Page 4 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

I close the file slowly, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t go away.

The driveto the safehouse takes just under forty minutes, winding out of the city into the kind of gated wealth that buys privacy instead of peace. The car’s heater blasts, but I can’t get warm. My breath fogs the window as naked branches claw at the gray sky. The leather seat creaks when I shift, and I realize I’ve been holding myself rigid for miles, shoulders tight with tension.

I mentally run through my checklist again. Establish firm boundaries. No personal disclosures. Maintain professional detachment. Standard procedure for high-risk patients, but with Yakov Gagarin, the stakes feel razor-edged. He’s not just dangerous. He’s aware.

And awareness, in a patient like him, is the sharpest weapon.

The safehouse rises like something out of a fable—grand, intimidating. Frost traces the stone facade, softening nothing. Beautiful, yes. But built like a fortress. A mansion meant to keep things in as much as out.

Vasiliy Volkov is waiting for me at the entrance, as promised. His sheer presence is enough to remind me this isn’t a clinical facility. This is Bratva business, and it pulses beneath every word, every courtesy.

“Mila,” he greets, offering a hand I take without hesitation.

His grip is solid, grounding. His gaze sharp and searching, like he’s assessing whether I’m still the woman he and Galina met at that polished dinner some time ago, or if I’ve already been cracked open by what lies ahead.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I said I would,” I reply simply.

He nods, then turns to lead me inside. “You’ve met the patient briefly last week when he arrived. He’s in the east wing and monitored at all times. Security is embedded. You’ll be safe.”

The interior is sparse but tasteful—an intentional lack of softness. The air tastes different here, old wood and gun oil beneath the veneer of furniture polish. My heels click too loud on the marble, each step echoing like a countdown.

No distractions. Nothing sentimental. Even the artwork is abstract. Cold lines. Order. I spot cameras in the corners of the hallway—unhidden, deliberate. A message, no doubt. To Yakov, and maybe to me.

“Has he been cooperative?” I ask, matching Vasiliy’s pace with quiet effort.

“Compliant,” he answers. “Too compliant.”

I glance over at him.

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to.

“Yakov doesn’t cooperate,” Vasiliy continues after a beat. “He observes. Adapts. This quiet? It’s not surrender. It’s strategy.”

We stop outside a door guarded by two men in plain black clothing with no insignia, but with the unmistakable posture of trained muscle. One of them opens the door without a word.

Inside, the room is what I expected—converted, controlled, sterile in its cleanliness, but not entirely cold. A therapy space by design, not intention. Two chairs. Neutral color palette. A low table between us. A panic button to my right. I acknowledge it with a nod.

Vasiliy follows my gaze.

“If you feel even slightly unsafe, press it. We’ll be monitoring. Not listening or recording,” he adds, nodding toward the corner-mounted camera. “Confidentiality still matters. To an extent.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. My ethics matter, but they don’t override survival.

He watches me for a moment longer, then his posture eases just slightly. “Galina asked me to tell you the baby is thriving. Vasya has her eyes, her stubbornness.”

That draws a smile from me—genuine, but fleeting. “She deserves every joy.”

“She earned it.” He hesitates, then adds, “And she trusts you. We all do.”

There’s weight behind that. A warning. A reminder. An expectation.

I nod. “Then I won’t let you down.”

He studies me for one final beat, then turns to go, leaving me alone in the doorway.

Beyond it waits Yakov Gagarin.