Page 11 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Now?

I want control.

Chapter 4

Queen Without a Crown

Galina

The third rejection hits my inbox like a bullet—no fanfare, no softness. Just cold, clinical dismissal. Another door slammed. Another nail in the coffin of the life I used to command.

I slam my laptop shut. The crack echoes through the café like a gunshot, slicing through the low hum of conversations and overpriced espresso machines. A few patrons flinch. Good. Let them flinch. Let them feel even a fraction of what it’s like to watch your entire world rot from the inside out.

My bank account is bleeding out, hemorrhaging faster than I can stop it. Rent’s due soon, and the savings I have left wouldn’t cover a decent bottle of wine. Not that it matters. I used to drink Cristal from the bottle. Now I’m nursing my third black coffee like it’s gold.

I reach instinctively for a card that no longer exists—platinum, engraved, limitless. My fingers freeze mid-air. The phantom sting of the memory burns more than the caffeine. The Olenko name once opened velvet ropes, unlocked private elevators, bent entire rooms to my will. Now? It’s dead weight. A curse with a surname.

The waitress brings over my refill, her face painted in fake cheer and soft pity. She can’t be more than twenty. Probably thinks life rewards the determined. Probably thinks I’m just tired. She doesn’t know I used to be the thing people feared behind closed doors. She doesn’t know I could have ruined her life with a single phone call—back when my phone meant something.

Breathe.

In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

Fuck you, Mila. Your breathing exercises wouldn’t have helped when I was doped up and restrained in a white room with buzzing lights. They don’t help now, when the only thing I’m choking on is the taste of failure and the heat of my own rage.

One break.

That’s all I need.

Just one. And then I’ll take the rest.

My father’s name lights up my screen like a curse. I stare at it, bile rising in my throat.

Still, I answer. Desperation’s a hell of a motivator.

“Papa.”

“Galina.” He says my name like it offends him. Like it stains his mouth. “Your mother tells me you’ve crawled back.”

“I need work.” My voice is tight, frayed. My fingers clamp around the coffee cup hard enough to crack it. I brace for the storm I know is coming—decades of disappointment wrapped in one man’s voice.

“So,” he drawls, “you’ve finally run out of people to manipulate. Back with your tail tucked like the little failure you are.”

Every word hits like a punch. He doesn’t yell—he never has to. His contempt is clinical and calculated.

“I’ll take anything,” I whisper. “Let me work at the club.”

The words make me sick. Not because I don’t mean them, but because I do. I’d mop the goddamn floors if it meant survival. If it meant even a splinter of power back in my hands.

He laughs.

It’s not amusement. It’s dissection.

“Work? Atmyclub?” His voice strips flesh from bone. “You’re a disgrace. You always have been. I should’ve cut you loose when your brothers were still alive.”

I close my eyes. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Mila’s voice echoes like a ghost I want to kill.

“Please,” I say, the word crumbling in my mouth. My dignity is already bleeding out on the sidewalk. What’s one more slice?

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