Page 9 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
A few minutes before eleven a.m., they escort me down the hall. The therapy room is the same—comfortable in its sterility. Like a hotel lobby pretending to be intimate. Tranquility masquerading as peace.
I spot four guards on perimeter patrol. All moving on repeat. Their paths choreographed. I file that away, too.
The door opens behind me. I inhale slowly; there it is. Vanilla and amber. Expensive perfume that clings to my clothes long after she leaves. My body responds before my mind catches up, muscles tensing with anticipation.
“Good morning, Mr. Gagarin.”
I turn slowly, letting my gaze travel from her heels—chosen for function but still emphasizing those legs—up to eyes that pretend not to notice my appraisal.
A small maneuver in a larger game—a reminder that she’s walking intomyterritory, not the other way around.
She’s dressed in gray today—a pantsuit and a cream blouse. Her hair is pulled back again, but a few strands have escaped the hold. Rain clings faintly to her coat before she shrugs it off and hangs it with quiet efficiency.
“Dr. Agapova.” I nod. “Punctual. Predictable. Admirable.”
I move to where she’s hung her coat, running my fingers along the damp fabric. “Still warm,” I murmur, bringing my hand to my face as if I could capture her scent. “You rushed here. Why the urgency, Doctor?”
She doesn’t react to the provocation, but I see her fingers tighten on her notebook.
“Shall we begin?” she asks, gesturing to the pair of chairs that face each other across a low table. No large desk. No barrier. A trick meant to simulate intimacy, equality. Neither exists here.
I sit first. Always better to choose your position on the board than be placed. My posture is casual, one leg over the other. A stance that says I’m not hiding anything.
While I hide everything.
She takes her seat across from me, notepad already in hand. Her pen poised. Her eyes steady.
Let the game resume.
“How have you been sleeping?” she asks.
A standard opener. Low-risk, non-confrontational. Designed to ease the patient in while gathering data. It tells me nothing about what she actually wants.
“I don’t sleep much.” I lean forward, invading her space. “I lie awake thinking about our last session. About the way you bite your lip when I say something that excites you professionally. Or is it personally, Doctor?”
Her pen stills, but she doesn’t retreat. I watch the subtle tell, the way her fingers tighten on the pen, knuckles paling. Her chest rises a fraction faster. “We should focus on?—”
“The way your pulse jumps when I get too close?” I stand, circling her chair. My fingers trail along the back of it, just brushing the ends of her pulled-back hair. She shivers, though she tries to hide it. “That’s interesting data, wouldn’t you say?”
I lean down, close enough for my breath to stir the loose strands at her temple.
“Your perfume’s stronger here,” I murmur, my lips a breath from her ear. “Right at your pulse point.”
The flutter beneath her skin is the only thing that gives her away.
“Let me guess.Black Opium?”
A pause.
“Did you wear extra today…for me?”
Silence.
Most people grow uncomfortable in it. They rush to fill the space, spill themselves open just to avoid the discomfort. Not Dr. Agapova. She sits with it like it’s an old friend. Calm. Patient. The spider waiting at the center of the web.
The clock ticks. One minute. Two. Three.
I break the silence first, not because I’m cornered, but because I’m curious.
