Page 37 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

But that’s a lie.

When Mila enters, I’m still standing at the window, waiting for her.

“Good morning, Mr. Gagarin,” she says, her tone even. But not neutral.

I turn, and the lead guard nods at me, exiting and sealing the door shut.

She’s wearing a burgundy dress today. Not her usual armor. Her hair’s down, curling softly around her shoulders instead of pulled into that tight bun that screamsdon’t touch me.

My fingers itch to tangle in those curls, to mess up her composure the way she’s been messing with mine. The color makes her skin glow, makes me think of wine and heat and things I shouldn’t want from my therapist.

It looks good on her.

“Dr. Agapova,” I say smoothly. “You look well rested. I’m glad your Colombian admirer didn’t disrupt your sleep.”

She stills. Barely. But I see it.

“How did you?—”

“The guards. Your posture. You’ve checked your phone twice since walking in the door.” I move toward the chairs, circling slowly before I sit down. “You’re still off balance though. Not visibly. But I notice.”

She sits, tightly composed. “You’re observant.”

“I’m alive. It requires a certain skill set.”

She exhales softly, reaching for her notebook like it’s a shield. “Let’s shift focus. I thought we might talk about your father today. You mentioned last session that he believes in redemption. That you don’t.”

“He built his life on redemption,” I say. “Took a crumbling empire and made it gold-plated. He believes in second chances because he survived his first failure.”

“And you?”

“I believe some things are born broken. Others become broken along the way. Either way, they don’t go back to what they were.” I meet her eyes. “The trick is learning to live in fragments.”

She studies me. Not writing. Just absorbing.

“That’s a bleak philosophy.”

“It’s a true one.”

Her voice is quieter now. “Do you think you’ve lived long enough to know what’s still salvageable?”

I don’t answer that. Because I don’t know.

And because I’m afraid of what the answer might be.

There’s a flicker behind her eyes—recognition, maybe. A knowing that slips past her mask for half a second before it vanishes behind the page. She writes something down, but her thoughts are somewhere else.

“You’re distracted today,” I say, watching her too closely for her to hide it. “Still thinking about your Colombian problem?”

She raises her eyebrows. Silence.

“Did my text help?” I lean forward. “To make you feel safe?”

Color floods her cheeks. She presses her thighs together, subtle, but I catch it. “We agreed not to discuss?—”

“We’ve agreed to many things.” My gaze drops to her wrist, where I touched her days ago. “And yet…”

She blinks, sharp and fast. “This session is about you, not me.”