Page 138 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
The door swings open, and Katarina flows in, designer perfection cracking around worried eyes. She reaches me in three steps, wrapping me in careful arms that steal my breath.
“Mila,” she whispers, voice fracturing. “When Nikolai called, I thought?—”
“I’m fine,” I lie, the words hollow. Am I fine? Will I ever be, after watching Pablo work? After seeing Yakov nearly kill a man with his bare hands for my sake?
Katarina pulls back, studying me with the intensity of someone who’s known me since childhood. “No, you’re not,” she corrects softly. “But you will be.”
The certainty in her voice offers comfort I desperately need. She’s survived this—the violence, the fear, accepting that loving a Bratva man means embracing darkness. If anyone understands, it’s her.
“Where is he?” I ask, need bleeding through my voice. “Yakov, is he?—”
“Getting stitched up,” she says, settling on the edge of my bed. “Knife wound to his ribs. Not serious, but he needs medical attention.”
Relief crashes through me, followed by desperate longing that makes my chest ache. I want to see him, touch him, confirm with my own hands that he’s alive and whole.
“I need to see him,” I say, already pushing upright. “Katarina, please?—”
Her gentle hand stops me. “I know. Nikolai’s bringing him once the doctor finishes.”
I sink back, tension draining slightly. “Thank you.”
“So,” she says, voice deliberately light as she adjusts flowers on my bedside table. “You and Yakov are the real deal?”
Heat floods my cheeks despite everything. “Is it that obvious?”
Her laugh comes soft and genuine. “Only to everyone with working eyes. He watches you like you hung the stars, Mila. Like you’re the first sunrise he’s ever seen.”
The description makes my heart stutter. It’s achingly accurate, that intensity in Yakov’s gaze when it finds me, hunger and wonder and disbelief mixed together, as if he can’t believe I’m real.
“I love him,” I admit aloud, the words terrifying and liberating. “All of him, Kata. Even the parts that should scare me.”
“Especially those parts,” she corrects gently. “Because those parts kept you breathing yesterday.”
Before I can respond, the door opens again. Nikolai enters first, his expression grave but softening when he sees Katarina. But it’s the man behind him makes my heart stutter.
Yakov fills the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the light. His skin looks pale beneath its natural bronze, a testament to blood loss and exhaustion. Butterfly bandages close a cut above his eyebrow, and I know beneath that fresh shirt lies a properly dressed knife wound.
But his eyes, when they lock onto mine across this sterile space, ignite something primal in my core.
“Mila.” Just my name, but it carries the weight of blood and violence and desperate devotion.
Katarina and Nikolai dissolve into background noise as Yakov crosses to me in three strides. His hands frame my face with shocking tenderness; these same hands that shattered bones hours ago now touch me as if I might break.
“You’re whole,” he breathes, voice raw as his thumb traces my bandaged cheek. “They told me, but I had to see.”
“I’m whole,” I confirm, my hands capturing his wrists, feeling his pulse hammer beneath his skin. “Because you came for me.”
Darkness flickers across his features. “Because I failed to protect you. Because I let them take you.” Self-hatred bleeds through each word. “I should have been faster?—”
I silence him with my mouth, not caring about our audience, caring only about the consuming need to touch him. His lips respond instantly, one hand sliding to my nape, holding me against him as if I might vanish.
The kiss transforms, becoming hungrier, more consuming. His tongue finds mine, claiming me with primal intensity, and I respond with equal ferocity. My body recognizes his, craves him with frightening desperation. Even here, even now, we burn for each other.
When we break apart, we’re both gasping. Katarina’s throat clearing penetrates my haze. “We’ll leave you alone,” she says, dragging Nikolai toward the exit. “Take your time.”
The door clicks shut. We’re alone. Yakov’s forehead presses against mine, his breath hot on my skin.
“I thought you were gone,” he confesses, vulnerability stripped bare. “When Pablo called, when I heard his threats…I’ve never known terror like that, Mila. Not even when Ana died.”
