Page 8 of Mafia King's Broken Vow
He rises as I do, fluid again, that same quiet precision in every movement.
A flicker of amusement glints behind his eyes.
“Until Wednesday, Dr. Agapova.”
As I leave, I feel his gaze on my back, measured and dissecting. I don’t let it touch me, at least not visibly. But my skin burns where I imagine his gaze landing—between my shoulder blades, the curve of my neck, the unsteady line of my walk. The hallway air hits like a slap of cold water, and I realize I’d been holding my breath.
Vasiliy is waiting, expression unreadable.
“All good?” he asks as we fall into step.
“As expected,” I reply.
The truth is more complicated. I’ve treated dangerous men before. But Yakov Gagarin doesn’t feel like a patient. He feels like a predator who’s decided I’m worth playing with. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of me wants to play back.
Back in my car, my hands shake as I grip the steering wheel. I can still smell him on my clothes—that dangerous mixture of expensive and lethal. My body hums with leftover adrenaline, skin too sensitive beneath my clothes, every breath too shallow.
Every place his gaze lingered feels marked. My neck where his breath stirred my hair. My mouth where his eyes kept returning. The stretch of thigh where my skirt had ridden up when I crossed my legs. I can still feel the weight of his attention like hands on my skin, and the worst part is how my body responded—is still responding. The ache low in my belly that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the kind of danger that makes terrible decisions feel inevitable.
I crack the window despite the cold, needing to clear my head, but the late winter air only sharpens the memory of how alive I felt in that room. How terrifyingly, thrillingly alive.
And that realization sits with me all the way back to the city, quiet and heavy, like the moment before a storm.
3
OBSERVATION AND OBSESSION
YAKOV
The cage is comfortable, but only because comfort is a tactic. Hardwood floors. Custom furniture. Floor-to-ceiling glass showing off acres of land I’ll never walk without an escort.
They even gave me a phone. Internet access. Generous—or maybe clever. The Bratva operates on psychology as much as bullets. Let the prisoner think he has connection, let him scroll through a life he can’t touch. Let him make calls to people who won’t take them.
It’s meant to look like freedom. It isn’t. This is containment, Bratva style. No steel bars. Just walls that smile while they tighten around you and technology that whispers promises while recording every keystroke.
By the third morning, I’ve mapped the entire routine. The guards rotate in predictable patterns. Volkov’s night crew moves like ghosts. Sokolov’s morning shift stays alert but relaxed. Olenko’s afternoon team is the weak link—one poses like a peacock, the other can’t keep off his phone.
What they don’t realize is that while they’re watching me, I’m learning about them. Every routine. Every blind spot. Everymoment when their attention drifts to their own devices, leaving mine unwatched.
Everyone slips eventually. I’m just waiting for the moment.
It’s not that I’m planning an escape. Not today. That would be idiotic with this level of surveillance. But every system has pressure points. Every guard, a pattern. Every pattern, a crack. And I’m not looking for freedom.
I’m watching for the moment it offers itself.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes. Two hours until my next session with Dr. Agapova.
Her name lingers longer than it should. Mila. The therapist with eyes like slate and a voice honed to cut without bleeding. She watches me like she’s mapping coordinates, and I let her because I’m doing the same. She calls it therapy. I call it reconnaissance.
I step into the bathroom, eyeing my reflection in the mirror. The color is returning to my face. The hollow look of post-coma weakness is nearly gone, though sleep still drags heavy beneath my eyes. My body’s not at full strength, but it’s getting there.
I run a hand along my jaw. Stubble. They’ve given me razors. Curious. Either they trust the guards, or they’ve calculated that I won’t waste the opportunity on theatrics. I file it away.
After a shower, I dress carefully. Light blue shirt. Charcoal trousers. Familiar cuts, my preferred brands, everything my father had ordered, an overt way to saythis is still your life. He doesn’t understand I left that behind long ago.
A knock at the door. One of Sokolov’s men—young, clean-cut, silent—enters with my breakfast. He doesn’t speak, just sets the tray down and leaves.
Poached eggs. Toast. Fruit. I eat without thought. Fuel, nothing more. The taste is irrelevant. I’m not here to savor. I’m here to survive.
