The way he found me.
The way he looked at Pablo.
“You came for me,” I whisper as we reach the car, the words nearly lost in the rain.
Yakov turns, framing my face with his hands, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. “I’ll always come for you,” he says, tone low and fierce. “No matter the cost.”
When his lips find mine, the last of my fear dissolves into devastating certainty that this man would walk through fire for me.
Whatever consequences await us, I know this: I would do it all again to end up here.
With him.
28
SHOTS IN THE DARK
YAKOV
The taste of Mila lips anchors me to the present as the chaos of the alley fades into background noise. I shouldn’t be kissing her here—exposed, vulnerable, with Bratva soldiers watching. Yet I can’t bring myself to care as her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling me closer with a desperation that matches my own.
When we finally draw apart, breathless, the urgency remains. Mila stares up at me, her hand still gripping my sweater, her chest rising and falling in time with mine.
“I was terrified,” she whispers, releasing me slowly. “That I’d never see you again.”
“I won’t let that happen.” I speak without conscious thought, but as the words emerge, I realize I’ve never meant anything more.
“We need to leave. Now.” Aleksander’s voice breaks through the moment, his tone carrying urgency rather than judgment.
I reluctantly pull away, keeping Mila close as we move toward the waiting SUV. We’re halfway there when the night explodes with gunfire. Pablo’s men have found us.
“Get down!” I shove Mila toward the vehicle, shielding her with my body as bullets ping off metal and shatter bricks around us. The familiar ice-cold calculations take over—distance to cover, angle of fire, available weapons, escape routes.
Aleksander is already returning fire, providing cover support as Bratva soldiers move to secure Pablo. Movement flashes to our left—a gunman behind a dumpster, rifle trained on Mila. I lunge without thinking, intercepting his shot.
The bullet grazes my shoulder, a hot line of fire that I barely register. I’m on the shooter in seconds, disarming him with a move I’ve executed a thousand times. He’s good—military trained, not cartel muscle—but I’m fighting with a clarity I haven’t felt in months. Each strike precise, defenses anticipated, counters executed with mechanical accuracy.
As I engage him, memories of my fight with Nikolai flash before me—the one that crushed two vertebrae and left me in a wheelchair years ago. I woke up in the hospital unsure if I’d ever walk again. I’d been so certain then, so convinced of my righteousness. So ready to die for my cause.
This is different. I’m not fighting for vengeance or for myself. I’m fighting for her.
My opponent lands a lucky strike on my injured shoulder, and pain blazes white-hot through my nerves. I use it, channel it, let it sharpen my focus rather than dull it. Three moves later, he’s unconscious at my feet, and I’m already scanning for the next threat.
“Yakov!” Mila’s voice cuts through the gunfire. She’s crouched by the SUV, eyes wide with fear—not for herself, but for me. The realization hits harder than any bullet could.
“Stay down!” I shout, making my way back to her as Bratva soldiers advance, pushing Pablo’s men back.
Blood soaks my shirt, but I barely feel it as I reach her, pulling her behind the engine block for better cover. Herhands immediately find my wound, pressing firmly to stem the bleeding.
“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice steady despite the chaos around us.
“It’s nothing.” I cup her face with my free hand, needing to touch her, to confirm she’s real and unharmed. “Are you hit?”
She shakes her head, eyes never leaving mine despite bullets flying overhead. “You took that shot for me.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “I’d take a thousand more.”
The simple truth of it resonates between us. In this moment, with bullets flying overhead, there’s no room for anything but honesty.
