Page 12 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

ADAPTIVE MECHANISMS IN HIGH-RISK PERSONALITIES

MILA

I ’m already soaked by the time I reach the mansion’s entrance. The storm came from nowhere, like everything else threatening to drown me lately. Pablo Montoya. Yakov Gagarin. Two different dangers pulling me under.

Someone’s waiting with an umbrella. Igor Sokolov. My stomach tightens. He never does door duty.

I blink. “Igor,” I say, accepting the umbrella he holds. Unexpected. Usually it’s one of his men who walks me in.

“Mila.” He nods, accent clipped. “Not ideal weather.”

“I’ve driven through worse,” I reply, and we move toward the house in step, rain battering the fabric overhead.

He doesn’t speak. Not right away. But his silence is its own presence. Igor has never hidden his feelings about this arrangement. He wanted a firing squad. Not therapy.

“How’s your family?” I offer, because it’s neutral. Safe ground, supposedly.

“They’re well,” he says. “My son wants to know his uncle.”

Damien. Still echoing in my head. “It’s good he’s forming a connection,” I say carefully.

Igor’s look cuts sharp. “Connections to men like Yakov come with consequences.”

We reach the therapy room. I start to open the door, but he stops me with a hand on my arm. Not rough. Just firm.

“Don’t confuse strategy for growth,” he says, voice low. “Men like Gagarin don’t heal. They adapt. Like viruses.”

I carry that with me into the session.

Yakov’s already inside, standing at the window, hands behind his back like a soldier in front of a firing line. He doesn’t turn when I enter. Doesn’t need to. He knows I’m here.

But I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flex against the windowsill. He’s been waiting. Anticipating. Just like I have.

Three days since he touched my wrist. Three days, and I can still feel the burn of it.

“You’re late,” he says, his eyes fixated on the rain. “Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

“I didn’t realize you were counting.”

He turns then, and his gaze isn’t clinical; it’s hungry. “I count everything about you, Doctor. The steps from door to chair. The number of times you touch your hair when you’re nervous. The way your breath changes when I?—”

“Shall we begin?” I cut him off, but my voice is in shreds. He smiles.

My pulse stutters. Heat crawls up my neck, and I know he sees it—the flush spreading across my skin. I force myself to look at my notebook instead of the way his shirt pulls across his chest.

I click my pen. He doesn’t sit immediately. His default move. Make me wait. Make me look up. Control the space, even if it’s subtle.

Eventually, he lowers himself into the opposite chair. Not casual. Not submissive. Like he’s choosing to give the chair dignity by occupying it.

“I thought we might talk about your sister today,” I start calmly. “Not how she died. Who she was…before.”

There’s a flicker. He masks it quickly, but it was there. The smallest crack.

“Anastasiya is a memory now,” he says. “To most, she’s either a cautionary tale or a ghost. No one remembers the person. Just the fallout.”

“And you?”

His jaw works once before he speaks. “She was mornings. Books we pretended we had time to read. She was jasmine perfume and off-key singing that never stayed in the shower. She saw through me.” His voice drops. “And loved me anyway.”

The words hang between us, too intimate. He’s just told me more than he’s told anyone in years, and we both know it. The air shifts, thickens. This isn’t patient and doctor anymore. This is two people seeing each other without masks.

“Like someone else I know,” he adds quietly, eyes locked on mine.

My breath catches. We’re not talking about his sister anymore.

My skin feels too tight, every nerve ending aware of him. Of the way his fingers drum against his thigh—the same fingers that gripped my wrist three days ago. The same hands I’ve imagined on my body every night since.

And it lands harder than any threat he’s ever made.

“Damien has her smile,” he continues, not looking at me, looking somewhere behind me, beyond me. “The way the left corner lifts just a little higher. Ana did that when she was trying not to laugh.”

I don’t write. Not a word. The moment’s too raw. Fragile. One wrong move, and he’ll retreat behind the mask again.

“You love him,” I say.

“He’s the last piece of her,” Yakov answers, and when his eyes snap back to mine, they’re no longer distant. They’re cutting. “And you’re going to use that in your notes, aren’t you? Proof that I’m still human. That the monster has a soft spot.”

“I’m not writing anything,” I reply evenly. “I’m listening.”

“No.” He leans forward slightly, voice tightening. “You’re reporting. To the Volkovs. To Sokolovs. Telling them their mercy project is working. That their little experiment didn’t blow up in their faces.”

“Our sessions are confidential.”

He laughs, low and cold. “Nothing is confidential in our world, Doctor. That’s just a word we say to make ourselves feel safe.”

Before I can counter, a knock slices through the tension. The door opens.

Igor.

“Mila.” His expression is all business. “A word.”

“We’re in the middle of a session,” I say, irritation threading into my voice. I don’t like being pulled away, especially not when I managed to get Yakov to open up.

“It’s important,” he says, tone hard enough to close the conversation.

I rise. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Yakov, who watches the scene with the amused interest of a man watching pawns reposition themselves.

Out in the hallway, Igor closes the door behind us.

“We’ve confirmed the connection,” he says. No lead-in. No softening. Just steel. “Pablo Montoya is Emilio Diaz’s nephew.”

The floor tilts under me. “Pablo, my patient?”

“Yes.” His expression doesn’t change. “He’s been sent here to feel out our weak points. And you’re one of them.”

I shake my head, slow at first, then faster. “He came to me with anxiety. Public speaking?—”

“He came to you with a cover,” Igor snaps. “And now he knows who you are, who you’re connected to. You think it’s a coincidence he keeps pushing boundaries?”

The messages. The lingering looks. All suddenly more calculated than inappropriate. A predator, not a creep.

“We got the confirmation through facial recognition,” Igor continues. “It’s airtight. He’s Diaz’s blood. And you’re now a target.”

I lean against the wall, steadying myself. “What do I do?”

“Cancel his sessions.”

I nod. “Already done.”

“We’ll double your security. But there’s something else.” His gaze sharpens. “We think Yakov might know more than he’s let on.”

“About the cartel?”

“He’s had ties in South America in the past. Before Anastasia. Before all of this. If Montoya’s here to provoke a war, Yakov might have information we need.”

I nod slowly, but my thoughts are racing far ahead—back to Pablo’s stare, his too-smooth questions, the way he always knew exactly when I’d arrive.

Back inside, Yakov hasn’t moved. But he’s watching me. Closely.

“Everything all right, Doctor?” he asks. Casual on the surface. Anything but underneath.

“Scheduling change,” I say, sitting down again. My voice sounds normal.

He tilts his head. “You’re lying. Your pulse is visible at your throat. You’ve blinked four times in the last ten seconds. That’s twice your baseline.”

My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can hear it. Sweat pricks along my spine as he leans closer, and I catch his scent, that dangerous mixture of expensive cologne and something darker. Male. Lethal.

He leans in, his voice gravel. “Sokolov told you something that scared you. What was it?”

I should redirect. I should reinforce the boundary between us. But I don’t.

I just say, “We were discussing my patient schedule.”

“The Colombian,” he says, as if tasting the word. “The one who’s been following you.” His voice changes on the last word, darker, edged with something that makes my stomach flip. “Following what’s mine.”

“What? I’m not?—”

“You are my therapist,” he cuts me off, eyes burning. “Three times a week. You see me. Accept me exactly the way I am. And now some Colombian thinks he can—” He stops, jaw clenched so tight I hear his teeth grind.

I freeze. “How do you know that?”

“The guards talk.” He shrugs. “And I know how to listen. There’s been chatter. About a car. About extra rotations around your building. You don’t need to be told what that means.”

For a beat, the therapy room disappears, and it’s just us. Me, across from the man I was told not to trust. Him, looking at me like he already knows what I’m going to say next.

“Is he dangerous?” I ask, quiet but clear.

Yakov’s expression sharpens.

“Do you want the truth, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

He studies me. A flicker moves across his face, the ghost of emotion flaring across features usually carved from stone. I might’ve imagined it. But I don’t think I did.

“If he’s who I suspect,” Yakov says, voice low and measured, “then yes. He’s dangerous. Not like Volkov or Sokolov—those men are disciplined. Predictable. Bound by rules, even when they break them. This one? He plays by different rules. Or none at all.”

“You know him?” I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

“I know men like him.” His eyes have gone darker now, colder.

“The kind who look at what belongs to someone else and think they can take it.” His hands grip the back of my chair, knuckles white.

“He’s been watching you. Following you. Thinking about you.

” Each word comes out sharper, more violent.

“He treats boundaries like suggestions.”

He stands, circles my chair the way he did in our first session. But this time it feels different. Protective rather than predatory.

“The way he looks at you,” Yakov continues, voice dropping, “like you’re already his. I’ve seen that look. Hell, I’ve worn that look.” He stops behind me, close enough that I feel his heat. “The difference is, I wait for permission.”

“Do you?” I breathe.

His fingers ghost over my shoulder. The almost-touch is worse than contact would be. My nipples tighten, visible through my blouse, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. He’s noticed. Of course he has.

“I’m waiting now, aren’t I?”

I shiver despite the room’s stable temperature.

“What would you do,” I ask, “if you were me?”

A smile ghosts his lips, humorless and quiet. “I would’ve neutralized the threat the moment he crossed the line. But I imagine you’re after something less…permanent.”

My mouth curves despite myself. “A slightly less criminal solution, yes.”

“Then change your number. Stop using predictable routes home. And carry something sharp. Pepper spray at minimum.” His gaze sharpens. “And don’t ever be alone with him again. Not even once.”

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—low, firm, not asking for agreement, just expecting that I’ll listen.

And I do.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

He looks at me like the words don’t compute. “For basic advice?”

“For not pretending it’s not real,” I clarify. “Most people would tell me I’m being paranoid. That it’s nothing.”

“Most people don’t know what a predator looks like,” he replies. “I do.”

And somehow, that doesn’t scare me.

It should.

He returns to his chair, but the space between us crackles.

We continue the session. When he talks about Anastasiya, his voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my thighs clench.

I’ve stopped taking notes; my hands shake too much to write.

Instead, I watch his mouth form words and remember how close it was to mine days ago.

When the hour ends, Igor is waiting outside the door, a shadow with a pulse. He clocks my expression before I’ve even said a word.

“Remember what I told you,” he says under his breath as we walk. “Men like Gagarin don’t change. They adapt.”

I don’t argue. Just nod. But the words stick.

Igor’s warning echoes as I drive home.

But Igor didn’t see what I saw. The way Yakov’s hands clenched when we spoke about Pablo. The flash of something violent and possessive in his eyes. Not the cold calculation of a psychopath.

The rage of a man who’s already decided I’m his to protect.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Unknown: If he touches you, I’ll kill him.

No signature needed. I know that precise, lethal prose.

I should be terrified that Yakov’s watching me even from his cage. Instead, my body is in flames thinking about the dark promise in those words.

What does it say about me that I want the monster’s protection?

That I want the monster, period?

I pull over, then type back with trembling fingers:

Me: He won’t get the chance

Three dots appear immediately.

Unknown: Good girl

And I’m lost. My body clenches around emptiness.

The next session will be torture.

Or salvation.