Page 2 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

WHAT YOU WEAR TO MEET A MONSTER

MILA

I stare down at the patient file, fingers tightening around the manila folder as if it might bite.

Maybe it already has. Yakov Gagarin. Just seeing his name in print is enough to make my stomach knot, despite the warmth of the coffee cupped in my hand.

The man who orchestrated the kidnappings of three women—women I know.

The man who nearly started a war between Bratva factions that would’ve drowned half of New York in blood.

The same man who, six years ago, defied every medical prediction and walked again after doctors said he’d be paralyzed for life. I read about that case during my residency—a textbook example of what could be accomplished with proper rehabilitation and human will.

I never imagined I’d be treating him myself.

The coffee has gone lukewarm, but I clutch it anyway, needing something solid in my hand as my pulse thrums against the ceramic.

“You’re making that face again.” Katarina’s nails tap against her mug, a sharp staccato that matches my pulse. “The one that says you’re about to walk willingly into a disaster.”

I close the file and nudge it away like it’s radioactive. “I’ll be cautious.”

She arches one perfectly sculpted brow. “Caution would be saying no and burning that folder. What you’re doing is weighing professional ambition against common sense.”

She’s not wrong. Taking on Yakov Gargarin is either a career-defining opportunity or a spectacular act of self-sabotage.

The kind of case psychologists spend years trying to access—high intelligence, complex trauma, violent behavior wrapped in ruthless calculation.

If I can handle him, study him, understand him, it could cement my reputation for the next decade.

If.

“It’s not just ambition,” I say quietly, mostly for myself. “He’s fascinating. Intellect like his, combined with the kind of loss and violence he’s survived? He’s a clinical outlier. A walking psychological paradox.”

“He’s also dangerous,” she snaps. Her tone cuts through the analytical fog clouding my judgment. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the scent of her perfume mixing with bitter coffee until my throat tightens.

“He kidnapped people, Mila. He nearly got me killed. And Kata. And Galina. You don’t get to be intrigued by someone who’s done that to people you love.”

The guilt hits, swift and hot. I remember the days Katarina was missing. The fear. The silence. The helplessness. She carries the scars, even if she hides them behind designer heels and sharp wit.

“I know,” I say softly. I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine. “That’s why I’m asking you straight. Should I take the case?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Just studies me like she’s seeing something I’ve tried to hide.

“You’ve already decided,” she says eventually.

I don’t deny it. “But I’ll walk away if you ask me to. Your friendship means more to me than any opportunity.”

Her sigh is a slow exhale of conflict. She squeezes my hand before letting go.

“The security is tight. Nikolai said he’ll be under constant surveillance. There’ll always be someone right outside the door during sessions.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Because it’s not my decision.” She lifts her mug again, but her eyes linger on mine. “Just promise me one thing. The moment you feel manipulated or unsafe, you walk. You don’t try to outsmart him. You just leave.”

“I promise,” I say, meaning it. Even though I already know promises made outside the therapy room rarely hold up inside it.

Katarina checks her watch and rises, graceful even in jeans. “I need to get back. Nikolai’s meeting with Igor about rebuilding some of the…more legitimate businesses.”

I walk her to the door. She turns before I can open it and pulls me into a hug that’s tighter than usual.

Fiercer. Her cashmere sweater is soft against my cheek, but her heartbeat drums too fast beneath it.

She smells like home—expensive perfume and vanilla hand cream she’s used since college—and for a moment I want to stay here, safe in the circle of her arms.

“Be careful, Mila,” she whispers. “Men like Yakov Gagarin see kindness as weakness. Empathy as an opportunity. He will find every crack in your armor if you let him.”

“I know how to hold boundaries,” I murmur back.

“That’s what worries me.” Her voice is softer now. “You’re too good at seeing the broken parts in people. Just remember—not everything can be fixed.”

After she’s gone, I return to the table and open the file again. Inside are surveillance photos of a man who doesn’t flinch. Not from the camera. Not from anything. Cold blue eyes. Surgical posture. Calm in the face of chaos.

The reports paint a vivid picture: a brilliant strategist, emotionally detached, driven by vengeance for his sister. The psychological assessments are clinical, cautious—antisocial leanings, high-functioning, dangerously intelligent. The kind of man who manipulates trust like currency.

On paper, he’s a case study in pathological trauma.

In reality…he’s a threat I’m volunteering to sit across from three times a week.

I close the file slowly, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t go away.

The drive to the safehouse takes just under forty minutes, winding out of the city into the kind of gated wealth that buys privacy instead of peace.

The car’s heater blasts, but I can’t get warm.

My breath fogs the window as naked branches claw at the gray sky.

The leather seat creaks when I shift, and I realize I’ve been holding myself rigid for miles, shoulders tight with tension.

I mentally run through my checklist again. Establish firm boundaries. No personal disclosures. Maintain professional detachment. Standard procedure for high-risk patients, but with Yakov Gagarin, the stakes feel razor-edged. He’s not just dangerous. He’s aware.

And awareness, in a patient like him, is the sharpest weapon.

The safehouse rises like something out of a fable—grand, intimidating. Frost traces the stone facade, softening nothing. Beautiful, yes. But built like a fortress. A mansion meant to keep things in as much as out.

Vasiliy Volkov is waiting for me at the entrance, as promised. His sheer presence is enough to remind me this isn’t a clinical facility. This is Bratva business, and it pulses beneath every word, every courtesy.

“Mila,” he greets, offering a hand I take without hesitation.

His grip is solid, grounding. His gaze sharp and searching, like he’s assessing whether I’m still the woman he and Galina met at that polished dinner some time ago, or if I’ve already been cracked open by what lies ahead.

“Thank you for coming.”

“I said I would,” I reply simply.

He nods, then turns to lead me inside. “You’ve met the patient briefly last week when he arrived. He’s in the east wing and monitored at all times. Security is embedded. You’ll be safe.”

The interior is sparse but tasteful—an intentional lack of softness. The air tastes different here, old wood and gun oil beneath the veneer of furniture polish. My heels click too loud on the marble, each step echoing like a countdown.

No distractions. Nothing sentimental. Even the artwork is abstract. Cold lines. Order. I spot cameras in the corners of the hallway—unhidden, deliberate. A message, no doubt. To Yakov, and maybe to me.

“Has he been cooperative?” I ask, matching Vasiliy’s pace with quiet effort.

“Compliant,” he answers. “Too compliant.”

I glance over at him.

He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to.

“Yakov doesn’t cooperate,” Vasiliy continues after a beat. “He observes. Adapts. This quiet? It’s not surrender. It’s strategy.”

We stop outside a door guarded by two men in plain black clothing with no insignia, but with the unmistakable posture of trained muscle. One of them opens the door without a word.

Inside, the room is what I expected—converted, controlled, sterile in its cleanliness, but not entirely cold. A therapy space by design, not intention. Two chairs. Neutral color palette. A low table between us. A panic button to my right. I acknowledge it with a nod.

Vasiliy follows my gaze.

“If you feel even slightly unsafe, press it. We’ll be monitoring. Not listening or recording,” he adds, nodding toward the corner-mounted camera. “Confidentiality still matters. To an extent.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. My ethics matter, but they don’t override survival.

He watches me for a moment longer, then his posture eases just slightly. “Galina asked me to tell you the baby is thriving. Vasya has her eyes, her stubbornness.”

That draws a smile from me—genuine, but fleeting. “She deserves every joy.”

“She earned it.” He hesitates, then adds, “And she trusts you. We all do.”

There’s weight behind that. A warning. A reminder. An expectation.

I nod. “Then I won’t let you down.”

He studies me for one final beat, then turns to go, leaving me alone in the doorway.

Beyond it waits Yakov Gagarin.

The man who’s part puzzle, part predator. The patient who could make or break the career I’ve spent a lifetime building.

I smooth my jacket, square my shoulders, and step into the room.

The space beyond is deceptively serene—neutral tones, comfortable furnishings, but no sharp edges, no unsecured objects, no illusion of privacy. Everything about the room is designed to control, to observe, to limit.

And he’s already there.

Standing by the window, back lit in gray light.

He turns when I step inside, and the stillness in him is immediate and unsettling, like something coiled—not dormant, but waiting.

Taller than I expected. Lean, but not fragile.

His sweater can’t conceal the breadth of his shoulders or the precision in his movements.

But it’s his eyes that stop me—ice-blue and startlingly alert. Watching everything. Watching me.