Page 103 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
“They’ve located Pablo’s headquarters.” I scan the grounds out of habit, cataloging sight lines, exit routes. “Planning an intervention.”
“Good.” But something in my expression makes her pause. “Isn’t it?”
The frustration I’ve been containing since the conference room finally breaks free. “They want to use you as bait.”
Her reaction isn’t fear; it’s that calm assessment I’ve come to expect. “That could work.”
“No.” The word comes out flat, absolute. “I’ve given them alternatives. Better strategies.”
A smile tugs at her lips. “The great Yakov Gagarin, dictating terms to Bratva leadership?”
“They listened to reason.” Though her assessment isn’t wrong. “The plan was flawed.”
She steps closer—too close if anyone’s watching—but I can’t make myself retreat. “And your personal feelings about putting me at risk? Those had nothing to do with it?”
“It had everything to do with it.” The honesty surprises me. “I won’t let them endanger you. Not for this. Not for anything.”
Her expression softens. Her hand finds my chest, palm flat over the embarrassing intensity of my heartbeat. “Yakov?—”
“I can’t lose you.” The words tear out before I can stop them. “Not when I’ve finally found something worth?—”
The words die in my throat.
“Worth what?” Her voice is gentle but relentless.
I turn away, jaw locked against the admission. Years of suppressed emotion, of channeling pain into cold calculation, have left me without language for what burns in my chest when I look at her.
“Yakov.” Her fingers find my cheek, guiding me back. “What am I worth to you?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with everything that’s stuck behind my teeth. I meet those eyes that see too much, that have become essential as breath.
“Everything.” The word comes out broken, costing me more than blood ever has. “You’re worth everything to me.”
Something shifts in her expression—relief, understanding, joy bleeding together. “Then tell me. Not with protection or strategy or control. Tell me what I am to you.”
But the words are trapped. Decades of emotional suppression, of survival through calculation rather than feeling, have left me mute when it matters most.
“I—” Frustration mounts at my own inadequacy. “Mila, I can’t?—”
“Can’t what?” An edge creeps into her voice. “Can’t admit this is more than protection? More than possession? That somewhere between therapy sessions and training and stolen moments, it’s all changed?”
“Of course it’s changed.” I rake a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding into fury. “Everything’s changed. I wake thinking of you. Plan my days around glimpses of you. Fall asleep with your scent on my skin, your taste on my tongue. Is that what you want to hear?”
Her eyes widen at the raw admission. “It’s a start.”
“A start?” A harsh laugh escapes me. “What more do you want? I’ve compromised my position with the Bratva for you.Revealed vulnerabilities that could be exploited. Placed your safety above tactical advantages that could secure my freedom. What more can I possibly give?”
“Your heart.” The simplicity of her answer cuts deeper than any blade. “The truth of what you feel. Not just what you’re willing to do.”
I turn away, pacing. Trapped between the walls I’ve built and this woman who sees straight through them. “My feelings are irrelevant. What matters is keeping you safe. Making sure Pablo never?—”
“Your feelings are important.” She steps into my path, forcing me to stop. “And they terrify you more than Pablo ever could.”
She’s always seen too much. From that first session, those slate-gray eyes cutting through every defense.
“I can’t lose you.” The words come out strangled. “I survived Ana’s death by becoming someone else. Someone harder. There’s nothing left of me to become if I lose you too.”
Understanding softens her expression. “You think admitting what you feel makes losing me more real.”
