Page 145 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
But here, in this bed, with Mila’s warmth against me and her steady breathing synchronizing with mine, none of that seems insurmountable. For the first time in my life, I’m building something instead of destroying, creating instead of calculating.
“I love you,” I whisper into her hair, the words still new enough to feel dangerous on my tongue.
She smiles against my skin, pressing another kiss to my chest. “I love you too,” she murmurs, voice heavy with approaching sleep. “All of you, Yakov. The monster and the man.”
The monster the Bratva feared isn’t gone; he’ll never be gone. But he’s evolving into something capable of mercy when it matters. Something capable of love.
Something worthy of the woman sleeping in my arms.
EPILOGUE
NEW BEGINNINGS - MILA
The crystal flute feels cool against my fingers as I watch Yakov from across the room. Even after a year together, the sight of him in a tailored suit still makes my body respond in ways that should embarrass a woman with my credentials.
Though technically, I no longer have credentials. The ethics board’s decision had been swift and final—license revoked, no possibility of reinstatement. But instead of devastating me, it freed me to find work I actually love: teaching brilliant graduate students and consulting on cases that challenge me intellectually without the ethical minefield of direct patient care. Sometimes life forces you down a path that feels like punishment, only to reveal it was actually a gift. I’d spent years thinking I had to follow my mother’s footsteps exactly, but losing my license opened doors I never knew existed. What seemed like professional destruction became liberation.
He’s deep in conversation with Nikolai and Aleksander, posture relaxed yet alert, always alert, even here among people I’ve known most of my life. The transformation in him over the past year leaves me breathless. The calculated coldness hassoftened, though it never entirely disappears. The savage is still there, dormant beneath the man, waking only when necessary.
I catch his eye across the crowded room, and the heat in his gaze makes my skin flush instantly. One look, that’s all it takes. One year together, and still, he renders me speechless with a glance.
“You’re staring again,” Katarina murmurs beside me, amusement coloring her voice. “Though I can hardly blame you. Who would have thought Yakov Gagarin could clean up so nicely?”
I smile, taking a sip of champagne. “Certainly not the terrified psychologist who first walked into his prison.”
“And yet here we are.” Katarina’s arm loops through mine, the familiar gesture of a friendship spanning decades. “If anyone had told us during those sleepovers that you’d end up with the most feared man in the Bratva, I would’ve laughed myself sick.”
“Life has a strange way of working out,” I say, watching as Damien runs up to Yakov with childish enthusiasm. The same way young Katarina and I used to race through these halls, with Igor and Aleksander chasing after us, Mikhail too small to keep up, wailing to be included.
The tenderness with which Yakov lifts his nephew makes my heart constrict. Those hands that have broken bones and ended lives are so gentle with the boy, so careful. He catches me watching and raises an eyebrow—a silent question I answer with a small nod.Yes, I’m fine. Yes, I still want this. Yes, I still choose you, monster and man alike.
Every day is a choice for us both. A choice to build something neither believed possible.
“I’m going to check on Lev,” Katarina says, squeezing my arm before moving toward where her son plays with Sofiya, Igor and Katya’s daughter. “Try not to fuck Yakov with your eyes in front of the entire family.”
I laugh, the sound coming easily in this place where I spent half my childhood. Despite growing up outside the Bratva, these people have always been family in ways my distant father never was. I weave through the crowd, accepting Galina’s embrace and stopping to chat with Igor, who offers me a rare smile.
“Aleksander was asking about you,” he tells me, his usual gruffness softened by the occasion. “Says you haven’t been to family dinner in weeks.”
“Some of us have actual jobs, Igor,” I tease, falling into our comfortable childhood rhythm. “Teaching and consulting takes up a lot of time.”
“Still can’t believe they let you lecture at Columbia after everything,” he says, but there’s pride in his voice. “Though I suppose Trauma Psychology and Criminal Behavior is right in your wheelhouse.”
I smile, thinking of my twice-weekly lectures and the private consulting work that’s proven more fulfilling than traditional practice ever was. “Losing my license was the best thing that ever happened to my career. Turns out I’m better at teaching future therapists than being one myself.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s fondness there. “Mikhail called from Moscow this morning. Says he’ll be back for Christmas. Wanted me to tell you he expects a proper introduction to the man who’s finally convinced you to settle down.”
The mention of the youngest Sokolov brother brings a pang of nostalgia. “Tell him I miss him. And that Yakov isn’t afraid of his shovel talk.”
“He should be,” Igor mutters, but his attention is already drawn elsewhere as Katya calls him over.
I continue toward Yakov, who watches my approach with an intensity that makes my knees weak. His hand finds the small of my back the moment I reach him, possessive and grounding.
“You look beautiful,” he says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. “Though this dress is a particular form of torture.”
I smile innocently, though we both know my choice of burgundy was deliberate. “I have no idea what you mean.”
His fingers tighten imperceptibly at my waist. “Liar,” he murmurs against my ear. “You know exactly what that color on you does to me.”
