Page 113 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
“Was it?” She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Or are you holding yourself to an impossible standard because you’re trained to maintain boundaries?”
The question strikes deep. My ethics have always defined me. Violating them feels like losing myself.
“I’m his therapist, Kata.”
“Former therapist,” she corrects. “You transferred his case. Officially.”
“But unofficially?—”
“Unofficially, you’re a woman who’s found a connection with a complicated man.” She studies me for a moment. “What disturbs you more, your feelings for Yakov or how he makes you feel about yourself?”
The question lands like a perfectly aimed blow, targeting vulnerabilities I’ve carefully avoided examining. “When Pablo cornered me that night,” I say slowly, “and Yakov appeared…I felt relief. Not just at being saved, but at who was doing the saving. There was this moment when Pablo grabbed me and part of me—a part I didn’t recognize—wanted Yakov to hurt him. To make him pay for touching me.”
Katarina nods, unsurprised. “That darkness exists in all of us, Mila. Even careful, ethical psychologists who specialize in trauma recovery.”
“But I shouldn’t want it. Shouldn’t crave it.” I lower my voice further. “Shouldn’t feel this electric current every time he looks at me, like he’s memorizing every detail. Shouldn’t wake up thinking about his hands, his mouth, the way he says my name like it’s something precious.”
Heat creeps up my neck as I realize how much I’ve revealed, but Katarina just smiles.
“Sounds like more than just crossing ethical boundaries,” she observes.
“It’s impossible,” I say, the word carrying all my frustration and longing. “Even if he’s granted more freedom, even if the syndicate eventually accepts his rehabilitation, there’s too much history. Too many complications.”
“Love transforms complications into possibilities.”
“Love?” I echo, the word simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. “I didn’t say anything about love.”
Her knowing smile makes me want to sink into my chair. “You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face when you talk about him.”
I look down at my cooling coffee, unable to deny her observation. “What am I supposed to do with this, Kata? The ethics board will have my license revoked. It’s just a matter of time before they come to their decision. The medical community will ostracize me. Meanwhile, it’s not even clear our relationship has a chance, given that he’s still essentially a prisoner.”
“You know what Nikolai taught me? Love changes people in ways nothing else can. Not fear, not revenge—love.”
“You think Yakov is capable of that kind of transformation?” I ask, voicing the question that keeps me awake at night.
“I think you wouldn’t be sitting here torn apart by this if you didn’t already believe he is.” She squeezes my hand again.
The image of Yakov flashes in my mind—not the calculated strategist others see, but the man who held me with unexpected tenderness, who whispered vulnerability against my skin, whose eyes hold a future I never expected to want.
“I wasn’t looking for this,” I whisper. “Any of it.”
“None of us ever are.” Katarina’s smile is gentle. “The most meaningful connections rarely arrive when we’re prepared for them.”
“What happens now? What should I do?”
She shrugs elegantly. “Maybe it ends in heartbreak. Maybe it transforms both of you. But can you live with never knowing?”
The question resonates deep in my chest.
“My therapist says I’m using Yakov as a proxy for my own darkness,” I admit. “That I’m drawn to him because he embodies parts of myself I’m afraid to acknowledge.”
“And what do you think?” Katarina asks.
“I think it’s both simpler and more complex than that.” I look at her directly. “I think I see him, the real him, not just the monster or the damaged man or the strategic genius. I see all of him. And he sees all of me. That kind of recognition is…rare.”
Katarina’s eyes soften with understanding. “Then maybe the question isn’t whether this is ethical or wise or practical. Maybe the question is whether you’re brave enough to accept being fully seen, with all the vulnerability that entails.”
Her words strike at the heart of my fear—not professional censure or Bratva complications, but the terrifying intimacy of being known completely. Of having no masks, no distance, no protection from the raw intensity of connection.
