Page 30 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Something flares behind her eyes—resentment, fury, maybe guilt—but it vanishes too fast to catch. The Olenko mask is back in place, smooth, cold and calculated.

“Anything else?”

“Not tonight.” I slide a paper across the desk, an old-school dismissal with modern bite. “Jaromir has your schedule.”

She turns without another word, but stops at the door, just for a moment.

Still facing forward, voice like silk over steel, she fires the parting shot: “Next time you want to play king of the cage, remember, I didn’t come here to be your pet.”

Then she’s gone. The door closes with the soft finality of a trigger being pulled.

I swivel back toward the monitors.

And there she is—Galina Olenko in full war paint. Chin high. Hips swaying. Every step is a weapon, every glance a calculated feint. The room bends around her without even realizing it.

She’s not here to be claimed. She’s here to conquer.

And she thinks I don’t see it.

But I do.

The cameras have shown me the shape of her strategy—how she plays the room like a piano wired for explosives. Who she flirts with. Who she avoids. Who she’s watching when she thinks no one’s watching her.

She’s looking for something.

Something buried beneath my walls, my men, my power. Something worth risking the fire in my blood and the collar on her neck.

And she’s good.Verygood.

But everyone slips.

Eventually.

And when she does, I’ll be there.

Not to catch her.

Toownthe fall.

Chapter 9

King of the Cage

Galina

Late afternoon light spills through the Velvet Echo’s windows like liquid gold, staining the empty club in hazy warmth that feels all wrong here. The stage sits bathed in it—quiet, reverent, like something holy and forgotten. For a second, I almost believe the room isn’t soaked in secrets and sins.

Almost.

I shouldn’t be here. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to leave, to retreat to my drafty Queens apartment and scrub Vasiliy’s fingerprints from my mind. But sleep has become a stranger since that night in his office—since the moment he taught me that pleasure can feel like punishment and wanting him is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.

And yet…I can’t stay away.

I step forward, drawn like a moth to flame, my heels ticking against the floor like a countdown. The pole waits at center stage, bathed in fractured sunlight, and for a moment, it feels like coming home. Like a version of myself I left behind is waiting there—spinning, defiant, untouchable.

I used to hide in the wings while the dancers performed, my tiny body curled into velvet curtains while my father barkedorders and toasted bribes. I memorized every twirl, every flip, every time a woman wrapped her strength in grace and dared the world to watch. Their power soaked into my bones before I ever learned what kind of power it was.

I curl my fingers around the pole. It’s cold and smooth, familiar in a way that aches. And then—I move.

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