Page 76 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
I think about Yakov’s hands, gentle despite their capability for violence. The way he whispers my name like it’s sacred. The future we might build if I’m brave enough to reach for it.
After the session, I sit in my car with the engine running, hands still trembling on the steering wheel. My professional life is about to implode. My reputation will never fully recover.
But as I drive home through the busy Manhattan streets, I realize I’m not afraid anymore.
For the first time in months, I know exactly what I want.
19
ESCAPE ROUTES
MILA
The key feels awkward in my hand, like it belongs to a version of me I left behind. The woman who walked into Elena’s office two hours ago still believed she might by some miracle salvage her career. The woman fumbling with her apartment key now knows better.
I should feel devastated. Should be spiraling about ethics boards and career ruin and the complete implosion of my reputation. Instead, all I feel is a strange, hollow relief. Like I’ve finally stopped lying to myself.
When the lock clicks open, I step into my apartment, and it feels… staged. Spotless. Untouched. Like I’m walking into someone else’s life, the life of a woman who believed in boundaries, in ethics, in clean lines between professional and personal.
My fingers trail over familiar surfaces—the bookshelf’s dust-free spines, throw blanket corners sharp as hospital corners, vanilla candles that smell artificial after weeks of Yakov’s cedar and gunpowder scent. The leather couch feels too soft after a few hours cradled against his chest. The silence rings hollow after his low voice in the dark.
Everything is exactly as I left it, yet nothing feels the same. Maybe because the woman who lived here was still pretending she could have both—her pristine professional life and the dangerous man who makes her forget every rule she ever learned. That woman died in Elena’s office, taking her carefully constructed delusions with her.
Now I’m someone else entirely. Someone who chose love over licensing. Someone who will face an ethics board with her head held high because what I found with Yakov is worth more than any credential.
The security team assured me Pablo’s presence had been scrubbed clean, but I can still feel it, the invisible fingerprints of violation. But that’s not what twists in my chest. Not really.
It’s him.
Two weeks of Yakov’s presence just down the hall. Two weeks of sessions that blurred into something neither of us could control. Two weeks of heat, tension, and then—him. His hands, his mouth, his body.
Now? Just silence. Empty rooms and too much space.
No sound of his breathing. No warmth radiating from his body next to mine. No dangerous presence that makes every nerve ending feel alive. Just the sterile hum of central air and the traffic outside —sounds that used to comfort me now feel like white noise compared to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
I try to shake it off, but I can’t shake Elena’s question: “Can you live with the consequences?”
The answer had been immediate, instinctive: Yes. For him, yes. That certainty should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the first honest thing I’ve said to myself in months.
“Get it together,” I mutter, focusing on unpacking. This is my life. My choice.
The next morning,I’m sitting behind my desk, the soft hum of my office grounding me. I spent half of yesterday calling patients, offering careful apologies, referring them to colleagues, pretending like I hadn’t spent the last two weeks in a Bratva mansion falling in love with the man I was supposed to be treating.
My inbox is overflowing. My voicemail full. It should be overwhelming, but instead, it feels like an exciting new beginning.
As I gather my things to leave for the mansion, I glance out the window.
And freeze.
Pablo leans against a black car across the street, staring directly at my building. Not hiding. Not even pretending. He wants me to see him, wants me to know he’s there. Calm, patient, a predator waiting for his prey to step into his line of sight.
Ice floods my veins. My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat, my wrists, behind my eyes. I stumble back from the window, legs unsteady, bile rising. My hands shake as I grab the desk, the room tilting.
My phone is already in my hand, Igor’s number glowing on the screen.Protocol. That’s what we agreed—any sign of Pablo, and I call the Bratva.
My thumb hovers over Igor’s number, then swipes to a different name.
Yakov.
