Page 6 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“I believe it’s where we start.”

“And if I said I have no interest in absolution? That I don’t want to be ‘better’? That I simply want to be left alone?”

“Then we go from there.” I make a note.

Something in his posture shifts, just barely. A flicker of curiosity.

“What are you writing?”

He rises from the chair he’d pulled close, the movement fluid and predatory. Then he’s standing behind me, and my body knows before my mind catches up—every nerve firing alert. His breath stirs the hair at my nape. This close, his cologne can’tmask what’s underneath: leather and iron and the faint trace of cordite.

Or maybe I’m just imagining it.

I don’t turn. Don’t move. Just sit there, spine locked, waiting for his next move. My skin prickles, too aware of the heat radiating from his body, the way the air shifts with each of his measured breaths.

“Sit down, Mr. Gagarin.”

“Make me.” The words are soft, almost playful, but his proximity is anything but. “Or would that require you to touch me? I wonder what your ethics say about that.”

My pulse is hammering against my throat.

“Tell me, Dr. Agapova,” he murmurs, still behind me. His voice is close enough that I feel it as much as hear it, a low rumble that seems to vibrate through me. “Do you always wear your hair up when you’re nervous? Or is that particular tell reserved for patients who frighten you?”

I force myself not to touch the careful twist at my nape, even as I become hyperaware of the exposed skin there. “Please return to your seat.”

“I prefer the view from here.” His fingers ghost near my shoulder, not quite touching, but close enough that the heat of his hand raises goosebumps along my neck. “You have a freckle, just behind your left ear. Did you know that?”

A beat.

“Your file says you specialize in trauma recovery. Noble work.” He moves back into my peripheral vision but doesn’t sit. “Though I imagine it’s easier when your patients are victims, not perpetrators. When you can maintain that comfortable moral distance.”

“What did you expect when you agreed to see me?” I ask, deflecting.

“Someone less interesting.” He finally returns to his chair, sprawling this time, claiming space. “Dr. Marina Agapova. Published twice on PTSD treatment in Eastern European immigrants. Volunteer work with trafficking survivors. Three years treating Bratva soldiers for the syndicate—men who’d done terrible things and needed to function again.” His eyes narrow. “A bleeding heart with a license, but one who’s seen the worst of our world up close. Tell me, when you look at men like me, do you see patients to heal or puzzles to solve?”

“Why would you want to intimidate me?” I ask instead of responding.

He smiles then, and it’s worse than his coldness. “I don’t need to intimidate you. You’re already afraid. Not of what I might do; the guards ensure you’ll be safe. You’re afraid of what I might see.” He leans forward slightly. “Like how you chose this case against everyone’s advice. How you tell yourself it’s professional interest, but really, you’re drawn to danger. It makes you feel alive in a way your predictable, structured life never does.”

“That’s quite a projection, Mr. Gagarin.”

“Is it? Your pulse jumps every time I move. But it’s not just fear, is it, Doctor?” His voice drops lower. “When was the last time someone truly saw you? Not the competent psychologist, not the supportive friend. You.” His eyes hold mine, and there’s something predatory there, something that makes my breath catch. “When was the last time someone touched you and made you forget all those careful boundaries?”

The words hang between us, heavy with implication. My skin flushes hot, and I know he sees it—the way my chest rises a little too fast, the way I press my thighs together.

“You resist acknowledging discomfort, but not because you can’t feel it. Everything points to your mind-body connection being remarkable. That kind of control usually appears intrauma survivors who’ve learned to compartmentalize pain, not disconnect from it.”

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t challenge the observation. Doesn’t deny it either.

The silence stretches taut between us, filled with the soft tick of his watch and my too-rapid heartbeat. A bead of sweat traces down my spine despite the room’s chill.

He’s watching my mouth now, and I realize I’ve been biting my lower lip. His pupils dilate slightly—the first genuine reaction I’ve gotten from him. It’s gratifying and terrifying in equal measure.

“You mentioned ground rules,” he says, snapping his eyes back up. “Here’s one of mine. I don’t perform for academic curiosity. If you want to crack me open, Doctor, you’ll have to offer something in return. Quid pro quo.”

“That’s not how therapy works.”

“Then we’re at an impasse.” He tilts his head. “Though I suspect you’ll find a way to rationalize it. You want to understand me too badly to walk away. It’s written all over you—in the way you grip that pen like a lifeline, the careful distance you maintain, the way your breathing changes when I get too close to the truth.”