Page 14 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

Yakov Gagarin is a master at disruption. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t threaten. He observes. Presses. Waits. And somehow, in the span of fifty minutes, he managed to find the hairline fracture in my armor.

Not many can.

I’ve built that shell over years of schooling, licensing, practice. I’ve sat across from murderers, cartel lieutenants, men who killed without blinking, and none of them have ever read me the way Yakov did in a single breath.

He saw the loss.Myloss.

And I let him.

I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary as I pull onto the road. The route back to the city winds past skeletal trees and frozen fields, a stark contrast to the clinical warmth of that therapy room.

Professional detachment. That’s what I need to reestablish. What I’ve always maintained. What Imustmaintain.

But the effect of Damien’s name on Yakov’s face—the flicker, the hesitation, the pain he didn’t mean to show—lingers.

Fascinating.

Dangerous.

By the time I hit traffic, the tension in my shoulders has hardened into something else, frustration, maybe. Or anticipation. I turn on the radio and let the familiar, precise lines of Bach’sCello Suite No. 1fill the car. Each note is like scaffolding. Clean. Mathematical. Controlled.

When I reach my office, the mask is back in place.

My next patient waits in the lobby: Pablo Montoya. Well-groomed. Charming. The kind of man who uses polish as a weapon. He stands when I enter, his smile sharp beneath that scar that slices beneath his eye.

“Dr. Agapova, lovely to see you again.”

“Mr. Montoya.” I return the smile with practiced warmth. “Please, come in.”

He walks with confidence, maybe too much of it. His cologne precedes him—expensive, assertive. His eyes linger on me half a second longer than necessary. Not the first time a male patienthas tried to test the boundaries. But after Yakov’s calculated invasions, Pablo’s attempts feel clumsy. Where Yakov slips past my defenses like smoke, Pablo batters against them like a blunt instrument.

It won’t work.

Inside the consultation room, I open his file and ease into my chair. “Last time, we discussed your discomfort with public speaking. How have the breathing techniques been working?”

He leans back, legs casually crossed. “They’ve helped. But lately I’ve found myself…distracted by other concerns.”

“What kind of concerns?”

“Business expansions. New ventures.” His smile is smooth. Practiced. His eyes, less so. “Competition can be…intense.”

“Import-export, correct?”

“Among other things,” he says with a wave, like the details are trivial. “But I didn’t come here to talk about business. I want to explore the root of my anxiety.”

“That’s what we’re here to do.” I lift my notebook. “You mentioned last time that your symptoms began after moving to New York. What prompted the relocation from Bogotá?”

A flicker crosses his face, something he smooths over quickly.

“Family obligations,” he says. “My uncle needed help managing things here.”

His fingers drum against his thigh—tap, tap, tap—and I notice the faint scarring across his knuckles. Fighter’s hands trying to play businessman.

“Your uncle,” I prompt. “Is he also in import-export?”

His smile sharpens. “He’s in…distribution. Making sure product reaches the right people at the right time.”

“And those obligations are a source of stress?”