Page 63 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

The soft knock comes at 9:17 p.m. Three hesitant taps that could be mistaken for the house settling, except I’ve been lying awake, listening for exactly this sound.

I know it’s her before I cross the room. The way the silence gathers, expectant. The faint scent of amber drifting through the crack under the door.

She shouldn’t be here. The lockdown protocols are explicit. But as I twist the lock I rewired weeks ago, I realize I’ve been waiting for her to break the rules.

She stands in the hallway in silk pajama pants and a fitted shirt, hair loose around her shoulders. But it’s her eyes that stop me—wide, restless, holding something I haven’t seen before.

Not just desire. Decision.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, even as I step aside.

But I want her here. Have wanted it since the moment Igor sealed us into separate rooms like caged animals. The way she moves past me, close enough that her shoulder brushes my chest, tells me she knows exactly what she’s doing. This isn’t impulse. She’s considered this carefully.

“I know,” she murmurs, slipping past me. Her scent lingers, teasing my restraint.

I close the door. Lock it again. “The guards?”

“North corridor. I watched them rotate, right on schedule.” She doesn’t look at me when she continues. “Sixty seconds in the blind spot between camera sweeps. Just long enough, if someone had hypothetically disabled the electronic lock from the inside.”

I study her profile as she speaks. The careful way she doesn’t meet my eyes, the slight tremor in her hands she thinks I haven’t noticed. She’s nervous, but she’s here anyway. Calculated risk. Deliberate choice.

“You’ve been planning this,” I observe.

She finally looks at me, chin lifted in defiance. “Yes. Since I realized I was tired of letting other people decide what’s safe for me.”

Interesting. Dr. Agapova, the woman who follows protocols and maintains professional boundaries, just broke approximately six security measures to get into my room. Either she’s having a breakdown, or she’s finally giving in to what’s been building between us.

I’m betting on the latter.

A flicker cuts through the tension—wry, reckless, familiar.

I almost smile. “And if they’d caught you?”

“I had a backup story,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself. “Igor mentioned your psychological state. I would’ve said he sent me to evaluate it.”

I raise a brow. “So you’d lie.”

She exhales. “I planned to.”

I study her, the tight set of her shoulders, the quiet tremor she’s trying to hide.

“You didn’t come because of the threat.”

She shakes her head, stepping past me into the room. “I came because of what you told me today. About Anastasiya. About why you protect Damien.” She turns to face me, vulnerable but steady.

“Mila—”

“I kept thinking about what you said. That you’re afraid of failing again. Of watching someone else die.” Her voice drops. “And I realized something.”

“What?”

“I’m tired of being afraid too.”

She moves to the window, wrapping her arms around herself. “After today, after what you shared with me, I couldn’t stop thinking.”

“About?”

“About how you see yourself. As someone who fails to protect the people he loves.” She turns back to me, eyes bright with unshed tears. “But you saved Damien. You’re still saving him. And today, when Igor wanted to put me somewhere else, you made sure I was close. So you could keep me safe.”