Page 84 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

The air tightens. Yakov watches me, that unreadable expression settling over his features. I wait a beat, steadying my breath before turning to face him fully.

“Is this where you pretend to be my doctor again?” he asks, voice low, threaded with that familiar challenge that always makes my pulse skip.

“No.” I step closer, not too close, but enough to feel the gravity pulling between us. “I need to know if any of this is real. Your cooperation. Your concern. Or is this just another game to you? Another move on a board only you can see?”

For a moment, something shifts behind his eyes, the cold strategist cracking just enough to let something raw slip through.

“My motivations aren’t simple,” he says, circling the table.

“Elaborate.” I force steadiness into my voice even as he moves closer.

“I’d be an idiot not to use this situation.” He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back. “Cooperation buys me credibility. Makes them see me as reformed instead of just contained.”

His proximity is calculated, a test and a temptation.

“But that’s not why I’m here.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. “And?”

His voice drops, dark velvet wrapping around something far too dangerous to touch. “And I’m here because the thought of Pablo getting close to you again makes me want to burn down half of New York to find him.”

The raw honesty in his voice stops my breath. I search his face for the angle he’s working.

All I see is truth.

“That’s not tactical thinking,” I whisper.

“No. It’s not.” His hand lifts toward my face, stopping just short of contact. “It’s the kind of weakness that gets people killed. But I can’t seem to help myself.”

“I shouldn’t trust you,” I whisper, the confession scraping against everything I know to be right.

A glint of dark amusement flashes in his eyes. “No. You shouldn’t.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

“And yet…”

“And yet,” I echo, understanding what he’s not saying. Despite everything, despite knowing better, I do trust him. In ways I can’t fully explain or justify.

He lifts his hand, hesitating just shy of touching my face. The restraint costs him; I can see it in the tension of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze. “I miss you,” he admits quietly. “More than I should.”

The confession sends warmth curling through me. I shouldn’t respond, shouldn’t encourage this impossible connection. Instead, I find myself leaning slightly into his outstretched hand until his palm cups my cheek.

“This is complicated.”

“Everything was already complicated.” His thumb traces my lower lip with exquisite gentleness. “Now it’s just complicated in more interesting ways.”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “Is that your professional assessment of this clusterfuck of a situation?”

“It’s my personal one.” His eyes darken as they hold mine. “And if we weren’t surrounded by armed guards with every reason to shoot me if I make a wrong move, I would demonstrate exactly how interesting I find these complications to be.”

A blaze spreads through my body at his words, imagination filling in what that demonstration might entail. Before I can respond, there’s a warning knock at the door. Our time is up.

Yakov steps back instantly, mask sliding into place effortlessly. But his eyes still burn when they meet mine.

“Thank you for the assessment, Dr. Agapova,” he says for the guards’ benefit. Then, lower, meant only for me, “Until next time.”

A promise and a threat wrapped in three words.