Page 87 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
Hope.
I’m at the rear exit when I see it—a shift in the delivery logs, something out of sync. A pattern that doesn’t belong.
Before I can trace it, my phone buzzes. The secure line. Restricted, encrypted.
Only one person outside the Bratva has this number.
Mila.
I step out of the camera’s line of sight, carving out a sliver of privacy.
“Are you safe?” The words are a snarl.
“Yes.” Her voice sends heat straight through me, tired but steady, that quiet strength I’ve become addicted to. “Igor has guards on my building. I heard about the club assignment and needed to know you were?—”
“Needed?” I catch the word, press it.
A pause. “Yes. Needed.”
That simple concern slices deeper than it should. Warms something I didn’t know was still cold.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, voice lower now, softer. “Better now that I’ve heard you.” A pause. Then truth, raw and unguarded. “I want to see you.” The admission escapes before I can dress it in strategy.
Silence. Then a sharp intake of breath that makes my pulse spike.
“Yakov.” The way she says my name, like she’s fighting the same war I am.
“I know it’s complicated. But there’s no going back now. It’s just logistics at this point.”
I feel her, even now. The taste of her. The way she burned herself into my skin.
“When will I see you?” My voice breaks a little, not with weakness. With want.
“Soon,” she says, breathless. “I’m finalizing the transfer of your case. Once it’s done?—”
“Fuck the transfer.” The words tear out, hunger and frustration tangled into one low growl. “I don’t want distance. I want you.”
She gasps, soft and sharp. She feels it too, this impossible, electric gravity between us.
“Tomorrow,” she whispers, a promise written in ash. “I’ll come to the mansion. We’ll?—”
Something on the desk catches my eye.
The delivery logs.
The manifests are wrong. Times don’t match the security rotations.
Instinct floods my system, sharp and immediate.
“Tomorrow, little doctor. I have to go now.” I disconnect before she can protest, already in motion.
Aleksander is mid-sentence with Vasiliy when I cut through their conversation.
“They’re coming tonight.”
Both men go still. The certainty in my voice slices through whatever they were discussing.
“Not through the front. Not the loading dock. They’ll use the basement of the adjacent building to breach.”
