Page 5 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

The man who’s part puzzle, part predator. The patient who could make or break the career I’ve spent a lifetime building.

I smooth my jacket, square my shoulders, and step into the room.

The space beyond is deceptively serene—neutral tones, comfortable furnishings, but no sharp edges, no unsecured objects, no illusion of privacy. Everything about the room is designed to control, to observe, to limit.

And he’s already there.

Standing by the window, back lit in gray light. He turns when I step inside, and the stillness in him is immediate and unsettling, like something coiled—not dormant, but waiting. Taller than I expected. Lean, but not fragile. His sweater can’t conceal the breadth of his shoulders or the precision in his movements. But it’s his eyes that stop me—ice-blue and startlingly alert. Watching everything. Watching me.

His gaze drops, just for a moment, taking in the line of my suit, the curve where jacket meets skirt. It’s deliberate, meant to unsettle. A maddening rush of awareness zips down my spine, heat blooming across my skin despite the room’s chill as those eyes catalog every detail—the slight tremor in my hand, the pulse I know is visible at my throat, the careful distance I maintain between us.

“Dr. Agapova.” My name rolls off his tongue like he’s tasting it. “Tell me, did they warn you about me, or did you volunteer for this particular suicide mission?”

There’s an edge to it—polite, but only just. A test.

I don’t blink. “Mr. Gagarin.” I gesture to the nearest chair without offering a handshake. “Please, have a seat.”

He doesn’t move. Instead, he circles the chair slowly, fingers trailing along its back. “How young were you when your mother died, Doctor?”

The question hits like ice water. I keep my expression neutral, but he’s already seen the micro-flinch. “We’re here to discuss you, Mr. Gagarin. Please sit.”

“Twenty-eight, wasn’t it? Is she the reason you chose this field? “ He finally sits, but it feels like a concession he’s granting, not obedience. “Columbia for undergrad, Harvard for your doctorate. Impressive. Though I wonder if they taught you about men like me in those ivory towers.”

“Mr. Gagarin, let’s focus?—”

“You dressed carefully today,” he observes, eyes traveling slowly back up to meet mine. “Professional armor. Though that particular shade of lipstick suggests you wanted to feel powerful. Confident. Did you apply it fresh in the car before coming in?”

My jaw tightens. I had reapplied it. “We’re not here to discuss?—”

“Your appearance? But it’s relevant, Doctor. Everything about how we present ourselves is data. Like how you chose a skirt that’s just conservative enough to be professional, but the way you keep tugging at the hem says you’re second-guessing that choice now.”

“We’ll begin with ground rules.”

“Will we?” He doesn’t wait for permission before moving his chair closer, just enough to make the space between us feel suddenly intimate.

His knee nearly brushes mine. The air between us heats, carries his scent—cedar and smoke and something indefinably male that makes my stomach tighten. I can hear him breathing, slow and controlled, while my own lungs forget their rhythm. This close, I can see the faint scar along his jawline, the way his throat moves when he swallows. My eyes catch on his hands—elegant but strong, a killer’s hands—and I force my gaze away.

“I have a rule too, Doctor. No lies. Not from me,” his eyes drop deliberately to my white-knuckled grip on my pen, ”and not from you.”

“Our sessions will be one hour, three times per week. What you share is confidential, except in cases where I believe there’s a threat to yourself or others.” I hold his gaze. “I expect honesty. You’ll receive the same in return.”

“Honesty,” he repeats, like he’s trying the word on for size. “Curious currency, considering the context.”

“This is a professional relationship, Mr. Gagarin,” I say evenly. “Without honesty, this process is performative. And a performance won’t help either of us.”

He studies me, head tilted slightly. “You don’t seem like someone interested in performance.”

“I’m not.”

“And what exactly are we doing here, Doctor?” he asks, gesturing between us. “Reformation? Rebranding? Redemption? Or is this just theater to make the Volkovs sleep easier?”

There it is—the bait, wrapped in cynicism and perfectly timed.

He leans back, and somehow manages to take up more space, not less. The movement pulls his sweater taut across his chest, and I hate that I notice. Hate the way my body responds to the casual display of strength, the controlled power in even his smallest movements. He catches me looking and his lips curve—not quite a smile, but close enough to make my face burn.

“That depends,” I answer, sidestepping neatly. “What do you want to achieve?”

He huffs a low breath. Not quite a laugh. “You really believe that matters?”