Page 20 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s full and weighty. I feel the shift in the room like a pressure drop before a storm.

“Thank you,” I say, simply. “For trusting me.”

His eyes meet mine, direct, unguarded, unflinching. “You asked who I am. This is it. That night. That boy. Everything else spins out from there.”

It’s the closest he’s ever come to surrendering control in front of me. And I know better than to ruin it with analysis or questions.

The moment stretches between us, fragile and electric. I want to reach for him, to offer comfort that has nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me.

But before I can move, before I can speak, the spell shatters.

A sharp knock cracks the air. The door swings open.

Igor stands in the threshold, flanked by two guards. His face is carved from stone. “We’re going into lockdown.”

I rise, heart thudding. “What happened?”

“Pablo Montoya was spotted near the perimeter. Armed. Possibly alone, but we’re not assuming anything.” Igor’s eyes cut to Yakov, then to me, and I see it—the suspicion, the calculation.

Yakov’s body goes still in that way only dangerous men can. “This location isn’t in any external files.”

The message is clear: someone betrayed them.

“We’re looking into it,” Igor snaps. “In the meantime, Mila’s being moved to another room.”

I step forward without thinking. “I should stay. We’re in the middle of?—”

“You’re done,” Igor says flatly. “Therapy can wait. Your safety can’t.”

He turns to gesture for the guards, but Yakov moves first, placing himself between me and Igor like a wall of quiet menace.

“The room next to mine is fortified.” His voice is deadly calm. But I catch something else underneath, something possessive and protective that has nothing to do with strategy.

He’s not just suggesting better security. He’s making sure I’m close enough to protect.

Igor doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw flexes. “We’ll discuss it outside.”

“No,” Yakov says, voice like ice. “You’ll make the call now.”

The guards shift, unsure, caught between two apex predators. I stand frozen, adrenaline buzzing, every nerve screaming the same truth.

Something’s changed.

Not just between Yakov and me. But inside him.

And this time, it’s not about vengeance.

It’s about protection.

Igor’s eyes narrow. “And how exactly do you know the security specs of rooms you were never cleared to inspect?”

Yakov doesn’t flinch. Just smiles, cool and measured. “Because I’ve been watching. Every shift change. Every echo. The wall’s thicker on that side. Sound moves different. Whoever built this place didn’t hide it well.”

A pause. Just long enough to unnerve.

“If you want to keep her safe, put her where nothing breaks.”

The tension between them sharpens, electric and unspoken, a power struggle playing out beneath the civility of strategy. Finally, Igor grits out a terse nod.

“Fine. Rotate the guards every ninety minutes. No contact unless approved.”

Then his gaze shifts to me—hard, immovable. “This isn’t a debate, Mila. You go now. You stay there until it’s over.”

I open my mouth, close it again. There’s no room for negotiation here, not with the walls tightening around us and danger pacing just beyond the gates.

As the guards move into position, I glance back at Yakov. He’s standing still now, not defiant, just steady. Watching me with an unreadable expression that, for a flicker of a second, slips. And in that slip, something quieter lives. Concern. Maybe more.

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” he says, voice light but with an undertone designed to be heard. “I’m sure your Colombian admirer will be handled with Bratva efficiency.”

But his eyes say something else. Not bravado. Not threat. Something unspoken but unmistakable. A promise. A warning. A claim.

The corridors are no longer quiet. The mansion has shifted around me, no longer just a gilded cage, but a war bunker. Voices hiss through radios. Boots echo. Doors lock behind us.

The room they place me in is secure, quiet but humming with tension. One guard inside. Another outside. Too close to Yakov’s room for comfort. Or maybe it’s not discomfort I’m feeling.

Through a sliver of the window, I catch glimpses of the grounds, dark shapes moving low to the earth, rifles and radios and purpose.

I sink onto the bed’s edge, trying to reset my breath, but there’s no composure left. Not after today. Not after what he told me. Anastasiya. Damien. Blood on his hands. Grief he’s never escaped. Guilt wrapped around his spine like armor.

He’s not just a patient anymore.

He hasn’t been for a while.

This is the textbook definition of countertransference, blurring the lines between therapy and intimacy, confusing compassion with connection. I should be horrified.

I’m not.

Because what I feel for Yakov Gagarin isn’t confusion.

It’s clarity. Sharp and unforgiving.

I want to comfort him. I want to understand him. I want him to be the version of himself that I glimpsed today, even if he never admits that man exists. And worse, I want him to touch me again. I want to finish what we started.

The lockdown continues. Outside, the night thickens. Inside, I sit in silence with the knowledge that something has already been breached.

Not the perimeter.

Me.

And no amount of protocol will protect me from what I’ve let in.