what you mean.”
His fingers tighten imperceptibly at my waist. “Liar,” he murmurs against my ear. “You know exactly what that color on you does to me.”
Heat pools low in my belly at his words, at the promise they contain. Even here, surrounded by families I’ve known since childhood, he makes me want to drag him into the nearest empty room and lock the door behind us.
“Behave,” I caution, though my body betrays me by leaning into his touch. “Your father’s about to make a toast.”
Sergey Gagarin stands at the head of the table, surprisingly emotional as he raises his glass. The past few years have softened him too, the hardened patriarch allowing himself moments of vulnerability that would’ve been unthinkable before.
“To new beginnings,” he says, voice steady but eyes suspiciously bright. “To family, by blood and by choice.”
His gaze finds Yakov and me, complex emotion crossing his weathered features.
“And to Anastasiya,” he continues softly. “Who I believe would be proud of the man her brother has become.”
Beside me, Yakov goes very still. I slip my hand into his, feeling the infinitesimal tremor that runs through him at the mention of his sister. Some wounds never fully heal, they just become bearable with time.
“To Anastasiya,” the gathered families echo, and we drink.
The moment feels perfect—this tentative peace, this unlikely family, this man whose darkness has become as essential to me as his rare moments of tenderness. Perhaps this is how happiness feels in our world, fragile and hard-won, but precious.
Then Nikolai’s phone rings.
The shift is immediate. Subtle but unmistakable, like the first tremors before an earthquake.
Security personnel straighten, hands drifting toward concealed weapons.
Igor and Vasiliy exchange glances heavy with meaning.
Yakov’s body coils with sudden tension beside me, his arm tightening around my waist as if anticipating the need to move me quickly.
I’ve seen this before countless times growing up around the Sokolovs and Volkovs. The moment when celebration turns to business, when family gives way to Bratva.
Nikolai steps away to take the call, but his expression when he returns tells us everything. He catches my eye briefly, the same look he used to give me when we were children and trouble was brewing, a silent warning to stay close, stay safe.
“A letter,” he says simply. “Delivered to Volkov Enterprises an hour ago.”
Igor nods, already moving toward his office with the other men following. Yakov hesitates, his eyes finding mine in silent question.
“Go,” I tell him, though instinct screams at me to keep him close. “I’ll be fine.”
He brushes his lips against my temple, a barely-there contact that makes my pulse race. “Stay with Katarina, Galina, and Katya,” he murmurs. “I’ll be back.”
I watch him follow the others, the predatory grace in his movements reminding me of who he truly is—not just my lover, not just the man who makes me scream his name in the darkness of our bedroom, but a weapon with violence in his blood and calculation in his bones.
“Problems?” Katarina asks when I rejoin the women, the same question she’s been asking since we were teenagers and her family would suddenly disappear into urgent meetings.
“When isn’t there?” I reply, our familiar refrain.
Thirty minutes pass before the men return.
I know something is wrong the moment I see Yakov’s face—the careful blankness that means he’s compartmentalizing, shutting down emotion to focus on threat assessment.
Our eyes lock across the room, and even from this distance, I can read the grim determination in his.
Nikolai calls for everyone’s attention, and the festive atmosphere evaporates completely.
“We’ve received a communication from the Colombian cartel,” he announces, voice measured. “Specifically, from Emilio Diaz, Pablo Montoya’s uncle.”
A murmur runs through the room. I feel several eyes turn to me, remembering my connection to Pablo, remembering how it all began. Remembering how it ended, with Pablo trying to escape custody once more, and Aleksander putting a bullet in his head when he reached for a guard’s weapon.
I meet Aleksander’s gaze across the room, seeing in his eyes the same memory.
Of all the Sokolov brothers, he’s always been the most like me—the quiet observer, the strategic thinker.
The one who carried me home when I broke my ankle climbing the oak tree in their garden at thirteen.
The one who first taught me how to shoot, despite Katarina’s protests that I wasn’t Bratva.
“Diaz informs us that his one-year mourning period for his nephew has concluded,” Nikolai continues. “And that he now considers all previous arrangements with the Bratva null and void.”