Page 1 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

MERCY IS A WEAPON

YAKOV

T hey said she specialized in lost causes.

What they didn’t say was that she’d walk in like she owned the room I was supposed to rot in.

Leadership thinks that locking me in a gilded cage with a shrink will keep me from retaliating. From finishing what I started. From remembering every face that betrayed me.

My father calls it mercy.

The Bratva calls it justice.

But let’s not pretend—this is a leash.

Dr. Mila Agapova stands in the doorway of what will be my prison for the foreseeable future.

Tall, composed, with dark hair twisted into a severe bun that makes me wonder how it would fall around her shoulders.

Her charcoal suit is professional, but it can’t quite disguise the curves beneath or the way she carries herself.

It’s like she knows exactly what kind of monster she’s dealing with and isn’t impressed.

“Mr. Gagarin.” Her voice is steady. “I’m Dr. Agapova.”

Most people flinch when they meet my gaze.

The smart ones take a step back. She does neither.

Instead, she studies me with calm gray eyes that miss nothing, as if she’s cataloging every bruise, every tell, every weakness.

And there are plenty to catalog—I’m still pale from weeks in a hospital bed, still dependent on this fucking wheelchair, still weak enough that the guards flanking me might mistake me for harmless.

But Dr. Agapova… she’s not underestimating me. I can tell by the way she maintains that careful distance—close enough to show she’s not afraid, far enough to stay smart.

“Doctor.” I let my voice drop to that low register that usually makes people nervous. In my current condition, it should sound pathetic. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, like she’s listening to music only she can hear.

“I’ve read your file.” She steps closer instead of backing away. Close enough that I catch her scent—something clean and crisp, like winter air, with an underlying warmth that suggests hidden depths. “All of it.”

“And yet you still took the job.”

“I specialize in difficult cases.” Her mouth curves in what might be amusement, but her eyes remain serious. “The question is whether you’re actually difficult, or just well-practiced at making people think you are.”

It’s been months since anyone challenged me like this. Since anyone looked at me and saw someone worth saving instead of someone to fear.

I shouldn’t want to know what she sees when she looks at me.

But God help me, I do.

Three weeks ago, I was dying.

Consciousness had come in fragments then—pain first, then soft and concerned voices. I’d fought through the haze, but darkness kept dragging me under. When I finally surfaced for real, it was to sterile white walls and the steady beep of machines keeping me alive.

Too stubborn to die, I’d told my father when he visited. And it was true.

The memories sharpened slowly. Blood on concrete. Jaromir’s face. The gun. And Ana—always Ana. My sister, her newborn son on her chest, her hand going limp in mine as the life drained out of her.

That was years ago.

Now I’m the one who’s supposed to be grateful for mercy. The irony tastes like blood.

Recovery was humbling, though nothing like the agony after Nikolai shattered my spine when I tried to avenge Ana. This time, my body cooperated—bones knitting cleanly, muscles remembering their purpose. But my mind, as always, healed first. It came back sharp, focused. Hungry.

That’s when my father delivered the news. The syndicate wanted me dead. He’d negotiated an alternative: house arrest with psychological oversight. No trial. No prison. But no freedom either.

And my handler? Dr. Mila Agapova. Cold. Brilliant. Unshakable.

Though we’ll see about the unshakable part.

The transport had been choreographed—ambulance, guards, the whole production designed to look like standard medical care while ensuring I never had a chance to run.

Not that I could have, weak as I was. But as we’d wound through expensive neighborhoods toward this gated estate, I’d found myself wondering about her.

What drives someone to specialize in lost causes?

What makes her think she can handle someone like me?

More importantly, what would it take to make her lose that professional composure?

Now, watching her study me like a particularly interesting specimen, I think I’m beginning to understand the challenge ahead.

“Your father mentioned you might be resistant to treatment,” she says conversationally, as if we’re discussing the weather instead of my psychological rehabilitation.

“You could say that.”

“I prefer honesty to compliance, Mr. Gagarin. Lies waste both our time.”

I glance up at her, noting the determined set of her jaw, the way she holds herself with quiet authority. “Then let me be honest, Doctor. I’m not looking to be saved.”

“Don’t waste time trying to scare me.” She steps closer, and I can feel the warmth radiating from her body.

Professional distance but not fear. “I’m not here to save you.

I’m here to see if you want to save yourself.

” Her eyes hold mine steadily. “You did it before—came back from a shattered spine when everyone said you’d never walk again. I know you have it in you.”

Something in her tone—challenge mixed with what might be hope—catches me off guard. For a moment, I forget about the game. Forget about my careful strategies and manipulations.

For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to be the kind of man who deserves that hope.

“We’ll see how long you last,” I murmur, but the words lack their usual bite.

She leans down slightly, bringing her face level with mine.

This close, I can see the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lips part when she’s thinking.

“Mr. Gagarin, I’ve spent the last five years working with men who’ve done terrible things.

Men who’ve convinced themselves they’re beyond redemption. You know what I’ve learned?”

“Enlighten me.”

“The ones who fight hardest against help are usually the ones who need it most.”

Her gray eyes search mine, and for a terrifying moment, I feel like she can see straight through all my carefully constructed walls to the wreckage beneath.

I should look away. Should rebuild those defenses. Should remember that everyone I’ve ever cared about ends up dead.

“And what makes you think I won’t destroy you like I have everyone else?”

She straightens but doesn’t step back. Something flickers in her eyes—not fear, but challenge. “Because, Mr. Gagarin, I’m not everyone else. And I don’t break easily.”

The guards shift restlessly, clearly wanting to move this along, but neither of us breaks eye contact. There’s something electric in the air between us, dangerous and intoxicating and absolutely fucking stupid.

This woman is supposed to be my therapist. My keeper. The one person standing between me and a bullet to the brain.

She’s not supposed to make me feel like a man instead of a monster.

“Come on,” she says finally, stepping back with that same maddening composure. “Let me show you your new home.”

As they wheel me through the front door, I can still feel her presence beside me. Watching. Waiting. Unafraid.

Dr. Mila Agapova has no idea what she’s signed up for.

But as I watch the confident set of her shoulders, the way she moves like she owns every room she enters, I realize something that should terrify me.

I want to find out if she’s strong enough to survive me.