Page 95 of Mafia King's Broken Vow

“Of course,” he continues, voice carefully neutral, “given the…developments in your professional relationship, we understand these won’t be traditional therapeutic sessions.Consider it more of a consultation arrangement. Someone needs to monitor his psychological state, and he responds to you.”

The subtext is crystal clear:We know. We’re giving you both an excuse.

“I understand,” I say, too smoothly. “It’ll be fine.”

Aleksander’s slight nod tells me he knows exactly what kind of ‘consultation’ this will be. “The syndicate appreciates your…flexibility in this matter.”

Administrative purposes. Professional cover for something that stopped being professional weeks ago.

“A slight shift in the timing, though. Two o’clock tomorrow,” he says, returning to his dessert as if we’ve just discussed the weather. “Same room, same duration. I’m sure you’ll find effective ways to…assess his progress.” He studies me a beat longer, then nods. “Standard procedures will apply. I’ve adjusted the guard rotation. Fewer eyes. Less interruptions. Confidentiality still matters.”

I arch a brow at the unexpected concession. “Thank you. Most wouldn’t prioritize that kind of privacy, especially under these conditions.”

Aleksander strokes Volk’s ears absently, his gaze drifting but never truly unfocused. “Most haven’t learned how much a safe space can mean. You and Gagarin both need one, I think.”

The words land. Not just an observation, an understanding. Aleksander’s perception is quieter than Igor’s, but somehow more dangerous for it. Where Igor wields suspicion like a weapon, Aleksander gathers truth like a net and waits for you to realize you’ve already been caught.

“He’s different,” he says after a beat. “Gagarin. Since you came into the picture.”

My fingers tighten around my glass, but I keep my expression neutral. “That’s the goal of therapy.”

“Is it therapy, though?” Aleksander’s voice lowers, pitched only for me. “Or something else entirely?”

The question hangs there, pointed, impossible to dodge. Before I can muster a response that doesn’t taste like a lie, he rises, Volk moving fluidly to his side.

“Be careful, Mila.” His voice drops, carrying the weight of experience. “I know what it’s like to need someone so much you’d burn your life down for them. Sometimes that’s love. Sometimes it’s just another addiction.”

Then he’s gone, already dialing Igor as he exits. I remain seated, suddenly restless, unwilling to return to the quiet of my room and the storm waiting inside it.

I wander the halls instead, mapping the familiar turns, registering the uptick in security since my last stay. More guards. Tighter perimeters. The illusion of safety, reinforced with concrete and steel.

Eventually, the night air calls to me. I find myself at the terrace doors, the scent of rain still clinging to the stones outside. It’s quiet now, washed clean. The guards are stationed far enough away that the terrace itself feels…still. Almost private.

But I’m not alone.

Yakov stands at the far end, braced against the balustrade, his profile etched in cold light. He’s dressed simply—black sweater, black trousers—but nothing about him reads casual. His posture is sharp, precise, carved from tension and control. He hears the door open but doesn’t turn right away.

I move toward him, drawn by something that defies reason, ethics, and every rule I once believed sacred.

“I thought you were restricted to the east wing,” I say, stopping a few feet away.

Now he turns. Blue eyes meet mine across the dimness.

“Special dispensation,” he says with a dry edge, “for good behavior. Or maybe they’re just testing me. Seeing if a taste of freedom is enough to make me run.”

“And will you?” I ask, stepping closer.

He tilts his head, gaze steady. “Not tonight.”

The answer settles deep, not because he can’t escape. But because he won’t.

Because of me.

The thought sends heat straight through me.

“I didn’t expect to be back so soon,” I murmur, joining him at the railing, eyes on the dark stretch of garden below.

“I did.” His reply is soft. Certain. “Pablo’s not finished. Not with you. Not with us.”