Page 8 of Mafia King’s Broken Vow (New York Bratva #5)

FRACTURE POINT

YAKOV

I know she’s coming before the door opens.

Already, my body recognizes the shift in air pressure, the rhythm of her footsteps, the subtle pause just before the latch clicks open. Eleven o’clock. On the dot. Not a second early, not a second late.

Precision is her ritual.

It’s becoming mine, too.

She enters, sharp and polished. Black suit today, structured, severe. No jewelry except for the glint of a watch that never strays from her wrist. Hair wound tight. Not a strand out of place.

She’s armored. Prey that knows it’s being hunted.

But armor has weak points. The slight tremor in her hand as she sets down her briefcase. The way she won’t quite meet my eyes—not avoidance, but self-preservation. She’s still feeling our last session.

Good.

I remember the way her pulse jumped when I tucked that strand of hair behind her ear.

How her breath hitched when my fingers brushed her shoulder.

She tried to hide it, but her body told me everything—the slight lean into my touch before she caught herself, the flush that crept up her neck.

She wanted me to touch her again. Still wants it, judging by how carefully she’s avoiding my reach.

I can smell something different on her today. Not just the perfume, but something sharper underneath. Fear? Anticipation?

Both, I decide.

My pulse kicks up a notch, an involuntary response I haven’t had to anyone in years. My body recognizes it before my mind catches up, muscles coiling with something that isn’t quite tension, isn’t quite anticipation.

It’s hunger.

“Good morning, Mr. Gagarin,” she says, voice cool. Cooler than last time.

Interesting.

I turn from the window slowly, taking my time. Letting her feel the weight of my attention.

“Dr. Agapova,” I reply. “You look particularly…fortified this morning.”

I catch her tell, the way her throat works when she swallows, the defensive angle of her shoulders. She’s trying so hard not to show weakness. It makes me want to circle closer, find the soft spots, sink my teeth in. She takes her seat without acknowledging the bait, notebook balanced, pen poised.

Professional. Unshaken. Almost.

“I thought we’d discuss your childhood today,” she says without missing a beat. “Your early dynamic with your father.”

I don’t sit.

We both know the choreography—she waits, I sit, the game begins. But instead, I remain standing. I watch the way tension threads through her shoulders.

It’s subtle. But it’s there.

“My childhood,” I repeat, drawing out the syllables. “Curious choice. I would’ve thought we’d dig into something fresher. Betrayal. Blood. Bullets. I still can’t sleep on my left side, you know.”

I tap lightly on my chest where Jaromir left his mark. A warning shot meant to disable, not kill.

She doesn’t respond to the provocation.

“Early experiences inform current patterns,” she says instead. “Your relationship with your father likely shaped how you interpret control, loyalty, and consequence.”

I circle behind her chair like in our last session, letting my fingers trail along the leather back.

I know how much it unsettles her.

Last time, when I touched her notebook, her knuckles went white. When I took her pen, her fingers trembled as they reached for it. Such small touches, but they lit her up like struck matches. I wonder what would happen if I touched her with intent.

I’m close enough that she must feel the heat of me, the disruption of air as I move. Her breathing changes; she’s tracking me without turning her head.

“My father raised me the only way the Bratva teaches,” I say, pausing directly behind her. My voice is deliberately low, forcing her to strain to hear. “Through order. Through fear. Through the knowledge that every misstep costs someone something.”

I lean down, my mouth near her ear. “What does this cost you, Doctor? These sessions with me?”

She looks up, calm and composed, but I catch it, the flicker in her pupils. The readjustment of breath.

“And what exactly are you, Mr. Gagarin?”

A simple question. An attempt to distract. She pretends it’s neutral.

It isn’t.

I move closer, enough that she has to tilt her chin to keep her eyes on mine. I like that. Not the dominance—though that matters—but the fact that she still holds my gaze. No flinch. No recoil. She meets the discomfort head-on.

“I’m a man who studies patterns,” I breathe. “Yours, included.”

Her pen freezes. Good. I’ve got her attention now. The way she shifts in her seat, thighs pressing together, she’s already imagining what I could do to her. The thought makes my mouth water.

“Such as?” she asks.

I let my gaze devour her, starting at her throat, that vulnerable stretch of skin that flushes when she’s aroused, down to where her jacket pulls tight across her breasts with each shallow breath.

“You dressed for war today. Your suit. Your hair. The absence of softness. After our last session, you felt vulnerable. Today, you came for control.”

A beat.

“Is that what this is to you? War?”

“All connection is warfare, Doctor,” I murmur. “Even therapy.”

I slide onto the arm of her chair, uninvited.

She goes rigid, just like when I moved the chair closer in our first session.

But I remember what came after the rigidity, the softening, the unconscious sway toward me.

Her body knows what her mind won’t admit.

It remembers my proximity, craves it even as she fights it.

I’m close enough to see the pulse fluttering at her throat, to catch the hitch in her breath.

She affects me more than I expect. Heat pools low in my gut, and I have to shift slightly to hide my body’s reaction. Christ, when did I start behaving like some untried boy instead of a man who’s mastered control?

“Fuck,” I breathe, the curse slipping out before I can catch it.

She looks up sharply. “Excuse me?”

I’ve never lost my composure like this. Never let profanity slip in a professional setting. But she’s undoing me, thread by thread.

“You’re in my space,” she says quietly.

“Your space?” I let my knee brush against her arm, watch the goosebumps rise. “Everything here is my cage, Doctor. You’re the one who chose to step inside.”

She doesn’t move.

Frozen. Like a rabbit that’s spotted the wolf. But rabbits run, and she’s still here, pulse visible at her throat, waiting to see if I’ll pounce. The predator in me purrs at her stillness. At her submission disguised as professionalism.

“You press for weakness,” I say. “I parry. You dig. I distract. Then we switch roles. You deflect. I press. You call this therapy. I call it strategy.”

“Therapy isn’t a power struggle.”

“Everything is,” I say simply. “Especially when one of us is in a cage.”

She straightens a little. Her voice holds.

“Is that what you want from these sessions? To be free?”

I laugh. Not a performance. Real, quiet laughter.

“What I want stopped mattering the moment the Bratva decided I wasn’t worth killing. Now I’m a curiosity. A case study. Something to be managed.”

She closes her notebook. I don’t miss the signal; it’s intentional. She wants me to see that I have her full attention now.

“And you believe I’m here to manage you?” she asks. “To make you compliant?”

“You’re here,” I say, leaning just close enough to test her limits, “because someone thinks you can make sense of what I did. Maybe even fix it. But I don’t think you believe that.”

Her expression doesn’t shift.

I push harder.

“I think you study broken men to feel powerful. Or maybe just to forget the broken parts of yourself.”

And there it is.

Anger. Not loud. Not messy. But real.

And underneath it, something else. Not pain. Not exactly.

Recognition.

She recovers quickly. “And what do you look for, Yakov?” she asks, dropping the formalities. “Cracks to exploit? Or your own reflection?”

I move back to my chair, wanting to watch her face to face.

She’s not breaking. She’s bracing. But I can smell her arousal beneath the fear—sweet and sharp, like blood in the water. It makes me want to drag her down, show her what happens when you swim in dangerous depths.

This is getting good.

“We all seek reflections,” I say quietly. “Some of us just have more fractured pieces to choose from.”

I don’t look at her, but I feel her watching me. It’s like being touched, her gaze trailing over my shoulders, my hands. Is she wondering what those hands would feel like on her skin? I am. I’m imagining marking her, claiming her, making her forget every professional boundary she’s ever learned.

“You retreat into philosophy when the questions hit too close to home,” she says. Calm. Unflinching. “It’s another one of your tells.”

“And you lean on psychoanalysis like it’s armor,” I say, facing her. “Your control is just a more polished form of deflection.”

She doesn’t deny it.

“Like that dream you have,” I continue, watching her carefully. “The one at 3:17 a.m.”

She goes completely still. Not even breathing.

“The one where you’re drowning in your mother’s hospital room.” I keep my voice soft, almost gentle. “The monitors keep beeping, but you can’t breathe. You’re underwater, but somehow still in that chair beside her bed, watching her die again while you suffocate.”

The color drains from her face.

“Stop.” Her voice is in shambles. Just for a beat. But it’s enough.

I move closer, drawn by the crack in her armor. “But you can’t stop, can you? Every night, same time. Same dream. Same guilt.”

She’s trembling now, and I realize I’ve miscalculated. This isn’t just professional composure shattering; this is real pain. Raw. Unguarded.