Page 6 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

She swallows hard, the movement drawing my attention to the delicate line of her throat. For a moment, her professional mask slips completely, and I see raw understanding in her eyes. Her body angles toward mine, just an inch, but it’s enough. She wants comfort. Connection.

I could give it to her. Or I could use it against her.

The choice is delicious.

Her pen stills. A crack. Proof that she bleeds like everyone else.

Then she composes herself. “We’re here to focus on your experiences, Mr. Gagarin.”

“That’s not a denial,” I murmur.

She doesn’t bite. Professional to the bone.

“You’ve done your research,” I continue, nodding at the notebook in her lap. “I’m simply returning the favor. Knowledge is leverage, Doctor. Surely you can appreciate that.”

“What makes you think I’ve researched you personally?”

“Your composure. Most people who know what I’ve done can’t hide their discomfort when they’re alone with me. You’re curious instead of afraid. That means you either have extraordinary courage…or enough information to know I won’t gut you with the pen in your hand.”

She meets my gaze without flinching, but I catch the way her breathing changes—shallower, faster. The slight dilation of her pupils. Her body knows I’m a threat even if her mind pretends otherwise.

My own breathing isn’t as steady as I’d like. Her scent clings—warm, familiar. I curl my hands into fists to keep from undoing that tight twist of hair she thinks hides her. The urge to touch her is becoming a physical ache.

“Perhaps both,” she says, and there’s the slightest tremor in her voice.

“Perhaps.” I let the smile rise. Controlled. Intentional. “Or perhaps you’re simply overconfident.”

“Is that a threat?”

“An observation. There’s a difference.”

Silence again. Less empty this time, charged, alive. A kind of tension I haven’t felt in years.

She shifts forward, changing course. “Tell me about your relationship with your father.”

I laugh softly. “Why don’t you tell me about yours first?”

I reach across the space between us, plucking her pen from her fingers before she can react. I turn it over in my hands, studying it like it holds secrets.

“Expensive,” I note, running my thumb along the smooth surface. “A gift? Or do you buy yourself beautiful things, Doctor?” I hold it just out of her reach, watching her decide whether to demand it back or let me have this small victory.

An eyebrow lifts. She doesn’t blink. “You believe in reciprocity?”

“I believe in fairness. A concept your associates discarded the moment they put me in this cage.” I place her pen back on her notebook.

“Do you believe your current situation is unfair?”

I laugh again, sharper this time. “I orchestrated three kidnappings, partnered with a sadist, and nearly fractured the syndicate beyond repair. By all accounts, I should be rotting in a cell—or dead. Instead, I get catered meals and luxury linens.” I gesture around the room. “No, Doctor. Fair doesn’t apply.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Strategic repositioning.” The same phrase I gave her last time. I watch her note it again.

“And what is your strategy now, Yakov?”

“Survival,” I say. “Followed by adaptation. Then, opportunity.”

“You speak as though your circumstances are temporary.”

“They are. All circumstances are.”

“Philosophy as defense.” She tilts her head slightly. “Interesting tactic.”

I reassess her with fresh interest.

She’s smarter than I gave her credit for. Less prone to emotional manipulation. Harder to unnerve.

The realization is irritating.

And strangely satisfying.

“What about your nephew, Damien?” she asks, slipping a new piece onto the board. “I understand you care deeply about him.”

The name alone fractures something.

I don’t mean for it to. But it does.

Flashes come uninvited. Anastasiya, pale and soaked in sweat, cradling that fragile newborn like he was made of glass. Her lips pressing to his forehead with a tenderness I’ll never forget. Her eyes locking on mine as she whispered a plea I would carry like a chain: “ Protect him, Yakov.”

I blink once. Hard. The air shifts.

She sees it—the micro shift in my posture, the tightening in my jaw. A flicker of emotion I didn’t authorize. And like any good predator, she wants to pounce on the opening. But I don’t let her.

“Careful,” I murmur, reaching out to tuck that persistently loose strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger against her cheek, feeling the warmth there. “You’re showing your hand, Doctor. Getting too eager.”

She freezes, caught between pulling away and melting into my touch. For a moment, we are both still. Then she forces herself back, but the damage is done. We both felt it. That spark. That want.

“Damien is innocent,” I say, my voice clipped. Sharper than I intended. “He should be kept out of this.”

“And yet your actions put his family in danger.” Her tone is clinical, not accusatory. That’s what makes it cut deeper. “His father could’ve died because of your vendetta.”

“Igor Sokolov deserved to suffer,” I snap. “For what he did to Anastasiya.”

“And what did he do?” she asks quietly.

I don’t answer.

Not because I don’t know. Because I know too well.

Because there are truths I’m not ready to hand over—not to her, not to anyone.

The silence stretches. She doesn’t push. Just waits. Calm. Still. Like she’s offering space instead of pressing into it.

It infuriates me.

She closes her notebook, the motion deliberate.

I stand again and move behind her chair before she can rise, my hands coming to rest on the back of it, effectively trapping her. “Leaving so soon?” I lower my voice, letting it rumble near her ear. “But we were just getting comfortable.”

“I think we’ll stop here for today,” she says, but her voice catches when my fingers brush her shoulder.

“Running away?” I murmur. The words are dry but laced with darkness. Want.

“Not running.” She stands up and straightens, facing me. She’s brave, I give her that. “Setting boundaries. Something I imagine you respect.” Then she steps around me and walks to the door.

“Before you go,” I call to her. “One question.”

I follow to the door, reaching past her to rest my hand on the doorknob, my arm brushing hers. She could move. She doesn’t.

“Why this case?” I ask, my other hand coming up to hover near her face, close enough that she can feel the air around me enveloping her. “You didn’t take it just for the professional challenge.”

She pauses.

“Maybe I believe people can change, Mr. Gagarin,” she says. “Even the ones who think they can’t.”

She turns to leave, but I place my hand flat against the door, holding it shut. Not threatening. Not quite. But definitely crossing a line.

“You didn’t answer my question.” I feel her sharp intake of breath. “Why this case? Why me?”

She turns slowly, back against the door, trapped between wood and me.

Her whole body is attuned to mine, swaying slightly forward even as her hands press flat against the door behind her.

Her breathing goes ragged, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that has nothing to do with fear.

I can see her pulse hammering at the base of her throat, quick as a trapped bird.

“Maybe,” she starts, and her voice has dropped to barely above a whisper. “I have a weakness for lost causes.”

“Or dangerous men?”

Something flickers in her eyes—desire, fear, recognition.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips; nervous habit or invitation, I’m not sure she knows herself.

But her body knows. It’s in the way she stays put despite the open space I’ve given her.

The way her eyes keep dropping to my mouth before snapping back up. “Is there a difference?”

I let her see my smile, the real one, not the calculated versions I wear like masks. “You’re about to find out.”

I step back, letting her escape. She doesn’t run, but her exit lacks composure.

I watch her go, noting the slight tremor in her hands as she turns the door handle.

The way she pauses at the threshold, not looking back but wanting to.

I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her body fights itself.

Not yet, Doctor. But soon.

Next time, I’ll push. See how close I can get before that professional armor crumbles like everything else.

Because Dr. Mila Agapova isn’t here to fix me.

She’s here because some part of her, the part she hides behind degrees and boundaries, wants to break just as badly as I do.