Page 26 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

He’s already dead. He just hasn’t realized it yet.

I stalk toward table seven, each step soaked in calm, calculated violence.

“Just one drink, baby,” the bastard is saying, his hand still clamped on her wrist like it’s his right. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Her expression doesn’t shift. But I know her well enough now to see it—the tension rippling just beneath her skin, the way she leans back half a step, keeping her tray steady, her smile cool.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir,” she says, tone clipped velvet. “Club policy.”

Ice wrapped in honey. Dangerous as hell.

“I don’t think you know who you’re talking to.” His grip tightens.

And that’s when she strikes.

“Actually, I do know who you are, Mr. Antonov.” Her voice doesn’t rise—it slices. “Which is why I’m certain you’re far too intelligent to cause a scene.”

There she is.

My beautiful, reckless, infuriatinglisichka.

But she miscalculated one thing.

I’m already on the scene.

And I’m coming straight for him.

The bastard’s face blooms red, blotchy and indignant, his ego inflamed more than his skin. He yanks her wrist, and the tray goes flying. Crystal crashes to the ground in glittering ruin, splashing high-end liquor across polished floors and his overpriced shoes.

The sound gets swallowed by the club’s bass, but the image burns.

She stumbles. He sneers.

That’s all I need.

I’m on him in a breath.

Not with words.

Not with warning.

My hand clamps down on his shoulder, steel forged in Siberia, and he jolts like he’s been shot.

“Remove your hand from my employee.” The words hiss between my teeth, low and deliberate.

A warning.

A sentence.

Antonov turns, confusion swimming in his eyes until recognition finally cuts through the vodka haze. His face falters, and that fear—the kind that curls cold in a man’s spine when he realizes he’s touched something sacred—flickers behind his gaze.

Good.

But it’s not enough.

He lets go of her like she burns, and she does, stumbling back, balance stolen but not her grace. She straightens quickly—always the actress—but I clock the way her fingers twitch.

He branded her.

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