Page 2 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

The transport had been choreographed—ambulance, guards, the whole production designed to look like standard medical care while ensuring I never had a chance to run. Not that I could have, weak as I was. But as we’d wound through expensive neighborhoods toward this gated estate, I’d found myself wondering about her. What drives someone to specialize in lost causes? What makes her think she can handle someone like me?

More importantly, what would it take to make her lose that professional composure?

Now, watching her study me like a particularly interesting specimen, I think I’m beginning to understand the challenge ahead.

“Your father mentioned you might be resistant to treatment,” she says conversationally, as if we’re discussing the weather instead of my psychological rehabilitation.

“You could say that.”

“I prefer honesty to compliance, Mr. Gagarin. Lies waste both our time.”

I glance up at her, noting the determined set of her jaw, the way she holds herself with quiet authority. “Then let me be honest, Doctor. I’m not looking to be saved.”

“Don’t waste time trying to scare me.” She steps closer, and I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. Professional distance but not fear. “I’m not here to save you. I’m here to see if you want to save yourself.” Her eyes hold mine steadily. “You did it before—came back from a shattered spine when everyone said you’d never walk again. I know you have it in you.”

Something in her tone—challenge mixed with what might be hope—catches me off guard. For a moment, I forget about the game. Forget about my careful strategies and manipulations.

For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to be the kind of man who deserves that hope.

“We’ll see how long you last,” I murmur, but the words lack their usual bite.

She leans down slightly, bringing her face level with mine. This close, I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lips part when she’s thinking. “Mr. Gagarin, I’ve spent the last five years working with men who’ve done terrible things. Men who’ve convinced themselves they’re beyond redemption. You know what I’ve learned?”

“Enlighten me.”

“The ones who fight hardest against help are usually the ones who need it most.”

Her gray eyes search mine, and for a terrifying moment, I feel like she can see straight through all my carefully constructed walls to the wreckage beneath.

I should look away. Should rebuild those defenses. Should remember that everyone I’ve ever cared about ends up dead.

“And what makes you think I won’t destroy you like I have everyone else?”

She straightens but doesn’t step back. Something flickers in her eyes—not fear, but challenge. “Because, Mr. Gagarin, I’m not everyone else. And I don’t break easily.”

The guards shift restlessly, clearly wanting to move this along, but neither of us breaks eye contact. There’s something electric in the air between us, dangerous and intoxicating and absolutely fucking stupid.

This woman is supposed to be my therapist. My keeper. The one person standing between me and a bullet to the brain.

She’s not supposed to make me feel like a man instead of a monster.

“Come on,” she says finally, stepping back with that same maddening composure. “Let me show you your new home.”

As they wheel me through the front door, I can still feel her presence beside me. Watching. Waiting. Unafraid.

Dr. Mila Agapova has no idea what she’s signed up for.

But as I watch the confident set of her shoulders, the way she moves like she owns every room she enters, I realize something that should terrify me.

I want to find out if she’s strong enough to survive me.

2

WHAT YOU WEAR TO MEET A MONSTER

MILA

Istare down at the patient file, fingers tightening around the manila folder as if it might bite. Maybe it already has. Yakov Gagarin. Just seeing his name in print is enough to make my stomach knot, despite the warmth of the coffee cupped in my hand. The man who orchestrated the kidnappings of three women—women I know. The man who nearly started a war between Bratva factions that would’ve drowned half of New York in blood.