Page 56 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
A beat.
The kitchen.
I keep my expression neutral. “Then I’m sure you saw nothing more than a patient testing boundaries. A clinical dynamic under review.”
He doesn’t believe me. I see it in the way his mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Until next time, son.”
After they leave, I stay by the window. Processing. Calculating. Adjusting. I’d underestimated the surveillance, a rare but dangerous oversight. It won’t happen again.
Thirty minutes pass before my door clicks open, and one of the guards delivers the reminder: my session with Mila is about to begin.
When I enter the therapy room, she’s already seated, pen poised, posture straight. Today, she’s dressed differently—a sleek black dress, loose hair, a slash of subtle color on her mouth. Not deliberate, perhaps, but devastating all the same.
“Dr. Agapova,” I say, but the formality tastes like ash after what passed between us in the kitchen.
“Mr. Gagarin.” She doesn’t look up immediately. When she does, her mask is perfectly in place. “I understand you had visitors.”
“Family always brings complications.” I don’t take my usual seat. Instead, I move to the window, letting silence stretch between us. “Though I’m more interested in discussing what happened two nights ago.”
Her pen stills against the page. “That was a lapse in professional judgment. For both of us.”
“Was it?” I turn to face her, studying the careful way she holds herself. “You’re wearing red lipstick. That’s new.”
“I’m not here to discuss my appearance.”
“Aren’t you?” I move closer, each step deliberate. “You changed your hair. Your dress. You’re wearing perfume.” I pause just out of reach. “Who were you getting ready for, Dr. Agapova?”
Color blooms across her throat, betraying her. “Please sit down so we can begin the session.”
“I’m comfortable here.” I lean against the armrest of my chair, forcing her to look up at me. “Tell me about boundaries, Doctor. In your training, did they cover what to do when you‘reno longer able to concentrate on your patient’s words because you’re thinking about his hands?”
“Yakov—”
“When you catch yourself wondering what it would feel like if he touched you properly?”
Her breath catches. “This is inappropriate.”
“Is it? Or is it the first honest conversation we’ve had?” I move around the table slowly, watching her track my movement. “You want to discuss my healing? Then let’s discuss yours.”
“I’m not the patient.”
“No?” I stop beside her chair, close enough that she’d have to crane her neck to meet my eyes if she dared. “Then why are your hands shaking?”
She glances down, realizes I’m right, and quickly clasps them together.
Too late.
“You’re trying to manipulate the session again,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
“I’m trying to understand my therapist.” I lean down, bracing one hand on the arm of her chair. “You made a choice to come back after you let me taste you. You could have requested a transfer. Cited professional concerns. But you didn’t.”
“Because I believe I can help you.”
“By pretending nothing happened?” My voice drops, intimate. “By ignoring the way you pressed against me? The way you said my name? The texts you sent me?”
“Stop.” But she doesn’t move away.
“You keep trying to pretend it didn’t happen. But your body remembers.” I gesture to the rapid rise and fall of her chest. “You’re breathless. Your pulse is jumping in your throat. And you still haven’t looked at me.”
