Page 11 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“Your mother,” I continue, voice softer now. “Recent loss. You still reach for your phone to call her sometimes, don’t you?”

“How could you possibly—” She stops mid-sentence, her face shifting from confusion to cold realization. “Oh. Right. Dr. Reyes‘s files. You apparently studied them quite thoroughly.”

The bite in her voice cuts deep. “Yes, I saw it there,” I admit. “But I also know because I do the same with Anastasiya’s number.”

The admission surprises us both.

She swallows hard, the movement drawing my attention to the delicate line of her throat. For a moment, her professional mask slips completely, and I see raw understanding in her eyes. Her body angles toward mine, just an inch, but it’s enough. She wants comfort. Connection.

I could give it to her. Or I could use it against her.

The choice is delicious.

Her pen stills. A crack. Proof that she bleeds like everyone else.

Then she composes herself. “We’re here to focus on your experiences, Mr. Gagarin.”

“That’s not a denial,” I murmur.

She doesn’t bite. Professional to the bone.

“You’ve done your research,” I continue, nodding at the notebook in her lap. “I’m simply returning the favor. Knowledge is leverage, Doctor. Surely you can appreciate that.”

“What makes you think I’ve researched you personally?”

“Your composure. Most people who know what I’ve done can’t hide their discomfort when they’re alone with me.You’re curious instead of afraid. That means you either have extraordinary courage…or enough information to know I won’t gut you with the pen in your hand.”

She meets my gaze without flinching, but I catch the way her breathing changes—shallower, faster. The slight dilation of her pupils. Her body knows I’m a threat even if her mind pretends otherwise.

My own breathing isn’t as steady as I’d like. Her scent clings—warm, familiar. I curl my hands into fists to keep from undoing that tight twist of hair she thinks hides her. The urge to touch her is becoming a physical ache.

“Perhaps both,” she says, and there’s the slightest tremor in her voice.

“Perhaps.” I let the smile rise. Controlled. Intentional. “Or perhaps you’re simply overconfident.”

“Is that a threat?”

“An observation. There’s a difference.”

Silence again. Less empty this time, charged, alive. A kind of tension I haven’t felt in years.

She shifts forward, changing course. “Tell me about your relationship with your father.”

I laugh softly. “Why don’t you tell me about yours first?”

I reach across the space between us, plucking her pen from her fingers before she can react. I turn it over in my hands, studying it like it holds secrets.

“Expensive,” I note, running my thumb along the smooth surface. “A gift? Or do you buy yourself beautiful things, Doctor?” I hold it just out of her reach, watching her decide whether to demand it back or let me have this small victory.

An eyebrow lifts. She doesn’t blink. “You believe in reciprocity?”

“I believe in fairness. A concept your associates discarded the moment they put me in this cage.” I place her pen back on her notebook.

“Do you believe your current situation is unfair?”

I laugh again, sharper this time. “I orchestrated three kidnappings, partnered with a sadist, and nearly fractured the syndicate beyond repair. By all accounts, I should be rotting in a cell—or dead. Instead, I get catered meals and luxury linens.” I gesture around the room. “No, Doctor.Fairdoesn’t apply.”

“Then what would you call it?”