Page 122 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
“Only seventeen? You’re losing your edge,” I tease, squeezing his hand.
The look he gives me is pure predator—focused, intense, promising. “I can demonstrate how wrong you are about that, little doctor.” He smirks, sliding his hand up my thigh and giving me a playful squeeze.
He’s chosen a waterfront restaurant, upscale but understated. As we’re seated, curious glances follow us, whispered comments in our wake. This is our first real public appearance together, a statement neither of us takes lightly.
“People are staring,” I observe as we’re seated at a corner table with clear sightlines to all exits—Yakov’s nonnegotiable requirement.
“Let them,” he replies with that calm certainty that’s both infuriating and oddly comforting. “They’re trying to reconcile the savage from the stories with the man before them.”
“And which one are you tonight?” I ask, studying him in the candlelight that softens the hard angles of his face.
His eyes meet mine, holding that intensity that makes my heart race. “Whichever one keeps you safe.”
The dinner passes with ease, conversation flowing naturally between discussions of his work, my new ventures, books we’ve both read. It’s shockingly normal—yet beneath the civilized veneer, electricity crackles between us with every shared glance, every casual touch.
When his fingers brush mine as he refills my wine glass, it sears like a brand. When I cross my legs beneath the table and my foot grazes his ankle, his eyes darken with a hunger that makes my core tighten in anticipation. Our bodies speak in a private dialect while we debate the surrealism and satire of Bulgakov’s prose—The Master and Margarita,Heart of a Dog—interwoven with talk of security protocols.
“Dessert?” he asks, and the word drips with suggestion, promising indulgence far beyond what’s printed on the menu.
Before I can answer, movement catches my eye. A man approaches, slim, well-dressed, walking with stalking confidence. Yakov tenses instantly, his posture shifting from relaxed to combat-ready in a heartbeat.
“Mr. Gagarin,” the stranger says, his accent distinctly Hispanic. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Yakov’s expression reveals nothing, but I feel the change in him, the killer awakening beneath the veneer of civilization. “I doubt that.”
The man smiles, the expression never reaching his eyes. “I come only to deliver a message.” His gaze shifts to me, assessing in a way that makes my skin crawl. “For both of you.”
“Say it and leave,” Yakov responds, his voice carrying that dangerous edge I haven’t heard since the night he found me in the alley with Pablo.
The Colombian’s smile widens. “The cartel remembers everything, Mr. Gagarin. Every debt. Every insult.” He adjusts his cufflinks. “Don Emilio particularly remembers those who harm his family.”
Pablo’s uncle. The revelation sends ice through my veins. He must be furious with the Bratva for keeping his nephew locked up—I know that much, though no one would tell me the details of his confinement.
“Is that a threat?” Yakov asks, his tone conversational, though I can see the calculation in his eyes, measuring distance, angles, potential weapons within reach.
“Consider it a reminder.” The man’s gaze moves between us. “New beginnings are fragile. So easily disrupted, especially when they involve charming companions.”
Yakov stands, his movement so fluid it seems casual to anyone watching, but I recognize the lethal intent behind it. “Your message is delivered. Now leave, while you still can.”
The Colombian laughs softly. “Until next time, then.” He nods to me. “Dr. Agapova.”
Terror slides down my spine like ice water. As he walks away, the restaurant seems suddenly cold, exposed, dangerous.
Yakov’s hand finds mine across the table, his touch grounding me. “We’re leaving.”
I don’t argue. The spell of normalcy has been broken, reality crashing back like a physical blow. Within minutes, we’re in his car, Yakov driving with controlled precision that barely masks his fury.
“He knew my name,” I say, breaking the tense silence. “How did he know my name?”
“They’ve been watching us.” His voice is flat, emotionless in the way I know disguises rage. “Studying our patterns, our relationship.”
“Because of Pablo.” It’s not a question. “They’re looking for him.”
“Because of me,” he corrects, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Because I chose you over their operation. Because I hurt one of theirs.”
I study his profile in the dim light from passing streetlamps. “What operation, Yakov? What did you choose me over?”
His jaw works, tension radiating from every line of his body. For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then: “Before the mansion. Before therapy. Before you.” He takes a sharp turn onto a quieter street. “I was feeding them intelligence.”
