Page 14 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

COUNTERTRANSFERENCE

MILA

M y hands are tight on the steering wheel as I navigate the winding road toward the mansion.

Knuckles pale, thoughts circling back to Igor’s warning like a low-pressure system that won’t break.

Pablo Montoya isn’t just a boundary-crossing patient with a flair for discomfort, he’s blood to one of the most volatile cartel players on our radar.

A threat. A message. A door I never should’ve opened.

And Yakov knows it. I saw it in his eyes during our last session, that flash of violence when I mentioned Pablo’s messages. The way his hands clenched like he was imagining them around someone’s throat.

I’ve already taken the necessary steps—canceled the sessions, changed my number, alerted Nikolai. But no amount of damage control will steady the internal shift I can’t quite name. The part of me that still feels watched.

The security gate swings open before I reach the intercom. No questions asked. I pull into my usual space, rain pounding the roof of the car. No umbrella detail today. I make a dash for the entrance, soaked through in seconds, water trailing behind me on the marble floors.

Inside, I shake out my coat, adjusting the collar of my blouse where it’s clinging to my skin. One of the guards nods toward the therapy room. “He’s already inside.”

Of course he is. Always early. Always positioned. Always watching.

When I enter, Yakov is at the window—his usual vantage—but today he turns as soon as the door clicks shut.

He scans me. Not with cruelty or critique.

Just observation, precise and unapologetic.

His gaze lingers where my blouse clings to my skin, transparent from the rain.

I see his jaw tighten and his hands flex at his sides.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice rougher than usual.

“No umbrella service today.” I try for lightness, but my voice comes out breathless. Because he’s looking at me like he wants to peel the wet fabric off with his teeth.

My nipples tighten visibly beneath the wet silk. I cross my arms, but it’s too late, he’s seen. His nostrils flare, and I watch his hands clench into fists again.

My wet hair. My damp sleeves. The tension I thought I’d hidden.

“The storm’s intensifying,” he says. “They’re expecting grid failures across the eastern corridor.”

“Let’s hope the power holds.” I slip out of my coat and hang it on the door. “You’ve been watching the forecasts?”

“A minor privilege,” he says. “Someone in the chain of command has decided I deserve access to internet.”

He’s dressed in a deep red sweater today. Softer. Less armor, more humanity. The effect is…unsettling.

“That color suits you,” I say before I can stop myself.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Careful, Doctor. That sounded dangerously close to personal.”

“Objective observation,” I say, regaining ground. “Clinical, of course.”

His mouth curves, barely. “Naturally.”

There’s something different about him today. Warmer. Unsettlingly so. The room feels it too—drawn toward him, slightly off-kilter.

“How’s your sleep?” I ask, defaulting to structure.

“Better than yours, I’d wager.” He sits with that coiled ease he always has, eyes narrowing as they settle on me. “The Colombian matter is keeping you up.”

I don’t answer. He already knows.

“Your hands are unsteady. You flinch at sounds. And,” he pauses, almost amused, “you forgot your notebook.”

My gaze drops instinctively. Empty hands. I left it in the car.

“I—” I start, but he waves it off.

“There’s no need to pretend today.”

Thunder growls beyond the windows. I feel exposed. Stripped of my tools. My distance.

“What would you like to discuss?” I ask, trying to redirect.

He leans back slightly, head tilted. Calculating.

“Tell me something true, Mila.”

The sound of my name in his mouth lingers.

“Something true?”

“Something real. Not clinical. Not rehearsed. You’ve had access to pieces of me I never intended to give. It’s your turn.”

I should redirect. Reassert the boundaries that have been slipping one inch at a time since our first session. But instead of reaching for my script, I hear myself ask, “What would you like to know?”

“Why psychotherapy? Why choose to work with people like me?” His tone is almost casual, but the weight behind it is anything but. “And don’t say academic interest. We both know it’s deeper than that.”

The question lands exactly where he aims—beneath the surface. Right in the center of the thing I don’t talk about. Not even with myself.

I consider brushing it off, changing the subject, steering us back to safer terrain. But there’s something in the way he’s watching me. Less calculated. Less armored. More…curious.

“My mother,” I say eventually, my words unspooling slowly, thick with meaning. “She was a forensic psychologist. She worked with violent offenders, believed that understanding was the first step toward healing.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Just listens.

“She thought if we could get to the root of someone’s behavior, we could change the outcome. That even people who’d done terrible things weren’t beyond reach.”

“And you followed her path,” he says. Not a question. Just observation.

“Not quite,” I murmur, my gaze drifting to the rain tracing crooked paths down the window. It’s easier to talk without looking at him. “She worked in prisons. I chose private practice. I wanted more freedom. Fewer institutional walls between me and the people I am trying to reach.”

“Which led you to me.” His mouth twitches in something close to amusement. “To Bratva contracts and Mafia therapy.”

“That wasn’t the plan,” I admit. “It started with Katarina. We were childhood friends, long before Nikolai entered the picture. I knew her family had ties to the Bratva, even as a child.”

He nods, unsurprised. “I know. I did my research. Back when you were a potential threat.”

The admission should bother me. It doesn’t. Not really.

“My mother died last year,” I add quietly. “You know that already. Cancer. It was fast. She didn’t tell anyone until it was too late. I think…I think I take on these cases because I’m still trying to prove her right. That understanding leads somewhere. Even with men like you.”

The words hang there, too honest, too raw.

He doesn’t pounce. Doesn’t dissect. Instead, he watches me with something dangerously close to empathy.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, and his voice is low, grounded. No manipulation. Just truth.

I nod, swallowing against the tightness that creeps into my throat. “Thank you.”

Thunder cracks overhead, sharp and sudden. I flinch before I can stop myself. The lights flicker once, then hold.

“Storm’s close now,” Yakov says, eyes still on me.

“It’s been building for a while,” I say, and we both know we’re not just talking about the weather anymore.

His gaze holds mine. Steady. Intense. “Storms are strange things. They destroy. They reveal. They change everything in their path.”

“They also pass,” I say quietly. “They clear the air. Strip things back to what’s real.”

A flicker of something—maybe humor, maybe understanding—tugs at the edge of his mouth. “That’s an optimist’s answer.”

“No,” I correct gently. “That’s a realist’s. Storms pass. It’s what we do in them that matters.”

He leans forward just slightly, like the gravity between us has shifted again. “And what do we do in this one, Mila?”

His voice wraps around my name like it belongs to him. Like we’ve crossed a line neither of us wants to acknowledge yet.

I take a slow breath. “We hold the line.”

The rain keeps falling. The wind keeps pounding at the windows. But inside this room, the air feels electric. And I can’t tell if it’s about to break, or if we already have.

His gaze flicks to my mouth before returning to my eyes. Steady. Intentional. “And what choices are you making, Dr. Agapova?”

My heart slams against my ribs. My palms go slick with sweat. I have to press my thighs together to ease the sudden, vicious throb of need. “Smart ones,” I say, and the words taste like fiction even as I say them.

He doesn’t push. Just lets a quiet smile settle across his face, measured and knowing. “Naturally. Always the therapist.”

The lights flicker again, long enough to cast the room in shadow. The thunder rolls a little closer. When the power comes back, he’s moved.

He’s closer now. Not overtly, not threatening. Just…nearer. His posture hasn’t changed. Still poised. Still controlled. The space between us contracts, tense with everything unspoken.

“You should fear me,” he says softly. Too softly. “And yet you don’t. You look at me like…”

He trails off. A beat of silence. Then:

“Like you see someone worth saving.”

I don’t know what hurts more, that he sounds surprised or that he might be right.

“I see you,” I say quietly. Because it’s the only truth I have left. “Not just the monster you’ve made them believe in. Not just the man who’s done terrible things. I see you .”

For a second, neither of us breathes.

And then he moves.

Not toward me. Around me. Behind my chair before I can react.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, mouth near my ear. “Cold from the rain? Or something else?”

His hands come to rest on the back of my chair, caging me without touching. I feel the heat of him, smell that intoxicating mix of cedar and danger.

“This is what you do to me.” His control is fracturing, voice raw. “Every session. Every minute. You sit there in your tailored clothes, asking your questions, and all I can think about is?—”

“Don’t.” But the word comes out as a plea, not a command.

His finger traces the curve of my shoulder, barely touching. “Is this what you want, Mila? To keep pretending? To keep acting like you don’t go home and touch yourself thinking about me?”

My breath stalls in my throat, pulse pounding.

“If I kiss you now,” he breathes against my ear, “there’s no going back. No more doctor and patient. No more professional boundaries. Just you and me and whatever is burning between us.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“Do you? Because once I have you, Mila, I won’t let go. Not for the Bratva. Not for ethics. Not for anything.”

Thunder explodes directly overhead. The lights flicker once, twice.

Then darkness. Complete. Absolute.

“Stay still,” he commands, but he’s already moving. I feel the air shift.

Lightning flashes, illuminating him for a split second standing over me, eyes wild with something that makes my breath stop.

Darkness again.

“Yakov—”

“Shh.” His hands find my shoulders in the dark. “The generators will kick in. Thirty seconds. That’s all we have.”

“All we have for what?”

His thumb traces my collarbone. “For this.”

In the darkness, I feel him lean closer. His breath on my neck. His hand sliding down my arm, fingers interlacing with mine.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against my skin.

I can’t. God help me, I can’t.

His lips brush my throat—not quite a kiss, just heat and promise.

“Fuck,” he growls against my skin, and hearing him curse, hearing him break, undoes me. His hands are shaking where they grip my shoulders.

“I dream about you,” he confesses, words tumbling out raw and unfiltered. “Burn up my sheets every night. Wake up hard, with your name on my lips.”

Another flash of lightning shows his face—desperate, hungry, completely undone.

And then a knock. Loud. Brutal.

We break apart like something burned us. Lights flick back on, and Igor steps into the room, no apology on his face. Just that same cold, assessing stare.

“Session’s over,” he says, eyes darting between us. “Security briefing. Ten minutes.”

I stand, smooth the skirt I wore for professionalism, not seduction. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Gagarin. We’ll continue Wednesday.”

Yakov is already composed again. Not a trace of what just happened remains on his face. “Until then, Dr. Agapova.”

But I can feel his eyes on my back as I follow Igor out.

In the hallway, Igor doesn’t bother hiding his disdain. “Be careful, Mila. Men like Gagarin don’t form attachments, they exploit vulnerabilities.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I say. It sounds steadier than I feel.

He snorts. “Sure you do. Just make sure you’re not the one who ends up burned.”

I don’t respond, because he’s not wrong. Fire illuminates. Fire destroys. But the heat still lingers in my palm like a mark. Like a promise.

And I’m not sure I want it to fade.

My phone buzzes in my purse. I reach to check it.

Unknown: Next time the lights go out, I won’t stop.