Page 82 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
Three days of silence where his voice should be. Of remembering his hands on my skin, the way he made me forget every rule I’d built my career on.
The doctor in me knows this distance is necessary. The woman in me? She’s ready to burn the house down just to feel his hands on her again.
A commotion at the entrance pulls me from the spiral—heavy boots, clipped orders, the unmistakable sound of weapons being checked. My pulse spikes, traitorous hope blooming where fear should live.
I smooth my blouse. A pointless reflex, but control is scarce these days.
The door opens and Aleksander enters first, all quiet authority and diplomatic grace.
Then I see him.
Yakov is in the doorway behind him, flanked by guards but somehow diminishing them. Three days of absence compressed into this single moment of impact.
His presence fills the space,pulling every fragmented thought in my head straight to him. Our eyes lock across the room. The air changes—thicker, electric, charged with memory. For a heartbeat, I’m back in his bed, skin against skin, his name on my lips.
“Mila.” Aleksander’s voice cuts through the spell. It takes physical effort to look away from Yakov, to pretend my pulse isn’t hammering.
“Alek,” I manage, offering a faint smile as he pulls me into a brief embrace. The comfort is fleeting, nothing compared to the storm building behind those blue eyes across the room.
Over Aleksander’s shoulder, I catch Yakov watching the contact with something that looks dangerously like possession. The intensity in his gaze makes my skin burn.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” I say, stepping back.
“Just returned from Moscow.” Aleksander’s assessing gaze lingers. “You look well.”
I let out a breathless laugh, brittle at the edges. “For someone living in a fortress because a psychopath has her on his shit list? Sure. Let’s call it that.”
His mouth tightens, but there’s reassurance in his tone. “That’s why we’re here.”
No,you’rehere for that.
I know exactly whyhe’shere, and the heat simmering beneath my skin has nothing to do with cartel threats.
My gaze flicks to Yakov again—still silent, still watching. He’s dressed in jeans and a shirt, but nothing about him is ever plain. Not when every inch of him reminds me how it felt to lose myself under him, against him.
I clear my throat, forcing composure back into place.
“I wasn’t informed Mr. Gagarin would be consulting.”
“Not everyone’s thrilled,” Aleksander says, leading me toward the conference room. “But his insights might keep you alive.”
I fall into step beside him, hyper aware of the man behind me, the weight of Yakov’s presence brushing against my senses like a forbidden touch.
“How are you really?” Aleksander’s voice lowers, laced with concern meant for my ears alone.
“I’m managing.” The lie slips out too easily.
Because surviving isn’t the same asliving.
Not when the one thing I crave is the one thing I shouldn’t want.
We reach the war room—maps, photos, weapons laid out like a shrine to paranoia. Igor and Nikolai barely glance up, their disdain for Yakov crackling in the air as he enters.
“Let’s get this over with,” Igor snaps, waving us to sit.
I choose a seat in the middle, neutral ground, or as neutral as possible when my pulse betrays exactly where my loyalties are starting to drift.
“We’ve confirmed Pablo’s disappeared from New York,” Nikolai begins, his tone all business. “Apartment cleared out. Cards dead. No digital trail for forty-eight hours.”
