1
MERCY IS A WEAPON
YAKOV
They said she specialized in lost causes.
What they didn’t say was that she’d walk in like she owned the room I was supposed to rot in.
Leadership thinks that locking me in a gilded cage with a shrink will keep me from retaliating. From finishing what I started. From remembering every face that betrayed me.
My father calls it mercy.
The Bratva calls it justice.
But let’s not pretend—this is a leash.
Dr. Mila Agapova stands in the doorway of what will be my prison for the foreseeable future. Tall, composed, with dark hair twisted into a severe bun that makes me wonder how it would fall around her shoulders. Her charcoal suit is professional, but it can’t quite disguise the curves beneath or the way she carries herself. It’s like she knows exactly what kind of monster she’s dealing with and isn’t impressed.
“Mr. Gagarin.” Her voice is steady. “I’m Dr. Agapova.”
Most people flinch when they meet my gaze. The smart ones take a step back. She does neither. Instead, she studies me with calm gray eyes that miss nothing, as if she’s catalogingevery bruise, every tell, every weakness. And there are plenty to catalog—I’m still pale from weeks in a hospital bed, still dependent on this fucking wheelchair, still weak enough that the guards flanking me might mistake me for harmless.
But Dr. Agapova… she’s not underestimating me. I can tell by the way she maintains that careful distance—close enough to show she’s not afraid, far enough to stay smart.
“Doctor.” I let my voice drop to that low register that usually makes people nervous. In my current condition, it should sound pathetic. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, like she’s listening to music only she can hear.
“I’ve read your file.” She steps closer instead of backing away. Close enough that I catch her scent—something clean and crisp, like winter air, with an underlying warmth that suggests hidden depths. “All of it.”
“And yet you still took the job.”
“I specialize in difficult cases.” Her mouth curves in what might be amusement, but her eyes remain serious. “The question is whether you’re actually difficult, or just well-practiced at making people think you are.”
It’s been months since anyone challenged me like this. Since anyone looked at me and saw someone worth saving instead of someone to fear.
I shouldn’t want to know what she sees when she looks at me.
But God help me, I do.
Three weeks ago,I was dying.
Consciousness had come in fragments then—pain first, then soft and concerned voices. I’d fought through the haze, but darkness kept dragging me under. When I finally surfaced forreal, it was to sterile white walls and the steady beep of machines keeping me alive.
Too stubborn to die, I’d told my father when he visited. And it was true.
The memories sharpened slowly. Blood on concrete. Jaromir’s face. The gun. And Ana—always Ana. My sister, her newborn son on her chest, her hand going limp in mine as the life drained out of her.
That was years ago.
Now I’m the one who’s supposed to be grateful for mercy. The irony tastes like blood.
Recovery was humbling, though nothing like the agony after Nikolai shattered my spine when I tried to avenge Ana. This time, my body cooperated—bones knitting cleanly, muscles remembering their purpose. But my mind, as always, healed first. It came back sharp, focused. Hungry.
That’s when my father delivered the news. The syndicate wanted me dead. He’d negotiated an alternative: house arrest with psychological oversight. No trial. No prison. But no freedom either.
And my handler? Dr. Mila Agapova. Cold. Brilliant. Unshakable.
Though we’ll see about the unshakable part.
