Page 7 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
I don’t respond.
“Your file says you suffered catastrophic spinal trauma,” I divert. “Crushed vertebrae. The medical reports were…extensive.”
He pauses before responding. “Thorough documentation. Yes.”
“They predicted 60 percent mobility at best. Permanent limitations.” My voice drops, taking on a careful tone. “Yet you move like someone who’s never been injured.”
A bitter laugh escapes him. “Doctors excel at limitations. At telling people what they can’t do.”
“And you disagreed with their assessment.”
He crosses his arms. “I decided their predictions were unacceptable,” he says simply. “So I chose differently.”
“Chose?” I lift my eyebrows in disbelief. “That’s not how spinal cord injuries work, Mr. Gagarin.”
“Isn’t it?” He chuckles. “The mind is more powerful than doctors admit. Pain is simply data. Limitation is often choice disguised as medical fact.”
“Tell me more.”
“Eighteen hours a day of reminding my body of what it had forgotten. Mental mapping. Visualization. I rebuilt neural pathways.” He pauses, as if considering how much to tell me. “There are studies. Pianists who only practiced mentally showed the same brain changes as those who practiced physically. Basketball players who visualized free throws improved their accuracy without touching a ball. The mind doesn’t distinguish between imagined and real when it comes to motor learning.”
His voice drops lower. “The same strategic mind that planned operations, turned inward to reconstruct my own flesh. Every tendon. Every muscle fiber. I visualized my body whole until my brain believed it again.”
“That’s not medically possible.”
“I made it possible.”
The weight of that statement hangs between us.
“Speaking of truth,” he continues, voice deceptively casual, “how is the insomnia? Still waking at three a.m.?”
My blood turns to ice. I’ve never?—
“That recurring dream must be exhausting. The one where you’re drowning in your mother’s hospital room.” He watches my face with scientific interest. “The monitors keep beeping, but you can’t breathe. You’re underwater, but somehow still in that chair beside her bed, watching her die again while you suffocate.”
The pen slips from my nerveless fingers.
“Interesting that you’ve had it for a whole year but only told Dr. Reyes about it last month. February 15th, wasn’t it? Right after the anniversary of her death.” His smile is razor-sharp. “You spoke for forty-three minutes about your guilt. How you’d been at a conference when she took her last breath. How you still feel like you’re drowning in the guilt.”
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. He’s quoting almost verbatim from my therapy session.
“How—” The word comes out strangled.
“I was informed last week that you’d be my therapist. I like to know who I’m dealing with.” He smirks playfully, out of character. “Dr. Reyes really should change her passwords. Took me less than an hour to access the session notes. Your file was…illuminating.”
“We’ll pause here for today,” I say, recapping my pen. “Very brief first session, just to establish parameters.”
“One more thing before you go, Doctor.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, bringing himself into my space again. “That perfume you’re wearing—vanilla and something else. Amber?”
My muscles tense, torn between the impulse to flee and the desire to lean in.
“It’s lovely. Though I wonder if you know what it does to a man who’s been locked up. How it makes him think about things he shouldn’t.”
For one dangerous moment, there’s nothing but the space between us and the weight of what he’s not saying.
“That’s inappropriate, Mr. Gagarin.”
“Yes,” he agrees easily, eyes never leaving mine. “It is.”
