Page 62 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

It’s about protection.

Igor’s eyes narrow. “And how exactly do you know the security specs of rooms you were never cleared to inspect?”

Yakov doesn’t flinch. Just smiles, cool and measured. “Because I’ve been watching. Every shift change. Every echo. The wall’s thicker on that side. Sound moves different. Whoever built this place didn’t hide it well.”

A pause. Just long enough to unnerve.

“If you want to keep her safe, put her where nothing breaks.”

The tension between them sharpens, electric and unspoken, a power struggle playing out beneath the civility of strategy. Finally, Igor grits out a terse nod.

“Fine. Rotate the guards every ninety minutes. No contact unless approved.”

Then his gaze shifts to me—hard, immovable. “This isn’t a debate, Mila. You go now. You stay there until it’s over.”

I open my mouth, close it again. There’s no room for negotiation here, not with the walls tightening around us and danger pacing just beyond the gates.

As the guards move into position, I glance back at Yakov. He’s standing still now, not defiant, just steady. Watching me with an unreadable expression that, for a flicker of a second, slips. And in that slip, something quieter lives. Concern. Maybe more.

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” he says, voice light but with an undertone designed to be heard. “I’m sure your Colombian admirer will be handled with Bratva efficiency.”

But his eyes say something else. Not bravado. Not threat. Something unspoken but unmistakable. A promise. A warning. A claim.

The corridors are no longer quiet. The mansion has shifted around me, no longer just a gilded cage, but a war bunker. Voices hiss through radios. Boots echo. Doors lock behind us.

The room they place me in is secure, quiet but humming with tension. One guard inside. Another outside. Too close to Yakov’s room for comfort. Or maybe it’s not discomfort I’m feeling.

Through a sliver of the window, I catch glimpses of the grounds, dark shapes moving low to the earth, rifles and radios and purpose.

I sink onto the bed’s edge, trying to reset my breath, but there’s no composure left. Not after today. Not after what he told me. Anastasiya. Damien. Blood on his hands. Grief he’s never escaped. Guilt wrapped around his spine like armor.

He’s not just a patient anymore.

He hasn’t been for a while.

This is the textbook definition of countertransference, blurring the lines between therapy and intimacy, confusing compassion with connection. I should be horrified.

I’m not.

Because what I feel for Yakov Gagarin isn’t confusion.

It’s clarity. Sharp and unforgiving.

I want to comfort him. I want to understand him. I want him to be the version of himself that I glimpsed today, even if he never admits that man exists. And worse, I want him to touch me again. I want to finish what we started.

The lockdown continues. Outside, the night thickens. Inside, I sit in silence with the knowledge that something has already been breached.

Not the perimeter.

Me.

And no amount of protocol will protect me from what I’ve let in.

15

TRIGGER POINT

YAKOV