Page 49 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

Mila: Can’t sleep

Mila: Too wet

Mila: Too empty

Fuck.She’s going to kill me.

Me:Touch yourself

Me: Pretend it’s me

Three dots appear.Disappear.

Mila:Already am

I comein my hand like a teenager, her name on my lips.

12

NOTES ON A BREAKDOWN

MILA

Istare at my reflection in the guest bathroom mirror, water clinging to my lashes, cheeks flushed with heat that has nothing to do with the temperature. I look wrecked, but not in a dramatic, mascara-down-the-face kind of way. Wrecked in the quiet, internal sort of way that comes from knowing that what you’re doing is wrong…and being unable to stop.

Last night shouldn’t have happened.

Not the tea. Not the conversation. And definitely not that bruising kiss, that breathless claim that I can’t stop replaying.

Or the texts after. God, the texts.Already am.I told him I was touching myself, thinking of him.

My clit throbs at the memory, and I have to grip the sink harder to stay upright. My hands are shaking—have been since last night. Since I came so hard I saw stars, his texts glowing on my screen.

My fingers drift to my throat where his lips marked me, and I shiver.

I’m a doctor. I’ve studied for over a decade. I’ve lectured on ethics. And yet, here I am—heart in my throat, nerves fried, reliving a moment I had no business allowing. The feel of hisbreath against mine, the warmth of his skin inches from my own. The way he looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to ruin me or worship me.

Probably both.

I grip the edge of the sink, palms flat, grounding myself with pressure and porcelain. “Get a grip.”

If my mother could see me now…God, she’d be appalled. “The moment your patient becomes anything more than a patient, you stop being their therapist and you start being the problem.” Her voice is still lodged in my head, a year after her death.

And still, I don’t pull away from the memory of Yakov’s lips.

I step into the shower, but the hot water only reminds me of his heat. Of his hands. I press my forehead against the tiles, trying not to think about his text:Touch yourself. Pretend it’s me.My hand drifts down before I catch myself. This is insane. I’m insane.

I turn the water to cold, gasping at the shock, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. I’ve become someone I don’t recognize, someone who masturbates to patient texts, who lies awake replaying a kiss, who’s counting down the hours (twenty-seven) until I can see him again.

“Fuck ethics,” I whisper, then louder, “Fuck professional boundaries.”

I’m already damned. Might as well earn it.

It’s not just about ethics anymore. It’s about him. The way he moves like he’s built from sharp edges and restraint. The way he looks at me like he knows how I’ll fall apart.

I did the right things. Canceled Pablo. Changed my number. Alerted the syndicate. Put distance where it needed to be.

Except where it matters most.