Page 146 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
Heat pools low in my belly at his words, at the promise they contain. Even here, surrounded by families I’ve known since childhood, he makes me want to drag him into the nearest empty room and lock the door behind us.
“Behave,” I caution, though my body betrays me by leaning into his touch. “Your father’s about to make a toast.”
Sergey Gagarin stands at the head of the table, surprisingly emotional as he raises his glass. The past few years have softened him too, the hardened patriarch allowing himself moments of vulnerability that would’ve been unthinkable before.
“To new beginnings,” he says, voice steady but eyes suspiciously bright. “To family, by blood and by choice.”
His gaze finds Yakov and me, complex emotion crossing his weathered features.
“And to Anastasiya,” he continues softly. “Who I believe would be proud of the man her brother has become.”
Beside me, Yakov goes very still. I slip my hand into his, feeling the infinitesimal tremor that runs through him at the mention of his sister. Some wounds never fully heal, they just become bearable with time.
“To Anastasiya,” the gathered families echo, and we drink.
The moment feels perfect—this tentative peace, this unlikely family, this man whose darkness has become as essential tome as his rare moments of tenderness. Perhaps this is how happiness feels in our world, fragile and hard-won, but precious.
Then Nikolai’s phone rings.
The shift is immediate. Subtle but unmistakable, like the first tremors before an earthquake. Security personnel straighten, hands drifting toward concealed weapons. Igor and Vasiliy exchange glances heavy with meaning. Yakov’s body coils with sudden tension beside me, his arm tightening around my waist as if anticipating the need to move me quickly.
I’ve seen this before countless times growing up around the Sokolovs and Volkovs. The moment when celebration turns to business, when family gives way to Bratva.
Nikolai steps away to take the call, but his expression when he returns tells us everything. He catches my eye briefly, the same look he used to give me when we were children and trouble was brewing, a silent warning to stay close, stay safe.
“A letter,” he says simply. “Delivered to Volkov Enterprises an hour ago.”
Igor nods, already moving toward his office with the other men following. Yakov hesitates, his eyes finding mine in silent question.
“Go,” I tell him, though instinct screams at me to keep him close. “I’ll be fine.”
He brushes his lips against my temple, a barely-there contact that makes my pulse race. “Stay with Katarina, Galina, and Katya,” he murmurs. “I’ll be back.”
I watch him follow the others, the predatory grace in his movements reminding me of who he truly is—not just my lover, not just the man who makes me scream his name in the darkness of our bedroom, but a weapon with violence in his blood and calculation in his bones.
“Problems?” Katarina asks when I rejoin the women, the same question she’s been asking since we were teenagers and her family would suddenly disappear into urgent meetings.
“When isn’t there?” I reply, our familiar refrain.
Thirty minutes pass before the men return. I know something is wrong the moment I see Yakov’s face—the careful blankness that means he’s compartmentalizing, shutting down emotion to focus on threat assessment. Our eyes lock across the room, and even from this distance, I can read the grim determination in his.
Nikolai calls for everyone’s attention, and the festive atmosphere evaporates completely.
“We’ve received a communication from the Colombian cartel,” he announces, voice measured. “Specifically, from Emilio Diaz, Pablo Montoya’s uncle.”
A murmur runs through the room. I feel several eyes turn to me, remembering my connection to Pablo, remembering how it all began. Remembering how it ended, with Pablo trying to escape custody once more, and Aleksander putting a bullet in his head when he reached for a guard’s weapon.
I meet Aleksander’s gaze across the room, seeing in his eyes the same memory. Of all the Sokolov brothers, he’s always been the most like me—the quiet observer, the strategic thinker. The one who carried me home when I broke my ankle climbing the oak tree in their garden at thirteen. The one who first taught me how to shoot, despite Katarina’s protests that I wasn’t Bratva.
“Diaz informs us that his one-year mourning period for his nephew has concluded,” Nikolai continues. “And that he now considers all previous arrangements with the Bratva null and void.”
Another murmur, this one edged with alarm. Business arrangements between cartels and Bratva families are sacred things, their dissolution rarely peaceful.
“He has declared his intention to seek retribution for Pablo’s death,” Nikolai finishes. “And has named specific targets.”
His eyes drift to me, just for a moment, and my blood runs cold. Beside him, Yakov’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the subtle shift in his posture, the coiled readiness that reminds me of a predator preparing to strike.
“The syndicate will meet tomorrow to coordinate our response,” Nikolai says, ending further discussion. “For now, we continue as planned. This is still a celebration.”
