Page 128 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Breaking the Cycle

The hospital room is silent except for the steady beep of the heart monitor and the occasional rustle as I shift in the uncomfortable chair beside Vasiliy’s bed. Sunlight filters through half-drawn blinds, casting golden stripes across the sterile white sheets. Three weeks have passed since the showdown at the abandoned factory, but the memory remains vivid—blood on concrete, gunfire echoing off metal walls, and the cold fury in Vasiliy’s eyes as he fought to protect me.

The small bump of my belly is more pronounced now. Our child has survived the ordeal, a miracle that still brings tears to my eyes when I think about how close we came to losing each other.

Vasiliy stirs, his eyelids flickering open. “You’re still here,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep.

“Where else would I be?” I reach for the water glass, helping him take a sip.

His hand catches mine, thumb tracing the delicate bones of my wrist where the bruises from Matvei’s restraints have finally faded. “You should be resting. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “The baby’s fine. You’re the one who took a bullet.”

Vasiliy’s lips curve into a small smile. “It was just a graze, but who cares?”

“I do.” I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his. “Don’t joke about it. One centimeter to the left, and it would’ve hit your lung. You could’ve died.”

The memory of that night hangs between us—Vasiliy bleeding out when adrenaline left his body after facing down Matvei, my desperate pleas as I pressed my hands against his wound, the chaos as Nikolai, Igor, and my uncle’s men stormed the building. We all survived, but just barely.

A soft knock interrupts the moment. Nikolai stands in the doorway, his usually impeccable appearance slightly rumpled, dark circles under his eyes betraying his exhaustion.

“The doctors say he’s recovering well,” I say by way of greeting.

Nikolai nods, moving to stand at the foot of the bed. “Good. We need to talk.” His expression is grim, the lines around his mouth deeper than usual. “About Yakov.”

Vasiliy tries to push himself up, wincing at the pull of stitches. “What’s happened?”

“He survived surgery. Jaromir’s bullet missed his heart by centimeters.” Nikolai’s jaw tightens. “He’s in a coma.”

I shiver despite the warmth of the room. I remember Yakov’s cold eyes at the fashion show, the casual way he threatened our child. The memory of his voice, smooth as silk but filled with venom, still haunts my dreams.

“The Bratva wants a decision,” Nikolai continues. “Igor’s already voted for execution. Clean and quick.”

“And you?” Vasiliy asks, watching his brother carefully.

Nikolai’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Vasiliy. “I’m considering alternatives.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken histories and the weight of decisions that will ripple through ourworld. I find myself thinking of my brothers, of all the lives lost to this endless cycle of retribution.

“No,” I say finally, my voice stronger than I feel. “No more killing.”

Both men turn to look at me, surprise evident in their expressions.

“Lisichka—” Vasiliy begins, but I cut him off.

“Look at us,” I gesture to his bandaged torso, to my own healing bruises. “Look at what this revenge has cost all of us. Executing Yakov won’t bring back Ana, or my brothers, or erase what’s been done.”

“You of all people should want him dead,” Nikolai says, surprise coloring his tone. “After the way he threatened your child?—”

“I know exactly what he did.” I meet his gaze steadily. “But I also know that violence only breeds more violence. If we kill him, we’re just continuing the cycle that brought us here.”

Vasiliy reaches for my hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around mine. “What would you have us do instead,lisichka? Let him walk free to plan his next move?”

“Of course not,” I reply. “But if he wakes up, there are other ways to contain him that don’t involve more bloodshed.”

Nikolai studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Such as?”

“Keep him under surveillance. Constant monitoring.” I glance at Vasiliy, gauging his reaction. “Let him live with the knowledge that he failed.”

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