Page 43 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

She lets out a small, surprised sound, but instead of swatting me away, she tips her head toward me like she’s considering whether I’m worth the effort.

“Where’s the water?” she asks, voice low.

“Right. Drinks first,” I echo, not moving my hand.

She pretends she doesn’t notice as she pours the water into a glass. Her perfume curls in the air—something light and sharp, citrus layered over something deeper. It suits her. Bright and deceptive.

Our fingers brush as she hands me the drink. Hers tremble, just slightly.

I ignore the jolt that shoots through me, focusing instead on the sparkle of the water catching the faint morning light. This city never sleeps. Neither do I. And apparently, neither does she.

I walk back to the sofa and gesture for her to follow. “You go first. Two minutes. Make it count.”

She sits slowly, knees together, ankles crossed, posture perfect. A picture of poise and calculation. Her hands rest in her lap, but I can see the tension coiled in her shoulders.

I sink into the chair opposite her and roll up my sleeves, ignoring the crystal water as I lean forward on my elbows. I’m letting her lead—for now. But if she wants to play in my arena, she’ll have to learn the rules.

Her mouth presses into a line. She hesitates.

“I’ll just cut to the chase,” she says, her hands tightening. That little tic—grasping at the invisible—is one I’ve cataloged like everything else about her. She thinks I’m angry. I’m not. I’m wired. Lit up from the inside by the way she moves, the way she looks at me like she might bite or beg.

“I want to know where we go from here.”

“Now that I think of it, I might need you,” I add, smirking, “to do a little more…persuading.”

She knows exactly what I’m asking for. What I’m always asking for. She belongs to me—my name is on every inch of her, even if she won’t admit it out loud.

She leans forward, close enough that I can smell her skin. “Did you have anything specific in mind?”

Christ.

My cock throbs at just thepossibilityof what she’s offering. But I don’t move. Not yet. Not until she gives me something I can’t take by force.

“Surprise me,” I say, voice soft.

And then I sit back.

Waiting.

Because the most dangerous part of this game?

It’s knowing I’ll let her win. Just to see how far she’ll go to claim her crown.

It takes everything I have not to close the distance. Not to press her to the wall and taste every inch of that mouth that never stops testing me. She’s come here for one thing. Maybe two. Control and surrender, though she’ll never admit it. She thinks this is about power. About getting me to say yes to everything she wants.

But I know better.

She’s not just playing a game.

She’s offering herself as the prize.

And I intend to win.

I don’t move. Just watch her.

“You want to persuade me?” I say, my voice a low, deliberate threat. “Start by warming me up. Give me a lap dance,lisichka.”

Her lips part, the faintest gasp escaping before she catches it. But I see the way her pupils flare. The flicker of excitement behind her poise. She stands slowly, every movement like she’s drawing a blade instead of undressing.

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