Page 42 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

This is something darker. More permanent.

Obsession.

She turned my club—my sanctuary—into her church. And I, unwillingly, became a devout observer.

I set the cup down, fingers trailing across the pages of her proposal. It’s brilliant—sharp, strategic, and commercially viable. VIP packages. Couture showcases. Performers as luxury brands, not commodities. It’s more than I expected. More than I deserve.

And it cements a truth I’ve been trying to ignore: Galina Olenko isn’t just playing at power.

She has it.

The Velvet Echo could be the keystone of my stateside operations, a way to rebrand the Volkov name, to build something legitimate. But with Galina in the mix, the lines blur. She isn’t just helping me build an empire.

She’s threatening to become the crown.

It has to stop. As soon as the club relaunches, I’ll cut her loose. For her sake. For mine. Because every moment she’s near is a razor slicing through my restraint.

A knock cuts through my thoughts, sharp and soft.

“Enter,” I say, already knowing who it is. No one else stays this late.

Galina steps into the office like a vision conjured from the edges of a dream—polished and composed in a pastel skirt suit, the morning light turning her hair to molten copper. Her heels are low, practical. Her presence, anything but.

I stare unapologetically. Not because I’m trying to undress her with my eyes.

But because I already know how she tastes when she breaks.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she says, her voice quieter than usual. There’s caution there. A thread of uncertainty. It doesn’t suit her.

“What is it, Galina?” My voice comes out sharp and clipped.

She hesitates, like she’s weighing the risk of whatever she’s about to say. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

I rise from behind my desk and nod toward the sofa. “Let’s sit,” I say. “We’ll talk there. You want something to drink?”

“Please.”

“Any preference?” I ask. “Coffee? Tea? Brandy?”

“Water’s fine,” she says.

Of course it is.

She’s here to be clearheaded. And I’m already drowning.

My mouth curves before I can stop it. Mylisichka, dressed like a fever dream in those heels, making me think about how good her legs would look straddling my face. She’s trying to look professional, but the blush at her throat gives her away.

“Maybe some sparkling water, then,” I say, reaching for the bar.

But she’s already behind me.

“I’ve got it,” she says, brushing past me.

I let her. Watching her move is half the pleasure.

She drifts behind the bar, graceful as ever, and reaches for the glasses. I step closer.

My hand settles on her ass, a reflex more than a choice. “You’re distracting me,” I murmur, fingers pressing in. “And I’m trying to behave.”

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