Page 123 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Across the floor, I spot Vladimir and his men carving through Matvei’s mercenaries. Galina’s uncle moves like a man with nothing left to prove—every shot cold, clean, final. For all the history between us, in this moment, he’s not an obstacle.

He’s an ally.

And we’re both here to end this.

“Volkov!” Matvei’s voice rips through the noise, raw and manic. “Come out and face me like a man!”

I glance at Galina. She meets my eyes without hesitation. No fear. Just that unshakable fire. She nods once and raises her weapon.

“Stay behind me,” I mutter, and she nods.

I step out from cover, finding him in the open.

Matvei.

Still standing. Still grinning.

“It’s over,” I call. “Your men are dying. Yakov’s gone. You’re out of moves.”

His smile stretches across the ruin of his face—half mad, fully dangerous. “Who said I was trying to survive this?”

“Then let’s finish it,” I say, slipping my gun into its holster. “No more shadows. Just you and me. Like it should’ve ended in Siberia.”

For a breath, the factory stills. Just long enough for silence to settle, like dust in the aftermath of an explosion.

Then Matvei jumps down from the platform.

The floor shakes with his landing. His eyes are locked on mine, wild with hate.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he says, voice low, stalking forward. “The moment I end you. The moment I take everything you’ve tried to rebuild and burn it to the ground.”

I don’t respond. Anger blurs his focus. Makes him vulnerable.

He lunges first.

His fist slams into my jaw, sharp pain exploding down my neck. I pivot, drop my weight, and drive my knee into his gut. He doubles over with a wheeze, but recovers fast, circling like an animal that hasn’t decided whether to tear you apart or enjoy the chase first.

“You’ve gone soft,” he sneers. “That Olenko slut made you weak.”

The words are bait. Meant to cloud my focus.

They do the opposite. My fury sharpens to a blade’s edge.

When he attacks again, I meet him blow for blow. A quick series—strike, deflect, elbow, step back. He’s fast, unpredictable, dirty. All prison muscle and feral instinct. But I’ve fought in cleaner cages and messier wars. I’ve survived worse than him.

He draws a knife from somewhere—I see the glint too late.

The blade whistles past my throat. I twist. It kisses the skin along my bicep. Shallow, but sharp.

Pain flares. Warm blood soaks my sleeve.

“First blood to me,” he taunts, spinning the blade between his fingers. “More to come.”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. I adjust my stance, recalibrate my breath.

Behind him, chaos reigns.

But within this circle, it’s just us.

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