Page 119 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
The guards stationed down the hall barely acknowledge me as I approach. They’ve grown accustomed to my presence over these months, and with Yakov’s increased privileges, security has relaxed significantly. I smooth down my emerald silk dress before knocking.
“Come in,” his voice calls from within, that familiar baritone sending electricity down my spine.
When I enter, Yakov stands by the window—his thinking spot, as I’ve come to know it. He’s dressed simply in dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. The evening light catches in his hair, highlighting angles of his face that I’ve memorized over our weeks together. But tonight feels different. There’s anticipation crackling in the air between us.
“Is everything alright?” I ask, closing the door behind me. “How did the meeting go with Nikolai and Igor?”
He turns, those penetrating blue eyes finding mine across the room. “Better than expected.” There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read—a cautious hope, perhaps, that seems foreign on his usually guarded features.
“Tell me,” I say, moving further into the room but maintaining a careful distance. The air between us already feels charged.
“They’ve made me an offer,” he says, watching me with that intensity that seems to see straight through every facade I’ve ever constructed. “A position at Volkov Enterprises. Security consultation.”
My breath catches. “That’s…good. That’s what you’ve been working toward—freedom, a purpose beyond these walls.”
“It comes with conditions,” he adds, moving away from the window, closing some of the space between us with deliberate steps. “Monitoring. Restrictions. Regular check-ins.”
“But still, it’s a beginning,” I say, unable to keep the smile from my face. “That’s wonderful, Yakov.”
“It means changes, Mila.” He studies my reaction carefully.
The implication hangs between us, unspoken but impossible to ignore. Whatever has been growing between us these past months exists in a peculiar bubble—outside normal life, outside conventional relationships. What happens when that bubble bursts?
“What kind of changes?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
He moves close enough that I can smell his cologne. “My quarters here will remain, but I’ll be permitted supervised movement within predefined parameters. The job begins next week.”
“That’s good,” I say softly. “You’ve wanted that since you woke up in that hospital bed.”
“Freedom was my objective,” he acknowledges, his gaze never leaving mine. “But objectives change. Priorities shift.”
“And what are your priorities now?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.
“You.” The single word carries weight beyond its simplicity. “You’ve become my priority in ways that defy strategic advantage or rational explanation.”
The confession steals my breath. Though we’ve acknowledged the bond between us, though we’ve given in to it more than once, hearing him state it so plainly makes it suddenly, terrifyingly real.
“That’s a refreshing admission from a man like yourself,” I say softly.
“For a killer, you mean.” His voice carries no bitterness, just a calm statement of how he sees himself, or how he once did.
I shake my head, closing more of the distance between us. “Is that still who you are? How you think of yourself?”
“It’s who I was,” he says, and I see the struggle in his eyes, the man wanting to step into a new identity. “Who I could still be, under the right circumstances.”
“But not who you want to be anymore.”
His hand lifts, hesitating just shy of touching my face, as if giving me one last chance to step away. “No. Not since you.”
I lean into his palm, the simple contact sending shockwaves of awareness through me. “What happens when everything changes? When you’re working at Volkov Enterprises and building a life beyond these walls?”
“What do you want to happen?” His thumb traces my cheekbone with exquisite gentleness that belies the violence those hands are capable of.
“I want…” The words stick in my throat, the final admission that would shatter any remaining pretense. “I want this. Us. Whatever that means, whatever it costs.”
Something shifts in his expression—relief, desire, determination all mingling together. “Say it again,” he demands,his voice dropping lower as his other hand finds my waist, drawing me closer.
“I want us,” I repeat, my hands sliding up his chest to feel his heart pounding beneath my palms. “I’ve made my choice, Yakov. I choose you, not the strategic ally to the Bratva, not the made man everyone fears, but you.”
