Page 23 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
I cross to the window and part the curtain just enough to peer out. The street is quiet. Empty. Almost. A dark sedan idles across from my building, headlights dim. As I watch, they flash once—deliberate, like punctuation—then the car eases into motion and disappears around the corner.
My pulse hammers against my throat. My hands are slick with sweat as I let the curtain fall back. I wipe them on my slacks, but the tremor remains, a fine vibration I can’t control.
This isn’t just a breach of boundaries.
It’s a message.
I’ve worked with cartel sons and Bratva lieutenants. Sat across from men who’ve killed with their bare hands. I’ve held my ground against trauma and rage and despair so deep it barely resembled human emotion anymore.
So why does this—he—shake me?
Because Pablo isn’t unstable. He’s composed. Polished. Calculated.
And that makes him dangerous.
But it isn’t just Pablo. It’s the aftermath of my last session with Yakov. The echo of his voice, the way he leaned in like he could see through me. My jaw tingles where his fingers traced my skin. Even now, hours later, I can feel the ghost of his touch. My body remembers what my mind is trying to forget—how I leaned into him, how I let him see me drowning, how badly I wanted him to pull me under. That one word:vulnerability.
I let him see something.
That was the mistake.
And tomorrow…God, tomorrow I have to face him again. Eleven o’clock. The thought makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
I head to the kitchen, checking the door lock on the way. Locked. Of course it is. I check it again anyway, tugging the handle twice before continuing. My fingers fumble with thekettle, nearly dropping it. Water sloshes over the edge as I fill it. The familiar hum of the heating element is usually grounding. Tonight, it doesn’t reach far enough.
In the window’s reflection, I catch a glimpse of myself.
I look…thinned out. Pale. Like a version of myself drained through filters I didn’t agree to. Hair pulled back, eyes hollow from nights spent reading files and replaying conversations. The same posture I’ve seen in my most frayed patients.
You study broken men to feel powerful. Or maybe just to forget the broken parts of yourself.
I whisper Yakov’s words aloud before I can stop them.
The kettle clicks off. I pour water over chamomile and watch it steep, pale gold swirling into heat.
He wasn’t wrong. That’s what makes it unbearable. He didn’t just find the fracture line. He pressed it, gently and precisely, like a man who knows exactly how to cause pain without leaving a bruise.
I carry the tea to the living room, Yakov’s file already open on the coffee table.
His face stares up at me—still, controlled, that impossible cool carved into every angle. A face that haunts me. Those hands that touched me with such careful control. The mouth that said my name like a caress and a threat. Eyes that missed nothing.
Tomorrow those eyes will be on me again. Dissecting. Knowing. The photo can’t capture the way he looks at me, like I’m a puzzle he’s one move away from solving. Like he already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to catch up.
My thighs clench involuntarily. Eleven o’clock tomorrow. Less than twelve hours.
I trace his features with my finger before catching myself. This is exactly what I can’t do. Can’t want. Can’t feel.
What did he see when he looked at me?
A therapist to outmaneuver? A weakness to exploit?
Or worse—someone who might understand him?
My phone buzzes again.
Unknown: Sweet dreams, beautiful Mila. Until tomorrow.
The cup slips from my trembling fingers, hot tea splashing across the table.
