Page 15 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“You could say that.” He leans forward, voice softening. “But enough about me. I’ve been thinking about you since our last session.”

I blink. “Our focus is your treatment, Mr. Montoya.”

“Pablo,” he corrects with another dismissive gesture. “And how can I be expected to expose my deepest thoughts to someone I know nothing about?”

“This isn’t an equal exchange,” I say, gently but firmly. “The purpose of therapy is to focus onyourexperiences. Your goals.”

“And you?” His voice dips. Too intimate. “You help others carry their pain. Who helps you carry yours, Doctor?”

His gaze lingers. Intrusive. Intentional.

He doesn’t know what line he’s toying with, but part of me wonders how far he’ll push.

I keep my professional smile in place while shifting the boundaries in my mind—firmer, tighter.

“Let’s redirect,” I say smoothly. “You mentioned physical symptoms, racing heart, shallow breathing. Are there specific triggers you’ve identified?”

He allows it, but only in the way predators allow smaller creatures to scurry out of reach—for now. His eyes still study me like I’m the one under the microscope, like we’re playing a different game than the one he booked this session for.

We continue, technically. He offers just enough to maintain the illusion of therapeutic cooperation. And just often enough, he tries to steer the conversation back tome.

By the time our hour ends, I’m drained, but not in the way Yakov exhausts me. With him, it was mental sparring. The thrill of trying to out-think someone who’s already three moves ahead.

With Pablo, it’s the slow bleed of being constantly on guard. Always calculating how to dodge the next inappropriate insinuation. How to hold my space against something that smells more like testing than trust.

He lingers at the door.

“Same time next week?”

“I’ll have my assistant reach out,” I say lightly. “My schedule’s shifting next week.” A lie, technically. But it buys me space.

He takes my hand before I can sidestep it, and the contrast hits immediately. Where Yakov’s touch burned electric, Pablo’s feels like oil. Slick. Wrong. He lifts it to his lips, and I have to fight not to yank it back.

“Until next time, Dr. Agapova.”

My skin crawls. I wait until the door clicks shut before walking to the sink and scrubbing my hands raw. His cologne clings like a film I can’t wash off. But underneath it, I can still smell cedar and smoke. Yakov.

Something about Pablo Montoya doesn’t track. The vague mentions of “ventures,” the over-rehearsed charm, the way his gaze flicks too often toward exits and sightlines. He doesn’t act like a man crippled by anxiety. He acts like someone scouting the terrain.

My phone buzzes. Nikolai Volkov’s name lights up the screen.

“Mila,” he says, his voice smooth and familiar. “How was your session with our mutual friend?”

“Productive,” I reply, giving nothing away. Patient confidentiality isn’t a line I cross, even for the man who brokered this entire arrangement. “We’re laying groundwork.”

“Which means he’s being difficult,” Nikolai says dryly. “I’m outside your building. Dinner?”

It’s unexpected, but welcome. After today, a conversation with someone who isn’t trying to unravel or seduce me might be exactly what I need.

“Give me five.”

He waits in a sleek, black SUV, his driver posted by the rear door like a sentry. I slide in beside him.

“You look tired,” he observes, as the vehicle pulls away.

“Two back-to-back sessions. Both testing boundaries.”

“Yakov and…?”