Page 52 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

My look silences her.

“This was your vision. Now make it real.”

She steps forward, the predator in her returning with every click of her heels. “Then I want control. Creative director. Second only to you.”

My lips twitch. The ambition in her voice is intoxicating.

“And what do I get in return?”

She leans in, voice low and sultry. “A club that becomes a legend. A name whispered in penthouses and black cars. We decide who gets in. Who doesn’t. Who kneels.”

The way she says it... It’s not just business. It’s seduction. Of power. Of me.

“Done.”

She glides to my desk, trailing fire in her wake. “Then I want it in writing. Role, salary, title. All of it.”

I stand, towering over her. “Getting bold,lisichka.”

She meets my gaze, unblinking. “Getting smart.”

I don’t give her a warning, I just take. One hand grips her waist, the other drags her tight against my body. My mouth finds her ear, and I let her feel exactly what she does to me.

“New contract. Fine. But the old terms still apply. You’re mine.”

Her breath hitches. She nods.

“Good girl.”

I release her, watching the way she stumbles slightly before finding her poise again. She says nothing, just slips from the room with that same silent grace that haunts me long after the door clicks shut.

Chapter 16

A Kingdom in Her Womb

Galina

Three weeks of sleepless nights, high-stakes decisions, and an IV drip of green tea have led to this moment. Twenty-three dresses. One shot. Everything on the line.

The second Vasiliy handed me control, I bolted to the Fashion District like the devil was at my heels. My old sketchbooks—once shoved to the back of a drawer, filled with half-fantasies I’d drawn in secret—suddenly became blueprints for survival. I laid them out on dusty worktables in backroom studios where the air smelled like steam, ambition, and worn-down dreams. I bartered with patternmakers and seamstresses in a collision of Russian, English, and cold, hard cash. Volkov money talks. Fast.

Now the club doesn’t look like the Velvet Echo. It looks like a dream I almost forgot I had.

The chandeliers above cast soft golden light across polished floors, transforming the rehearsal space into something elegant and sophisticated. The models strut in heels so tall they defy physics. Every piece on the racks—lace, silk, rhinestones, and armor—is mine. Old designs, reworked with panic and purpose. Built to seduce and destroy in equal measure.

My hand brushes the hand-beaded detail of the final dress. Ababushkain a shop off 37th Street made it—her fingers arthritic, her prayers whispered into every stitch. She sewed a single red thread into each seam for luck. I need more than luck, but I took it anyway.

“Again, from the beginning!” My voice slices across the room. “You’re not walking. You’re casting spells. Make them beg.”

The girls fall into formation, hips swinging, spines straight. They glide like they’ve been trained for war. All except Lera, who catches the heel of her shoe and nearly topples an entire rack of gowns.

“Easy,” I snap, lifting my tablet like a weapon. “The dresses are meant to destroy men, not themselves.”

Laughter echoes, sharp and nervous. Lera flushes. I don’t have time to coddle her. Every minute counts. Every step matters. Tomorrow night, this club becomes a runway. And that runway becomes a stage. If we stumble, we lose everything.

Oksana starts her pass down the runway again, her expression pure, cold menace. But the air shifts before she hits the halfway mark. A ripple I feel before I see.

And then?—

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