Page 85 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
I watch as they lead him away, his posture confident despite his captivity. When he glances back just before the door closes, the look we exchange contains everything we can’t say aloud—desire, connection, and an understanding that whatever is developing between us is too powerful to deny, regardless of the consequences.
I sink into a chair after they’re gone, heart pounding, body aching with unfulfilled need. This attraction, this connection, should terrify me. Instead, I’m counting the hours until I might see him again, strategic and ethical complications be damned.
22
PATTERN RECOGNITION
YAKOV
The Beretta fits my hand like it never left. Steel and certainty, weight and purpose—everything clicking into place with mechanical precision. I check the magazine, the chamber, the safety. All in order.
For the first time in months, something feels right.
Aleksander watches me from the shadowed side of the SUV, arms folded, a pillar of calm calculation. Not judging. Aleksander measures people the way others read maps, cataloging risk, predicting patterns.
“Precaution,” he says, voice steady. “Igor thinks it’s premature. Nikolai and I disagreed.”
I nod, holstering the pistol beneath my coat. The morning air hits clean and cold. I draw it deep, feeling something loosen in my chest.
“Do you remember the conditions?” Aleksander asks.
“Restricted movement. Constant escort. No contact with Damien unless supervised. Stick to the mapped route.” The words spill out easily. Scripted freedom dressed in diplomacy.
But beneath them, something stirs. Not liberty. Not yet.
Leverage.
Volk circles the vehicle with alertness. Aleksander’s dog understands what I’m still learning—loyalty is earned through action, not words.
“And you understand why you’re here?” Aleksander presses.
“Because Montoya doesn’t leave shadows. And because you know I don’t need freedom to be dangerous.” I meet his gaze. “But I need this to be useful.”
A flicker passes over his face. The kind of respect that comes laced with doubt. He doesn’t trust me. Good. Trust is a leash. I’d rather he expects blood.
We slide into the SUV. Volk settles in first, then the guards—stoic, Bratva muscle with nothing to say unless ordered. Their presence isn’t security. It’s insurance.
The city blurs past. Familiar streets. Ghosts at every corner. I try not to flinch when we pass the coffee shop where Anastasiya used to meet me once a week. She’s everywhere. But so is the mission. And right now, I need clarity more than grief.
Aleksander lays out the intel, names, movements, trade routes. I listen. Sort signal from noise. Patterns start to rise like bruises under the skin.
“This isn’t about the club,” I say.
He stills. “What makes you think that?”
“The timing. The muscle. This is sleight of hand. While you’re defending the Velvet Echo, they’ll hit somewhere that matters.”
“Where?” Aleksander asks, already knowing he won’t like the answer.
“When does Nikolai’s shipment dock?”
“Tonight.”
I give him a look.
He exhales a Russian curse.
“Exactly.” Something sharp flickers awake inside me. Not rage. Not vengeance.
