Page 32 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

BOUNDARIES IN ASH

MILA

T wenty-four hours back at the mansion, and I finally finish unpacking. Long enough to fall into old routines, to remember why leaving felt impossible the first time.

Long enough to study the new security patterns.

My fingers skim over the familiar weight of the burgundy dress folded at the bottom of my bag, the one I wore during an early session, the one that caught his gaze and held it. I set it aside with care.

Not for therapy this time.

For something else entirely.

“This is temporary,” Aleksander had said this morning, his voice calm, his tone more persuasive than Igor’s could ever be.

He’d laid out the surveillance photos on my kitchen table—two Colombian men, loitering too close to my apartment building. “Pablo’s making moves. We need you somewhere controlled.”

I hadn’t argued. I should have. But I didn’t. Not when the prospect of returning to the mansion—to Yakov—lit something in my chest I couldn’t pretend away.

The professional in me recoils at everything that’s happened between us. But the woman?

She doesn’t regret a thing.

Last night, after dinner, I’d walked these halls like I used to, mapping changes, noting the guard rotations, the camera sweeps. Old habits from growing up around the Sokolovs. You learn to see the seams in any security system when you’re raised by people who build them.

It’s been days of pretending our night together was a lapse in judgment instead of a seismic shift. Days of replaying his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the weight of him anchoring me to something I wasn’t ready to name. Days of craving more.

A knock pulls me from the spiral.

“Dr. Agapova?” One of the guards waits outside my door, his stance formal. “Mr. Sokolov asked me to let you know dinner will be served in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you. I’ll be down shortly.”

When he leaves, I finish unpacking with robotic movements, refusing to dwell on the fact that Yakov is only rooms away. Same mansion. Same wing. Still behind a wall of guards and protocol, but close enough.

I shouldn’t want this.

But I do.

I change into a simple black dress, polished enough for dinner among Bratva royalty, but tailored to flatter curves I usually shield. A touch of eyeliner. A whisper of perfume behind my ears. And the quiet lie I tell myself: this isn’t for him.

It’s just one more illusion on a growing list.

Dinner is…surprisingly easy. Aleksander sits at the head of the long table, Volk curled loyally at his feet. There’s none of Igor’s suspicion in his expression. Aleksander sees everything, but chooses what to respond to. That makes him infinitely more dangerous.

“You look tired,” he says, as plates are cleared and the room settles into post-meal quiet.

“The Colombian situation’s been…demanding,” I reply.

He nods once. “You haven’t stopped trembling since you walked in.”

I still my hand around my glass. “Always the keen observer.”

He offers a ghost of a smile. “Occupational hazard. When you’ve clawed your way back from addiction, you learn to read the body first.”

I’ve known Aleksander nearly as long as I’ve known Katarina. I saw what grief did to him after his girlfriend Anya died. I watched Igor drag him back from the edge. Seven years sober now, but the hyperawareness never left. He sees more than most. Feels more, too.

He catches me watching him and tilts his head. “You’re thinking too hard.”

“Occupational hazard,” I echo, smiling weakly.

Something flickers in his eyes. Understanding. Empathy. Maybe something else. “Grief makes us reach for strange comfort.” His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. “Sometimes we find exactly what we need. Sometimes we find exactly what destroys us.”

The words are too precise to be casual conversation.

He knows.

When dessert arrives, Aleksander leans back, hands steepled, gaze unreadable. “I know you requested a transfer, but under the circumstances, we’re not in a position to bring someone else in. If you’re comfortable with it, your sessions with Gagarin will resume tomorrow.”

My pulse skips.

“Of course,” he continues, voice carefully neutral, “given the…developments in your professional relationship, we understand these won’t be traditional therapeutic sessions. Consider it more of a consultation arrangement. Someone needs to monitor his psychological state, and he responds to you.”

The subtext is crystal clear: We know. We’re giving you both an excuse.

“I understand,” I say, too smoothly. “It’ll be fine.”

Aleksander’s slight nod tells me he knows exactly what kind of ‘consultation’ this will be. “The syndicate appreciates your…flexibility in this matter.”

Administrative purposes. Professional cover for something that stopped being professional weeks ago.

“A slight shift in the timing, though. Two o’clock tomorrow,” he says, returning to his dessert as if we’ve just discussed the weather.

“Same room, same duration. I’m sure you’ll find effective ways to…

assess his progress.” He studies me a beat longer, then nods.

“Standard procedures will apply. I’ve adjusted the guard rotation.

Fewer eyes. Less interruptions. Confidentiality still matters. ”

I arch a brow at the unexpected concession. “Thank you. Most wouldn’t prioritize that kind of privacy, especially under these conditions.”

Aleksander strokes Volk’s ears absently, his gaze drifting but never truly unfocused. “Most haven’t learned how much a safe space can mean. You and Gagarin both need one, I think.”

The words land. Not just an observation, an understanding. Aleksander’s perception is quieter than Igor’s, but somehow more dangerous for it. Where Igor wields suspicion like a weapon, Aleksander gathers truth like a net and waits for you to realize you’ve already been caught.

“He’s different,” he says after a beat. “Gagarin. Since you came into the picture.”

My fingers tighten around my glass, but I keep my expression neutral. “That’s the goal of therapy.”

“Is it therapy, though?” Aleksander’s voice lowers, pitched only for me. “Or something else entirely?”

The question hangs there, pointed, impossible to dodge. Before I can muster a response that doesn’t taste like a lie, he rises, Volk moving fluidly to his side.

“Be careful, Mila.” His voice drops, carrying the weight of experience. “I know what it’s like to need someone so much you’d burn your life down for them. Sometimes that’s love. Sometimes it’s just another addiction.”

Then he’s gone, already dialing Igor as he exits. I remain seated, suddenly restless, unwilling to return to the quiet of my room and the storm waiting inside it.

I wander the halls instead, mapping the familiar turns, registering the uptick in security since my last stay. More guards. Tighter perimeters. The illusion of safety, reinforced with concrete and steel.

Eventually, the night air calls to me. I find myself at the terrace doors, the scent of rain still clinging to the stones outside. It’s quiet now, washed clean. The guards are stationed far enough away that the terrace itself feels…still. Almost private.

But I’m not alone.

Yakov stands at the far end, braced against the balustrade, his profile etched in cold light. He’s dressed simply—black sweater, black trousers—but nothing about him reads casual. His posture is sharp, precise, carved from tension and control. He hears the door open but doesn’t turn right away.

I move toward him, drawn by something that defies reason, ethics, and every rule I once believed sacred.

“I thought you were restricted to the east wing,” I say, stopping a few feet away.

Now he turns. Blue eyes meet mine across the dimness.

“Special dispensation,” he says with a dry edge, “for good behavior. Or maybe they’re just testing me. Seeing if a taste of freedom is enough to make me run.”

“And will you?” I ask, stepping closer.

He tilts his head, gaze steady. “Not tonight.”

The answer settles deep, not because he can’t escape. But because he won’t.

Because of me.

The thought sends heat straight through me.

“I didn’t expect to be back so soon,” I murmur, joining him at the railing, eyes on the dark stretch of garden below.

“I did.” His reply is soft. Certain. “Pablo’s not finished. Not with you. Not with us.”

The phrasing catches in my throat. “Us?”

“You’re tied to me now, Mila.” His voice drops lower, darker. “That makes you valuable. And vulnerable.”

I should be alarmed. I should hear that as a threat.

Instead, it lands like a promise.

“Aleksander knows,” I say, testing his reaction. “About us. I think Igor too.”

Yakov doesn’t flinch. “Aleksander understands mess. He understands what it means to climb out of your own wreckage.”

“Because of what he’s lived through?”

His hand shifts closer to mine on the stone, fingers almost brushing. “Possibly. Does it worry you that they know?”

“It should,” I admit. “Professionally. Ethically. Practically. It’s catastrophic.”

He turns fully, angling his body toward mine. The air shifts between us.

“And yet?”

And yet.

“I can’t bring myself to regret it.” The words come quiet, but unflinching. I’ve said harder truths in smaller rooms. But none that felt like this.

His gaze locks on mine, searching, not for weakness but for permission. Whatever he finds softens his expression in a way only I’ve seen.

“You’ve changed me,” he says quietly, “in ways I didn’t anticipate.”

My breath catches. “How?”

“Before you, there was only revenge. Making the families pay for Ana.” His hand finds mine on the stone, fingers gently threading through mine. “Now there’s possibility I thought I’d buried with her.”

I barely breathe. “Possibility?”

His eyes never leave mine. “A future.”

Just one word. But it unravels everything.

My heart hammers against my ribs. One word, and every wall I’ve built crumbles. This isn’t infatuation. It’s not just desire. This is a connection that could destroy me. Something that could level me completely if I let it grow.

“You’ve changed me too,” I admit, the words pulled from a place I haven’t dared to acknowledge until now. “You’ve made me question boundaries I thought were nonnegotiable. Made me want to question my choices.”

His thumb strokes a slow, knowing line across my palm. Every pass sends a current straight through me.

“And what do you want now, Mila?”

The question hovers between us, hot, loaded, forbidden. My professional self screams in protest.

But out here, with the night pressing close and his hand holding mine, ethics feels like a language I no longer speak.

“You,” I say, soft but certain. “Tonight.”

His pupils flare, the tension between us snapping taut. “Aleksander’s shifted the security coverage.”

“I’ve studied the rotation,” I interrupt. “Midnight shift change leaves a three-minute blind spot in the west corridor. Second-floor cameras loop footage between 12:05 and 12:08.”

His expression sharpens, not with surprise but recognition. “You noticed the guard pivot at 12:10.”

“You’ve been watching too.”

“Since the first night I was allowed terrace access.” His mouth curves. “Great minds, Doctor.”

“I’m a quick study,” I say, echoing his own words back at him. “And I had an excellent teacher.”

A predatory flicker crosses his expression, approval mixed with dark amusement. “Three nights of observation. Same conclusion.” His voice drops. “Though I had additional motivation for mapping those blind spots.”

“Which was?”

“Getting to you.”

His fingers tighten around mine, his body leaning just enough to brush against me. Heat coils low and fierce in my stomach.

“Midnight, then.”

“If we’re caught?—”

“We won’t be.” The certainty in his voice should reassure me. Instead, it reminds me exactly how dangerous he is when he wants something. “I’ve been planning this since the night you left.”

“Planning what?”

“How to get you back. How to keep you.” His thumb traces across my knuckles. “How to make sure you never have to choose between wanting me and your conscience again.”

“My room,” I murmur. “West wing. Third door on the right.”

“I’ll be there.” His voice drops to a rough whisper that slides under my skin. “And Mila?”

The way he says my name—like he’s tasting it—makes heat pool low in my belly. “Yes?”

“Wear the burgundy dress. The one from our fifth session.”

My pulse stutters. Of course he remembers. Of course he noticed the way it clung to my curves, the way I’d chosen it deliberately, the way his eyes had tracked every line.

“You want me to dress for you.”

“I want you to dress like the woman who chose to seduce her patient.” His eyes burn into mine. “Not the doctor who pretends it was an accident.”

“How do you even know I packed it?” I ask, testing him, though my voice comes out breathy.

His smile is slow, predatory. “Because you’re not the type to leave weapons behind, Dr. Agapova. And that dress?” His gaze travels down my body like a physical touch. “That dress is definitely a weapon.”

My cheeks are on fire. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I’m sure of you.” The certainty in his voice makes my knees weak. “You packed it for the same reason you wore red lipstick today. The same reason you chose that perfume. You want me to notice.”

It makes my breath catch, my body pulse with anticipation.

“I should go,” I say, reluctantly pulling back.

He lets go, but his gaze stays locked on mine. The weight of it is physical. Claiming.

“Until midnight.”

As I turn and walk away, I feel it, that heat, that pull, that promise. His eyes never leave me. I don’t have to look back to know.

Behind the terrace doors, my pulse thunders. Three hours.

Three hours until I stop pretending this is anything other than what it is: complete surrender to a man who was never supposed to become essential.

Back in my room, I pull the burgundy dress from my suitcase and lay it across the bed. Rich fabric that remembers the shape of my body, the weight of his gaze.

When I put it on tonight, it won’t be for therapy.

It will be for him.

And for the first time in years, the choice feels exactly right.