Page 59 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
“Security briefing ran over,” I answer, setting my notebook down with care. “Igor’s revising protocols while I’m here.”
His expression shifts, subtle but not lost on me. “And how long will you be staying?”
“Until they decide it’s safe enough for me to leave.” I lower myself into the chair across from his, knowing better than to estimate time in this world. “A few more days. Maybe longer.”
Yakov doesn’t sit. He starts to pace, slow and contained. But there’s a ripple of something under his skin today. Not just tension. Restlessness.
“I’d like to try something different,” I say, hoping to redirect us both. “No structured prompts today. Just…tell me something you think I should understand about you.”
He stops pacing and turns, looking at me like he’s weighing what it would cost to let me see past the walls he’s spent a lifetime fortifying. Watching me with that unnerving intensity.
But today it feels different. Like he’s made a decision about something.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he begins, settling into his chair. “About trust. About letting someone see past the walls.”
My pulse quickens. “And?”
“And I think you’re right.” His voice drops, intimate. “Maybe it’s time I stopped hiding from you.”
The words land like a challenge and an invitation all at once. He’s offering me something precious, access to the man beneath all the damage. But I can see the calculation behind his eyes too. This isn’t just vulnerability.
It’s strategy.
And somehow, that makes it more dangerous, not less.
Then he speaks. One word. A name.
“Anastasiya.”
My heart stumbles.
We’ve circled around her for weeks. She’s been a shadow in every session.
“I’d like that,” I say quietly, afraid to shatter whatever fragile thread he’s following.
Yakov leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands laced tight. A man on the verge of confession.
“Everyone knows how she died,” he says. “Giving birth to Damien.”
His voice is careful and controlled. Until it isn’t.
“What they don’t know is that I was there. That I delivered my nephew with my own hands while my sister bled out in front of me.”
I don’t move to reach for the pen. I try not to breathe too loudly. There are moments in therapy that don’t belong to the process, they belong to the patient. This is one of them.
“Tell me,” I say gently.
His gaze drifts, from the room, from me. Somewhere far away.
“She got pregnant after Igor seduced her. She thought their relationship was more than what it was. But Igor…” He shakes his head. “He never needed much more than a willing body and an empty promise.”
I say nothing. He’s not looking for absolution. He’s not even looking for agreement. He’s remembering.
“By the time our father found out, Ana was already showing. There was talk of…removing the problem. You don’t let a Gagarin daughter carry the child of a Sokolov. Not if you care about appearances.”
“And she refused,” I guess softly.
“She was calm when she said it. But she was immovable. She wanted the baby. Didn’t care what it cost.”
