Page 30 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
She doesn’t flinch, but I see the jump of her pulse at her throat. Her hand tightens on her notebook.
Today she’s in armor again—navy suit, hair scraped back, all edges. But I know what’s underneath. I’ve felt her tremble.
She closes the door with quiet finality, then crosses the room and takes her seat. “You’re good with him.”
“Disappointed?” I ask, stepping closer, close enough to see the shift in her breathing. “You thought you’d find me intimidating a child. Instead, you saw something else. That’s harder to classify, isn’t it?”
Her mouth parts like she wants to argue, but I don’t give her the space.
“You’re wearing less perfume today.” I circle slowly behind her, my usual move by now. She goes still. “What changed? Afraid I’d mention it again? Or afraid of what it does toyou?”
Her pen stills in her hand. “This isn’t about me.”
“No?” I step back into her line of sight, still standing. Her head’s tilted up to hold my gaze. “Then let’s make it about me. What are we dissecting today, Doctor?”
She draws a steadying breath. “Control.”
I smile without warmth. “Fitting.”
“Take a seat,” she says evenly. “And we’ll begin.”
I stay where I am. “That’s the test, isn’t it? Whether I obey.”
“You know why I’m asking.”
“I do. But I want you to say it.”
Her eyes flicker, refusing to take the bait. “You let Damien win.”
I nod once. “I did.”
“And is that what you’re doing with me?” She meets my gaze. “Letting me think I’m winning?”
The question lingers.
“You tell me, Doctor. Do you feel like you’re winning?”
She shifts in her seat—a tell. “We’re not playing a game, Mr. Gagarin.”
“Aren’t we?” I move toward the window, putting distance between us. “We both pretend this is about therapy when we know?—”
“What do we know?” Her voice sharpens, challenging.
I turn back. “That this stopped being about therapy the moment I touched you.”
“Let’s talk about your father.” Her voice wavers.
“Avoidance, Doctor? I thought that was my technique.”
“Your relationship with authority stems from him. The way you need control. The way you manipulate?—”
“The way I manipulate?” I stalk forward. “Like you’re doing now? Trying to make this clinical when your hands are shaking?”
She sets her pen down. “My hands aren’t?—”
I’m beside her before she can finish. “They are. Just like last time. Just like every time I get too close.” I don’t touch her, but I hover. “Tell me, Doctor, is it fear or something else that makes you tremble?”
But she doesn’t bite.
