Page 25 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Fuck, I’m going insane.

The realization hits like a bullet to the chest—clean, precise, and potentially fatal. If I’m not careful, Galina will be my downfall. Not because she’s trying to destroy me, but because she makes me want to destroy myself, to tear down every wall I’ve built, every lesson I’ve learned about survival. And in this world, where weakness equals death, wanting her this desperately might be the last mistake I ever make.

Chapter 8

Power Play

Vasiliyi

She moves through my club like a ghost born of fire—untouchable, unbothered, and yet burning holes into the back of my mind with every sway of her hips.

I watch her through the cameras like a sinner kneeling at confession.

Each screen flickers with some new version of her—graceful, composed, that flawless mask she wears like armor. But I’ve studied her too long not to see what lies beneath. The micro-expressions. The slip of fingers when she thinks no one’s watching. The way her mouth tightens when she walks past my office, as if the air there still clings to her skin.

Good.

She should feel me everywhere.

She should be haunted.

Her control didn’t break the night I bent her to my will, but it cracked. And I know exactly how to split it wide open.

She’s a viper in silk—too beautiful, too smart, too fucking tempting for her own good. Watching her play waitress is agony. That black dress is meant to make her disappear into the crowd, but on her, it becomes something else. A lure. A threat. A fucking invitation.

And all I can think about is the way she looked on her knees.

Eyes glassy. Lips slick. That perfect mouth worshipping me like I was the only god she’d ever known.

The memory doesn’t satisfy.

It starves.

Because she didn’t beg the way I wanted her to. She didn’tbreak. Not yet. And I won’t be satisfied until she does—until I’ve peeled back every layer of that icy defiance and found the ache underneath. The part of her thatwantsto belong to me.

My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand. The crystal creaks in protest.

Three fucking days since I tasted her. Since I pulled her apart with nothing but my voice and my hands. And all I’ve done since is fantasize about doing it again. Slower. Rougher.Deeper.

The intercom hisses to life.

“Table seven needs attention,” Jaromir’s voice crackles with warning. “The client’s getting...handsy.”

My attention snaps to the screen.

And then I see him.

A suit who’s got Galina’s wrist in his grip—tight, forceful, like he thinks he can own her with nothing but a black card and a smirk.

Rage detonates beneath my skin.

He doesn’t know who he’s touching.

He doesn’t know who she belongs to.

I’m on my feet before the thought finishes forming, the glass abandoned on my desk, sweating into the grain of the wood like a memory I no longer care to keep.

The club floor hits me in waves—heat, perfume, the low throb of bass—but I don’t feel any of it. Not really. I only see her. And him.

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