Page 55 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
My father studies me with a sharper kind of focus. “You’re being unusually cooperative.”
“I have my reasons.” I meet his stare without blinking.
“Damien,” he says.
Among others.
I don’t respond. I don’t need to. They know. They’ve always known that the only lever that moves me anymore is the boy with Ana’s eyes.
But it isn’t just Damien.
It’s Mila.
Montoya circling her like a shark triggers something primal in me, something I thought I buried the day Ana died. Possession. Protection. Rage. I don’t like it, but it’s real.
The baby stirs against Galina’s shoulder, blinking up at the room with wide, green eyes. Her eyes. Innocence in a house built on strategy. It’s almost cruel.
“He has your expression,” I say to Vasiliy before I can stop myself. “That same calculating stare.”
He’s startled, but the smile that breaks through is real. “Poor kid.”
It slips between us, something like humor. Disarming. Unsettling. Human.
My father clears his throat, dragging us back to the business of violence.
“Is there anything else?” he asks. “A flaw in their operation we can exploit?”
I consider the question, choosing my words with care. “Diaz runs his operation more like a dynasty than a syndicate. Everything revolves around blood. Family isn’t a convenience, it’s the foundation. Loyalty is inherited, not negotiated. That kind of structure breeds absolute allegiance.”
My father leans back slightly, folding his hands. “Not like us.”
I nod once. “No. The Bratva is built on structure, not sentiment. Rank, respect, obedience. Blood matters, but it’s not sacred. Not if it compromises the organization.”
A flicker crosses his expression, but he doesn’t argue. Because he knows I’m right.
The jab lands exactly where I intend it. A reminder that I’m sitting here as a prisoner, not a son. Useful, not loved. My father’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. He rarely does.
“Thank you,” Vasiliy says, his voice the kind of formal that signals the end of a meeting. He rises smoothly. “We’ll act on what you’ve given us.”
“I’m sure you will,” I reply, standing as well. “Though I can’t help but notice this was a one-sided exchange.”
My father looks at me with that infuriating mask of patience. “What do you want, Yakov?”
“Information,” I say. “Updates on Damien. And assurances about Dr. Agapova’s safety.”
Something flickers behind his eyes—sharp, amused, far too perceptive. “Concerned about your therapist?”
“She’s an asset,” I reply evenly. “It would be counterproductive to lose her midway through treatment.”
“Of course,” he says, with the false sincerity he’s mastered over decades. “We’ll see to it.”
As they prepare to leave, my father lingers a moment longer. Vasiliy and Galina step into the hallway, the baby fussing quietly against her shoulder.
Then, lower: “Be careful, Yakov. Attachments like this…they’re dangerous. For everyone involved.”
I meet his gaze, steady and cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” His voice drops, calm as ever, but I see the precision behind the words. “The cameras in this house don’t just track movement. They capture everything.”
