He laughs. Low. Dangerous. Certain.
“I’m never wrong, Mila. That’s what makes me so very good at what I do.”
His free hand lifts, brushing my jaw with mock tenderness that makes bile rise in my throat. I jerk away, but the wall traps me.
“What I wonder,” he muses, “is if he actually gives a damn about you…or if you’re just a convenient piece on his board. A means to an end.”
The words strike home, straight to that soft, hidden place I try not to touch. The quiet fear that sometimes whispers inthe silence between Yakov’s arms. Am I something real or just another angle in his endless war?
“You don’t know him,” I snap, sharper than I mean to, my anger burning through the fear.
“I know men like him,” Pablo says, his hand shifting from my jaw to my throat. He doesn’t squeeze, but the threat is there, cold and absolute. “I know the lies they sell when they want something.”
I close my eyes for half a second, steadying my breath. He’s trying to get in my head. Undermine me. Fracture the foundation Yakov’s helped me rebuild. I won’t let him.
“What do you want?” I ask, voice low, buying time, scanning for openings.
His thumb strokes down to my collarbone, slipping beneath the edge of my blouse. “So many things,” he murmurs, and my stomach twists. “Information. Leverage. Your brilliance working for my side instead of wasting away with Bratva thugs.”
His smile turns predatory. “And eventually…when you understand where you belong…other benefits.”
The implication curdles the air between us. My pulse spikes, fight-or-flight igniting full force.
I brace, ready to strike, to scream, to claw free.
But I don’t have to.
A shadow separates from the darkness behind Pablo.
Yakov.
My heart lurches as recognition hits like lightning. He’s a ghost in the dark, silent and precise, fury carved into every sharp line of his face. His expression is one I’ve never seen—calm, controlled, and terrifying. Cold rage honed to a lethal point.
He closes the distance in seconds, quiet as death.
“Remove your hand from her throat,” Yakov says. The words are soft. Calm. The kind of voice that precedes violence.
Pablo goes still but doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts, using my body as a barrier between them, turning slightly to face his new threat.
“Gagarin,” he drawls, and for the first time, there’s a sliver of surprise in his voice. “I didn’t expect you to abandon your post.”
“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” Yakov replies coolly.
Our eyes meet, his flick briefly to mine. A silent question: Are you hurt?
I shake my head once.
He nods, barely perceptible, and refocuses. His body is tense, every muscle coiled. I see the shift in his stance, the subtle recalibration I’ve learned to recognize. He’s ready to strike.
“Let her go,” Yakov says, his voice sharpened glass. “And maybe, just maybe, you leave this alley breathing.”
Pablo laughs, but there’s a tremor beneath it now. “Brave words from a dead man walking. You think Sokolov will forgive this? Leaving your post without permission?”
I see the flicker in Yakov’s stance, weight shifting, center lowering, calibrated violence in motion.
“I think,” Yakov says, voice smooth as a blade drawn slow and sure, “that if you believe I’m worried about Sokolov right now…then you’ve made a fatal miscalculation.”
Pablo’s grip tightens instinctively, just for a second, but it’s all I need.
