Page 19 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Jaromir doesn’t forget. He files things away. And if he caught even a flicker of unease, Vasiliy will hear about it by sundown.

I glance toward the hallway, toward the place where Oksana disappeared moments ago. The door that used to lead to my father’s office.

There’s no more time to hesitate.

Vasiliy’s patience wears thin, and whatever’s left of my leverage slips further with every second I stay frozen. The key burns hotter now, like it knows the clock is running out. Like it remembers this place better than I do.

I can still hear my father’s voice in my head, stern and steady, reminding me what power looks like. This club was his kingdom once.

And now, it’s my battlefield.

I steel myself and take a step toward the door.

My heels echo across the floor like a countdown—too loud, too exposed—but it’s too late to stop. If Vasiliy changed the locks, it won’t just be the end of this plan.

It’ll be the end of me.

I need the ledgers. I need the truth. I need to see how deep Vasiliy’s venom has soaked into the bones of this place—how much of my father’s empire he’s turned into rot. Every step I take feels heavier, like I’m carrying the weight of everything he claimed as his.

The tray in my hand rattles with each tremor in my fingers, glasses clinking soft warnings into the quiet hallway. But I keep moving.

The coat check girls don’t spare me a glance. Too busy whispering about whatever storm is brewing back near the bar. I catch only slivers of sound—raised voices, sharp tension—but none of it matters. Just another drunk with a black card and a God complex throwing a tantrum because someone told himno.

Good.

Let the distraction hold.

My window is small—an hour, maybe less, before the floor swells with bodies and appetites and eyes that don’t miss a thing. One hour to get in, get what I need, and disappear before the beast notices I was ever there.

My heels strike the floor again—too sharp, too loud—and I curse under my breath. Heads swivel. A few eyes drag across me, but none linger. Just another pretty shadow in Vasiliy’s playhouse of sin.

And that’s the part that cuts the deepest.

This used to be mine. These floors, these walls. I ruled them in heels sharp enough to draw blood and dresses tailored like armor. Now I’m just background, just another girl fetching drinks and counting quarters between shifts.

The taste of freedom is sour. Like spoiled wine and old regret.

But I’ll choke it down if it gets me one step closer to reclaiming my crown.

The key slides free from beneath the neckline of my dress, warm from my skin, heavy with history. I press it between my fingers, ready to?—

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

The voice slices through the silence.

Cold.

Familiar.

I turn.

Raffe leans against the wall like he’s grown from it—solid, unreadable, arms crossed. His body is relaxed, but there’s nothing casual about him. Not really.

His eyes hold too much.

“Planning to tell him?” I ask, forcing a smile that feels like it might cut my face open.

He snorts. It sounds like gravel and memories. “Do I ever?”

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