Page 3 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

His gaze drops, just for a moment, taking in the line of my suit, the curve where jacket meets skirt.

It’s deliberate, meant to unsettle. A maddening rush of awareness zips down my spine, heat blooming across my skin despite the room’s chill as those eyes catalog every detail—the slight tremor in my hand, the pulse I know is visible at my throat, the careful distance I maintain between us.

“Dr. Agapova.” My name rolls off his tongue like he’s tasting it. “Tell me, did they warn you about me, or did you volunteer for this particular suicide mission?”

There’s an edge to it—polite, but only just. A test.

I don’t blink. “Mr. Gagarin.” I gesture to the nearest chair without offering a handshake. “Please, have a seat.”

He doesn’t move. Instead, he circles the chair slowly, fingers trailing along its back. “How young were you when your mother died, Doctor?”

The question hits like ice water. I keep my expression neutral, but he’s already seen the micro-flinch. “We’re here to discuss you, Mr. Gagarin. Please sit.”

“Twenty-eight, wasn’t it? Is she the reason you chose this field? “ He finally sits, but it feels like a concession he’s granting, not obedience. “Columbia for undergrad, Harvard for your doctorate. Impressive. Though I wonder if they taught you about men like me in those ivory towers.”

“Mr. Gagarin, let’s focus?—”

“You dressed carefully today,” he observes, eyes traveling slowly back up to meet mine. “Professional armor. Though that particular shade of lipstick suggests you wanted to feel powerful. Confident. Did you apply it fresh in the car before coming in?”

My jaw tightens. I had reapplied it. “We’re not here to discuss?—”

“Your appearance? But it’s relevant, Doctor. Everything about how we present ourselves is data. Like how you chose a skirt that’s just conservative enough to be professional, but the way you keep tugging at the hem says you’re second-guessing that choice now.”

“We’ll begin with ground rules.”

“Will we?” He doesn’t wait for permission before moving his chair closer, just enough to make the space between us feel suddenly intimate.

His knee nearly brushes mine. The air between us heats, carries his scent—cedar and smoke and something indefinably male that makes my stomach tighten.

I can hear him breathing, slow and controlled, while my own lungs forget their rhythm.

This close, I can see the faint scar along his jawline, the way his throat moves when he swallows.

My eyes catch on his hands—elegant but strong, a killer’s hands—and I force my gaze away.

“I have a rule too, Doctor. No lies. Not from me,” his eyes drop deliberately to my white-knuckled grip on my pen, ”and not from you.”

“Our sessions will be one hour, three times per week. What you share is confidential, except in cases where I believe there’s a threat to yourself or others.” I hold his gaze. “I expect honesty. You’ll receive the same in return.”

“Honesty,” he repeats, like he’s trying the word on for size. “Curious currency, considering the context.”

“This is a professional relationship, Mr. Gagarin,” I say evenly. “Without honesty, this process is performative. And a performance won’t help either of us.”

He studies me, head tilted slightly. “You don’t seem like someone interested in performance.”

“I’m not.”

“And what exactly are we doing here, Doctor?” he asks, gesturing between us. “Reformation? Rebranding? Redemption? Or is this just theater to make the Volkovs sleep easier?”

There it is—the bait, wrapped in cynicism and perfectly timed.

He leans back, and somehow manages to take up more space, not less.

The movement pulls his sweater taut across his chest, and I hate that I notice.

Hate the way my body responds to the casual display of strength, the controlled power in even his smallest movements.

He catches me looking and his lips curve—not quite a smile, but close enough to make my face burn.

“That depends,” I answer, sidestepping neatly. “What do you want to achieve?”

He huffs a low breath. Not quite a laugh. “You really believe that matters?”

“I believe it’s where we start.”

“And if I said I have no interest in absolution? That I don’t want to be ‘better’? That I simply want to be left alone?”

“Then we go from there.” I make a note.

Something in his posture shifts, just barely. A flicker of curiosity.

“What are you writing?”

He rises from the chair he’d pulled close, the movement fluid and predatory.

Then he’s standing behind me, and my body knows before my mind catches up—every nerve firing alert.

His breath stirs the hair at my nape. This close, his cologne can’t mask what’s underneath: leather and iron and the faint trace of cordite.

Or maybe I’m just imagining it.

I don’t turn. Don’t move. Just sit there, spine locked, waiting for his next move. My skin prickles, too aware of the heat radiating from his body, the way the air shifts with each of his measured breaths.

“Sit down, Mr. Gagarin.”

“Make me.” The words are soft, almost playful, but his proximity is anything but. “Or would that require you to touch me? I wonder what your ethics say about that.”

My pulse is hammering against my throat.

“Tell me, Dr. Agapova,” he murmurs, still behind me. His voice is close enough that I feel it as much as hear it, a low rumble that seems to vibrate through me. “Do you always wear your hair up when you’re nervous? Or is that particular tell reserved for patients who frighten you?”

I force myself not to touch the careful twist at my nape, even as I become hyperaware of the exposed skin there. “Please return to your seat.”

“I prefer the view from here.” His fingers ghost near my shoulder, not quite touching, but close enough that the heat of his hand raises goosebumps along my neck. “You have a freckle, just behind your left ear. Did you know that?”

A beat.

“Your file says you specialize in trauma recovery. Noble work.” He moves back into my peripheral vision but doesn’t sit. “Though I imagine it’s easier when your patients are victims, not perpetrators. When you can maintain that comfortable moral distance.”

“What did you expect when you agreed to see me?” I ask, deflecting.

“Someone less interesting.” He finally returns to his chair, sprawling this time, claiming space.

“Dr. Marina Agapova. Published twice on PTSD treatment in Eastern European immigrants. Volunteer work with trafficking survivors. Three years treating Bratva soldiers for the syndicate—men who’d done terrible things and needed to function again.

” His eyes narrow. “A bleeding heart with a license, but one who’s seen the worst of our world up close.

Tell me, when you look at men like me, do you see patients to heal or puzzles to solve? ”

“Why would you want to intimidate me?” I ask instead of responding.

He smiles then, and it’s worse than his coldness.

“I don’t need to intimidate you. You’re already afraid.

Not of what I might do; the guards ensure you’ll be safe.

You’re afraid of what I might see.” He leans forward slightly.

“Like how you chose this case against everyone’s advice.

How you tell yourself it’s professional interest, but really, you’re drawn to danger.

It makes you feel alive in a way your predictable, structured life never does. ”

“That’s quite a projection, Mr. Gagarin.”

“Is it? Your pulse jumps every time I move. But it’s not just fear, is it, Doctor?

” His voice drops lower. “When was the last time someone truly saw you? Not the competent psychologist, not the supportive friend. You.” His eyes hold mine, and there’s something predatory there, something that makes my breath catch.

“When was the last time someone touched you and made you forget all those careful boundaries?”

The words hang between us, heavy with implication. My skin flushes hot, and I know he sees it—the way my chest rises a little too fast, the way I press my thighs together.

“You resist acknowledging discomfort, but not because you can’t feel it. Everything points to your mind-body connection being remarkable. That kind of control usually appears in trauma survivors who’ve learned to compartmentalize pain, not disconnect from it.”

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t challenge the observation. Doesn’t deny it either.

The silence stretches taut between us, filled with the soft tick of his watch and my too-rapid heartbeat. A bead of sweat traces down my spine despite the room’s chill.

He’s watching my mouth now, and I realize I’ve been biting my lower lip. His pupils dilate slightly—the first genuine reaction I’ve gotten from him. It’s gratifying and terrifying in equal measure.

“You mentioned ground rules,” he says, snapping his eyes back up. “Here’s one of mine. I don’t perform for academic curiosity. If you want to crack me open, Doctor, you’ll have to offer something in return. Quid pro quo.”

“That’s not how therapy works.”

“Then we’re at an impasse.” He tilts his head.

“Though I suspect you’ll find a way to rationalize it.

You want to understand me too badly to walk away.

It’s written all over you—in the way you grip that pen like a lifeline, the careful distance you maintain, the way your breathing changes when I get too close to the truth. ”

I don’t respond.

“Your file says you suffered catastrophic spinal trauma,” I divert. “Crushed vertebrae. The medical reports were…extensive.”

He pauses before responding. “Thorough documentation. Yes.”

“They predicted 60 percent mobility at best. Permanent limitations.” My voice drops, taking on a careful tone. “Yet you move like someone who’s never been injured.”

A bitter laugh escapes him. “Doctors excel at limitations. At telling people what they can’t do.”

“And you disagreed with their assessment.”

He crosses his arms. “I decided their predictions were unacceptable,” he says simply. “So I chose differently.”