Page 7 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

TRANSFERENCE

MILA

T he rain has stopped by the time I step outside, but the air is thick with the scent of wet earth and pine—a weight that settles over my shoulders like the aftershock of something I can’t quite name.

I breathe in deeply, grounding myself.

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

It’s a technique I’ve taught dozens of patients over the years. Now I use it on myself.

My hand trembles as I unlock the car. I ignore it.

I can still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin where he touched my hand, my shoulder, tucked that strand of hair behind my ear. My body remembers even as my mind tries to forget. Every nerve ending he awakened still hums, hypersensitive beneath my clothes.

Yakov Gagarin is a master at disruption. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t threaten. He observes. Presses. Waits. And somehow, in the span of fifty minutes, he managed to find the hairline fracture in my armor.

Not many can.

I’ve built that shell over years of schooling, licensing, practice. I’ve sat across from murderers, cartel lieutenants, men who killed without blinking, and none of them have ever read me the way Yakov did in a single breath.

He saw the loss. My loss.

And I let him.

I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary as I pull onto the road. The route back to the city winds past skeletal trees and frozen fields, a stark contrast to the clinical warmth of that therapy room.

Professional detachment. That’s what I need to reestablish. What I’ve always maintained. What I must maintain.

But the effect of Damien’s name on Yakov’s face—the flicker, the hesitation, the pain he didn’t mean to show—lingers.

Fascinating.

Dangerous.

By the time I hit traffic, the tension in my shoulders has hardened into something else, frustration, maybe. Or anticipation. I turn on the radio and let the familiar, precise lines of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 fill the car. Each note is like scaffolding. Clean. Mathematical. Controlled.

When I reach my office, the mask is back in place.

My next patient waits in the lobby: Pablo Montoya. Well-groomed. Charming. The kind of man who uses polish as a weapon. He stands when I enter, his smile sharp beneath that scar that slices beneath his eye.

“Dr. Agapova, lovely to see you again.”

“Mr. Montoya.” I return the smile with practiced warmth. “Please, come in.”

He walks with confidence, maybe too much of it.

His cologne precedes him—expensive, assertive.

His eyes linger on me half a second longer than necessary.

Not the first time a male patient has tried to test the boundaries.

But after Yakov’s calculated invasions, Pablo’s attempts feel clumsy.

Where Yakov slips past my defenses like smoke, Pablo batters against them like a blunt instrument.

It won’t work.

Inside the consultation room, I open his file and ease into my chair. “Last time, we discussed your discomfort with public speaking. How have the breathing techniques been working?”

He leans back, legs casually crossed. “They’ve helped. But lately I’ve found myself…distracted by other concerns.”

“What kind of concerns?”

“Business expansions. New ventures.” His smile is smooth. Practiced. His eyes, less so. “Competition can be…intense.”

“Import-export, correct?”

“Among other things,” he says with a wave, like the details are trivial. “But I didn’t come here to talk about business. I want to explore the root of my anxiety.”

“That’s what we’re here to do.” I lift my notebook. “You mentioned last time that your symptoms began after moving to New York. What prompted the relocation from Bogotá?”

A flicker crosses his face, something he smooths over quickly.

“Family obligations,” he says. “My uncle needed help managing things here.”

His fingers drum against his thigh— tap, tap, tap —and I notice the faint scarring across his knuckles. Fighter’s hands trying to play businessman.

“Your uncle,” I prompt. “Is he also in import-export?”

His smile sharpens. “He’s in…distribution. Making sure product reaches the right people at the right time.”

“And those obligations are a source of stress?”

“You could say that.” He leans forward, voice softening. “But enough about me. I’ve been thinking about you since our last session.”

I blink. “Our focus is your treatment, Mr. Montoya.”

“Pablo,” he corrects with another dismissive gesture. “And how can I be expected to expose my deepest thoughts to someone I know nothing about?”

“This isn’t an equal exchange,” I say, gently but firmly. “The purpose of therapy is to focus on your experiences. Your goals.”

“And you?” His voice dips. Too intimate. “You help others carry their pain. Who helps you carry yours, Doctor?”

His gaze lingers. Intrusive. Intentional.

He doesn’t know what line he’s toying with, but part of me wonders how far he’ll push.

I keep my professional smile in place while shifting the boundaries in my mind—firmer, tighter.

“Let’s redirect,” I say smoothly. “You mentioned physical symptoms, racing heart, shallow breathing. Are there specific triggers you’ve identified?”

He allows it, but only in the way predators allow smaller creatures to scurry out of reach—for now. His eyes still study me like I’m the one under the microscope, like we’re playing a different game than the one he booked this session for.

We continue, technically. He offers just enough to maintain the illusion of therapeutic cooperation. And just often enough, he tries to steer the conversation back to me .

By the time our hour ends, I’m drained, but not in the way Yakov exhausts me. With him, it was mental sparring. The thrill of trying to out-think someone who’s already three moves ahead.

With Pablo, it’s the slow bleed of being constantly on guard. Always calculating how to dodge the next inappropriate insinuation. How to hold my space against something that smells more like testing than trust.

He lingers at the door.

“Same time next week?”

“I’ll have my assistant reach out,” I say lightly. “My schedule’s shifting next week.” A lie, technically. But it buys me space.

He takes my hand before I can sidestep it, and the contrast hits immediately. Where Yakov’s touch burned electric, Pablo’s feels like oil. Slick. Wrong. He lifts it to his lips, and I have to fight not to yank it back.

“Until next time, Dr. Agapova.”

My skin crawls. I wait until the door clicks shut before walking to the sink and scrubbing my hands raw. His cologne clings like a film I can’t wash off. But underneath it, I can still smell cedar and smoke. Yakov.

Something about Pablo Montoya doesn’t track. The vague mentions of “ventures,” the over-rehearsed charm, the way his gaze flicks too often toward exits and sightlines. He doesn’t act like a man crippled by anxiety. He acts like someone scouting the terrain.

My phone buzzes. Nikolai Volkov’s name lights up the screen.

“Mila,” he says, his voice smooth and familiar. “How was your session with our mutual friend?”

“Productive,” I reply, giving nothing away. Patient confidentiality isn’t a line I cross, even for the man who brokered this entire arrangement. “We’re laying groundwork.”

“Which means he’s being difficult,” Nikolai says dryly. “I’m outside your building. Dinner?”

It’s unexpected, but welcome. After today, a conversation with someone who isn’t trying to unravel or seduce me might be exactly what I need.

“Give me five.”

He waits in a sleek, black SUV, his driver posted by the rear door like a sentry. I slide in beside him.

“You look tired,” he observes, as the vehicle pulls away.

“Two back-to-back sessions. Both testing boundaries.”

“Yakov and…?”

“Confidentiality, Nikolai,” I say firmly, though not unkindly. “You know the rules.”

He nods, accepting it without protest. That’s one thing I respect about him; he knows when to push and when not to.

We end up at a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach—quiet, unmarked, clearly Bratva owned. The staff greet Nikolai with subtle nods that speak volumes. We’re shown to a private alcove. No menus. No questions. Vodka arrives unbidden.

“To boundaries,” Nikolai says, raising his glass. His eyes hold a hint of amusement. “And the people who test them.”

I clink my glass gently against his. “And the professionals who maintain them.”

We eat. We talk. He doesn’t pry. I don’t vent. The conversation drifts to safer topics: Katarina, the aftermath of the kidnappings, the quiet reshuffling of power behind the scenes.

“She worries about you,” Nikolai says. “Working with Yakov.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “He’s just another patient.”

He gives me a look that says no, he isn’t , but he lets it slide.

Then, “Has Yakov said anything about Colombian cartel activity?”

I blink. “No. Why would he?”

“Before all this…revenge, Yakov had dealings in South America. He kept ties to certain factions, quiet ones. If anyone’s heard whispers about territorial shifts, it’s him.”

A cold knot forms in my stomach.

Business expansions. New territories. Pablo’s voice echoes, too smooth to be accidental.

I set my glass down slowly. “Why the sudden interest in the cartels?”

Nikolai studies me for a moment before answering. His expression sharpens, not Bratva boss, not protective friend. Strategist.

“There’s movement,” he says. “Quiet. Strategic. Small incursions into our territory that don’t match any known rival patterns. Nothing overt yet. But someone’s testing fences.”

“And you think Yakov’s involved?”

“I think Yakov knows more than he lets on.” His voice lowers, just a shade. “He always knows more. The question is whether he plans to be an asset or a complication.”

“Do you think Yakov can change?”

Nikolai doesn’t answer right away. He considers it like it matters, which, for Yakov, it does.

“Bratva’s not something you’re born into,” he says at last. “It’s something you choose. Or think you do, until you realize it’s shaped everything about you.”

He swirls the vodka in his glass but doesn’t drink. His voice is quieter now, edged with something rougher.

“We’re taught to survive, to command, to strike first and think later. Loyalty, violence, silence. It gets in your blood. In your instincts.”

He pauses.

“But we can change. Not easily. Not without cost. It takes something bigger than pride or pain to pull a man off the path he’s carved for himself.”

He looks at me then, steady.

“Sometimes, if the reason is strong enough, we don’t just change. We choose to become something else.”

“And what was your reason?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Katarina.”

The word softens his entire face. A rare thing. Vulnerable.

“She made me want to be more than what I was shaped into. Not softer, just…forward facing. Less about blood and legacy. More about future.”

“Love as redemption,” I murmur, and can’t help the flicker of doubt in my tone.

“Not love alone,” he says, catching it. “Purpose. Something to protect. Something bigger than revenge.”

I say nothing. But the words settle in the space between us.

Later, he drives me home. I don’t argue when he insists on walking me to my door. With men like Nikolai, protection isn’t just instinct, it’s culture. Denying it feels more disruptive than accepting it.

“Will you be alright the next time you go to see him?” he asks as I turn my key. “I can send someone.”

“I’ll manage.” I give him a small smile. “But thank you.”

Once inside, I slide back into my routine. Shower. Comfortable clothes. Tea steeping on the counter. I sit on the sofa with my research—articles on trauma loops and post-sociopathic adaptation strategies—but my mind doesn’t stay on the page.

It drifts.

Back to the therapy room. To Yakov, with his surgical silences and eyes that dissect. To Pablo, whose charm is too calculated and whose words feel more rehearsed than revealing. One speaks in riddles. The other in threats disguised as flirtation.

Both of them wearing masks. Different materials. Same effect.

I pull my knees to my chest, but the movement makes my blouse shift, and I catch Yakov’s scent again, faint but unmistakable. How is he still on my clothes? In my hair? I should shower again. Should wash him off.

I don’t move.

My phone vibrates against the table.

Unknown: Beautiful dreams, Dr. Agapova. Thank you for your time today.

No name. No signature. I never gave Pablo my personal number. But then again, I never gave it to?—

My pulse races. The formal phrasing could be Yakov’s precise voice. Or Pablo’s attempt at charm. Both had sessions today. Both pushed boundaries. Both want something from me I shouldn’t give.

Outside the window, headlights flare across the glass, brief and deliberate, before the car slips away into the night.

I clutch the phone, unable to tell if the shiver running through me is fear or something far more dangerous.

Two predators. Two very different hunts.

And I’m caught between them with no idea which one is circling closer.