Page 77 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
The call connects before I can second-guess myself.
He answers on the second ring, his voice low and steady. “Mila.” Just my name, but the way he says it grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of panic.
“He’s here.” My voice is barely a whisper, like Pablo might hear me across concrete and glass. “Outside my office. Watching.”
There’s no panic on Yakov’s end. No wasted words.
“Listen carefully.” His voice becomes my anchor, sharper than fear, steadier than my own breath. “Elevator to the garage. Emergency stairs to avoid cameras. East wall to the service corridor, it exits on the side street.”
I freeze for half a second. “How do you know that?”
A pause. “I mapped every exit the day after he first showed up.” His voice drops, almost gentle. “I won’t let him take you.”
The weight of that sinks in. He’s been planning for this. Preparing forme. It should unsettle me. Instead, it feels like the only safety I’ve got.
“What about my car?”
“Forget it. Subway, two stops. Taxi to the mansion.”
I’m already moving, essentials shoved into my purse. “Okay.”
“Mila.” His voice drops, softer now but no less firm. “Stay on the line. Don’t hang up until you’re safe.”
I don’t argue. I just move, slipping into the hallway with my phone pressed tight to my ear, Yakov’s quiet breathing a lifeline.
Three floors down. Emergency stairs. Each step echoes with the weight of what’s stalking me outside.
My palms are slick with sweat against the metal handrail. Every shadow could hide one of Pablo’s men. Every sound—the creak of settling concrete, the distant hum of an elevator—makes my pulse spike. The corridor smells of industrial cleaning fluid and my fear.
The service corridor is exactly where he said it’d be—dim, silent, forgotten by most.
“I’m at the side exit,” I murmur. My hand hovers over the push bar. “What if he’s got someone watching this door?”
“You’ll see them before they see you.” That absolute certainty in his voice wraps around me like armor. “Look first. Move fast. Don’t hesitate.”
I take a breath and crack the door open. Scan. Clear.
I slip out, walking fast but controlled, resisting every instinct to sprint. I feel exposed until I’m swallowed by foot traffic.
“I’m on the street,” I breathe, adrenaline flooding my system in a delayed wave that leaves my knees weak.
“Subway. Two stops. Then taxi,” he reminds me, as steady as ever. “Stay alert.”
I follow his instructions like gospel, his voice in my ear keeping me grounded. Only when I’m finally in the back of a taxi, city lights streaking past like tracers, does my body betray me. My hands shake so violently I can barely hold the phone. Cold sweat slicks my palms, my back. I taste copper and realize I’ve bitten my tongue.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.
“You did well,” Yakov says quietly, pride threading through his calm.
And for the first time since spotting Pablo, IbelieveI’ll make it through this. Because Yakov Gagarin made sure of it.
“I’ll be waiting,” Yakov says before the line goes dead; three simple words, heavy with both promise and comfort.
By the time I reach the mansion, security waves me through without question. They’ve been briefed, probably by Yakov himself. I expect to be led to the therapy room. It’s almost time for our session. Instead, I’m escorted straight to Igor’s office.
The knot in my chest tightens. Relief crashes headfirst into disappointment.
Igor doesn’t bother with greetings. He’s pacing, jaw tight, eyes sharp with barely restrained fury. The moment I step inside, he rounds on me like a storm breaking.
