Page 22 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
“Yes.” She stands up and moves toward the door but pauses just before leaving. “Consider this before our next session, Mr. Gagarin. Not what they want from you. Whatyouwant. What healing—not obedience—might actually look like.”
That stops me. Not because the question is complicated. But because no one’s ever asked it before.
Not my father. Not the Volkovs. Not even me.
“An interesting experiment,” I reply, voice measured.
“Not an experiment,” she says softly, her hand on the door. “A question you deserve to answer.”
Then she’s gone. The phantom pressure of her skin under my fingertips lingers, the memory of her pulse racing beneath my touch.
I slump against the cushion, my body thrumming with unsatisfied need. My hands shake as I press them to my thighs. I’m breathing like I’ve run miles, chest heaving, skin too hot beneath my clothes.
Jesus. Three sessions, and she has me coming apart at the seams.
I move to the window, watching her exit below. She stumbles slightly on the path, then recovers. But I saw it. That tiny break in her perfect control.
The stumble makes something primitive roar to life in my chest. She’s weakening. Soon she won’t be able to run. Soon she’ll stop wanting to. I imagine her stumbling again, but next time into my arms. Into my bed. Into the cage I’ll build just for her, where boundaries don’t exist and the only word she remembers is my name.
My phone buzzes. A text from the guards: “Session ended early. Everything all right?”
I don’t respond. Instead, I pull out the business card I lifted from her jacket the last time. Dr. Marina Agapova. Her personal number written on the back in careful script.
She asked what I want. What healing looks like.
I trace my thumb over her name and know exactly what I want. Her. Broken open. As raw and vulnerable as she was for those few seconds.
But not here. Not in this therapeutic cage.
Somewhere she can’t hide behind her job. Somewhere she’ll have to admit what we both already know—this stopped being about therapy the moment I touched her.
I pocket the card and smile.
I adjust myself with a grimace, willing my body to calm. But I know it won’t, not until I have her. Not until she’s beneath me, around me, admitting that she burns for me the way I’m burning for her.
The ache in my body is nothing compared to the ache in my chest, a hollow, gnawing need that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the woman who just walked away.
It’s a long time until Friday.
6
OBSERVED BEHAVIOR
MILA
The message still sits on my phone like a smudge I can’t wipe clean.
Unknown:Beautiful dreams, Dr. Agapova. Thank you for your time today.
I study the message again.The timing—sent at 11:47 p.m., just before midnight. Yakov’s sessions end at noon; this came nearly twelve hours later. And the tone… Yakov calls me Mila when he wants to unsettle me, Doctor when he’s making a point. He’s never called me Dr. Agapova in a moment of intimacy.
But Pablo had. Lifting my hand to his lips.“Until next time, Dr. Agapova.”
My stomach turns. It’s him.
Pablo Montoya. A patient. A man who should never have access to my personal number. And yet, here we are.
I stare at the text, thumb hovering over the screen, debating whether to delete it or preserve it. Evidence or overreaction? The line between the two has started to blur.
