Page 2 of Savage Mafia King

I’ve never held a gun before. But I shove it into my backpack, along with the bullets. Father’s watch, his jewelry—all of it goes into my purse. I don’t think. I just act.

“Marie! Pack your things. We have to go!”

She looks up, confusion and fear twisting her face. “What’s going on?”

“Now, Marie!” I snap, the panic rising in my throat.

She scrambles to pack her things, and I stuff more into her backpack. But then I hear it—the front door opening, the low murmur of men’s voices. My heart stops. We have to go. Now.

I grab her hand and pull her towards the kitchen door, the sound of crashing filling the house as we slip out. Marie looks back, tears streaming down her face.

“Elena… where’s Father?”

I don’t have the words, but the truth comes out in a ragged breath. “He’s gone, Marie. We can’t stay. He’s gone.”

Her sobs tear through the night as we run, the weight of the world falling squarely on my shoulders now. I’m all she has left. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe.

2

Dimitri

Fucking Russians. Like cockroaches scurrying through the cracks of my city, they just never seem to disappear. I’ve been hunting this one down for what feels like hours, his sweat-soaked figure slipping through alleyways like a rat, but now he’s mine. My territory. Well, technically, my cousin Enzo’s territory—but close enough. He won’t leave this place alive. The thought of cornering him, feeling his blood splatter as I blow his face apart, is the only thing keeping my pulse steady. Enzo thought he wiped out this particular infestation, but they just keep crawling back.

The warehouse looms ahead, its rusted frame casting long, jagged shadows, like the decaying bones of a giant carcass. It’s the perfect place for a final stand. My movements are slow, deliberate, each step echoing in the hollow space around me. He thinks he can outsmart me, hide in the dark and ambush me like a desperate animal. Fool. I can practically smell his fear, the sour tang of adrenaline saturating the air.

Then, something unexpected—a voice, not his, and the sound of boxes being shoved aside with an almost frenzied desperation. My ears tune in sharply as I creep closer, every sense heightened. His voice breaks the stillness, guttural and disgusting.

"Come here! I’m gonna show you what it’s like to be dominated by a real man. I killed your father, now it’s your turn."

His words coil around me like poison, a sharp venom that makes my blood boil. But he’s not talking to me—he’s talking to someone else. My mind races. Who could possibly be here? No one followed him into this forsaken place, I would have known. But then, my eyes adjust, and I see them: two girls, huddled in the shadows behind a stack of crates, their eyes wide with terror. One older, protecting the younger with her trembling body. The motherfucker is after them.

He’s running from me, a death sentence breathing down his neck, and he decides to stop for this? The fury that courses through me is pure, molten. I raise my gun, feeling the cool weight of it in my hand, the trigger a familiar pressure beneath my finger.

He doesn’t even notice me yet. Too lost in his sick, vile fantasies to realize his doom is standing just a few feet away. I cock the gun, the metallic sound like the tolling of a bell—his death knell. His head snaps toward me just as I squeeze the trigger. One shot, perfect between the eyes. I empty the clip as he tries to stumble away, dropping him before he can even scream. The body crumples to the floor, lifeless, a pool of crimson slowly spreading across the concrete.

The girls scream, high-pitched and raw, their fear like a physical force in the air. I holster the gun, my eyes locking on theolder one. She’s not as young as I first thought—maybe eighteen or nineteen, with a sharpness to her features that speaks of survival. Her arms are wrapped protectively around the younger girl, their trembling forms a heartbreaking contrast to the cold death lying just feet away.

"I came to kill him, not you," I say, my voice low, rough, as I try to soothe the tension crackling between us.

Her body seems to relax, just a fraction, her grip on the younger girl loosening ever so slightly. She’s trying to be brave, but I can see the fear lingering in her eyes, the uncertainty of what comes next.

“We’re going to be okay,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “He’s not here for us.”

I step closer, letting the light from the cracked windows fall over me. Her gaze lifts, meeting mine, those watery eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Are you going to let us go?” Her voice is soft, almost too soft, and it carries a vulnerability that digs into me.

I consider her words, but something stirs in me, a darker thought. This girl—she’s something else. Innocent, untainted by the filth of this world, yet clearly accustomed to its cruelty. I need a wife. Someone who will be compliant, moldable. Someone who understands what it means to live under the shadow of men like me.

“Who’s your father?” I ask, taking a calculated step forward. “Where are your people?”

She lowers her head, a strand of filthy brown hair falling into her face. “We don’t have any people. She’s my only person now.”

The words hang between us, fragile and damning. My jaw tightens. “What do you mean?”

“I found our father dead three days ago,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “Men like him—” she nods toward the body on the floor, “came for us. We’ve been running ever since.”

Fucking hell. Orphans. Alone, with no protection.

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