Page 3 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

The same man who, six years ago, defied every medical prediction and walked again after doctors said he’d be paralyzed for life. I read about that case during my residency—a textbook example of what could be accomplished with proper rehabilitation and human will.

I never imagined I’d be treating him myself.

The coffee has gone lukewarm, but I clutch it anyway, needing something solid in my hand as my pulse thrums against the ceramic.

“You’re making that face again.” Katarina’s nails tap against her mug, a sharp staccato that matches my pulse. “The one that says you’re about to walk willingly into a disaster.”

I close the file and nudge it away like it’s radioactive. “I’ll be cautious.”

She arches one perfectly sculpted brow. “Caution would be saying no and burning that folder. What you’re doing is weighing professional ambition against common sense.”

She’s not wrong. Taking on Yakov Gargarin is either a career-defining opportunity or a spectacular act of self-sabotage. The kind of case psychologists spend years trying to access—high intelligence, complex trauma, violent behavior wrapped in ruthless calculation. If I can handle him, study him, understand him, it could cement my reputation for the next decade.

If.

“It’s not just ambition,” I say quietly, mostly for myself. “He’s fascinating. Intellect like his, combined with the kind of loss and violence he’s survived? He’s a clinical outlier. A walking psychological paradox.”

“He’s also dangerous,” she snaps. Her tone cuts through the analytical fog clouding my judgment. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the scent of her perfume mixing with bitter coffee until my throat tightens.

“He kidnapped people, Mila. He nearly got me killed. And Kata. And Galina. You don’t get to be intrigued by someone who’s done that to people you love.”

The guilt hits, swift and hot. I remember the days Katarina was missing. The fear. The silence. The helplessness. She carries the scars, even if she hides them behind designer heels and sharp wit.

“I know,” I say softly. I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. “That’s why I’m asking you straight. Should I take the case?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Just studies me like she’s seeing something I’ve tried to hide.

“You’ve already decided,” she says eventually.

I don’t deny it. “But I’ll walk away if you ask me to. Your friendship means more to me than any opportunity.”

Her sigh is a slow exhale of conflict. She squeezes my hand before letting go.

“The security is tight. Nikolai said he’ll be under constant surveillance. There’ll always be someone right outside the door during sessions.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Because it’s not my decision.” She lifts her mug again, but her eyes linger on mine. “Just promise me one thing. The moment you feel manipulated or unsafe, you walk. You don’t try to outsmart him. You just leave.”

“I promise,” I say, meaning it. Even though I already know promises made outside the therapy room rarely hold up inside it.

Katarina checks her watch and rises, graceful even in jeans. “I need to get back. Nikolai’s meeting with Igor about rebuilding some of the…more legitimate businesses.”

I walk her to the door. She turns before I can open it and pulls me into a hug that’s tighter than usual. Fiercer. Her cashmere sweater is soft against my cheek, but her heartbeat drums too fast beneath it. She smells like home—expensive perfume and vanilla hand cream she’s used since college—and for a moment I want to stay here, safe in the circle of her arms.

“Be careful, Mila,” she whispers. “Men like Yakov Gagarin see kindness as weakness. Empathy as an opportunity. He will find every crack in your armor if you let him.”

“I know how to hold boundaries,” I murmur back.

“That’s what worries me.” Her voice is softer now. “You’re too good at seeing the broken parts in people. Just remember—not everything can be fixed.”

After she’s gone, I return to the table and open the file again. Inside are surveillance photos of a man who doesn’t flinch. Notfrom the camera. Not from anything. Cold blue eyes. Surgical posture. Calm in the face of chaos.

The reports paint a vivid picture: a brilliant strategist, emotionally detached, driven by vengeance for his sister. The psychological assessments are clinical, cautious—antisocial leanings, high-functioning, dangerously intelligent. The kind of man who manipulates trust like currency.

On paper, he’s a case study in pathological trauma.

In reality…he’s a threat I’m volunteering to sit across from three times a week.