Page 15 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“Does your father know you’re here?”

She hesitates. Briefly. Then, “No.” Just above a whisper.

“Good.”

Our eyes lock.

The fire that burned between us in Moscow hasn’t gone out. It’s simmering, deeper now, coiled like a viper. It’s no longer hate. It’s something worse.

Want. Poisoned and raw.

I shift forward, keeping my expression flat, though everything inside me roars to life.

“Why should I hire you?” I ask, voice iced over.

As if I don’t already know the answer.

As if this isn’t already the start of something that could ruin us both.

She shifts, settling into the space. “I know every inch of this club.” Her voice is calm, edged with steel. Those jade eyes lock onto mine, unflinching. “Every hidden corridor, every safe behind false paneling, every regular who wants his bourbon with a side of blow.” She lets that hang, then drops the kill shot with a faint smile. “I also know which of your staff are skimming from the register.”

Clever little snake.

She’s sniffed out the missing money and decided to use it as her weapon. She’s dangerous—too dangerous. My instincts prickle. The kind of full-body awareness I learned in Siberia, when something cold and feral pressed against your back in the dark. She reeks of it.

And yet.

She walked in here, alone, unarmed, and still managed to put me on edge. That kind of audacity makes me wonder: is this the Olenko family’s final play, or just hers?

“All things that can be learned,” I say, voice flat.

She tilts her head, all sweetness and venom, legs crossed. That look shouldn’t stir anything in me, but it does. Prison didn’t strip me of every weakness.

A smirk tugs at her lips, slow and smug.Game on.

“Not everything.” She shifts just enough for her blouse to pull taut over her breasts. My jaw clenches. “I can make this club your crown jewel. Your empire’s flagship. And maybe,” her voice dips, “offer a little intel on operations moving through the Echo. Since I’ll be here anyway…I can ensure things run smooth.”

My hands ache to tear through that blouse, just to see if the heat under her skin still matches the chaos in her eyes. Instead, I lean forward, letting my words bite.

“Why work for the man who took your inheritance? The club that should’ve been yours?”

She meets me head on, unblinking. “Because I’m practical.” She crosses her legs again, silk whispering against silk. “The club is yours. I can either drown in nostalgia or adapt.”

A harsh laugh tears free, sharp and joyless. “You? Practical?” I round the desk. “You nearly set the city on fire last year.”

She lifts her chin, baring her throat like a challenge. “People change. They heal.”

“Not in my experience.”

I cage her in, arms braced on either side of her chair, close enough to smell the vanilla laced with fury. Close enough to feel her heartbeat hammering just beneath that icy calm.

“What’s your real angle, Galina?”

She breathes, slow and shallow, but doesn’t retreat. “No game. Just survival.”

That tongue flicks over her bottom lip like muscle memory, and I swear my mouth floods with the taste of her—Moscow, sweat, and the copper tang of need.

We’re too close. The space between us crackles with unsaid things and remembered sins. My hands shift lower on the chair, and our bodies inch closer, breath syncing without permission. Her hands grip the arms like she’s bracing for impact. The leather groans under the strain—an echo of another night, another battle, another loss of control.

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