Page 53 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Boom.

The double doors slam open with enough force to make chandeliers tremble. Five men flood in like smoke and violence.

The room freezes.

My pulse spikes. My spine goes rigid. But my voice stays calm.

Because that’s how you survive men likethem.

One man steps forward first. Broad shoulders. Scarred face. Eyes like a hungry jackal who already knows where the blood is. Matvei. My uncle’s right hand now—elevated, armed, and fucking smiling.

“There you are,koroleva,” he says, the nickname sliding from his tongue like oil. “Your uncle sends his regards.”

Queen. That’s what he used to call me. What theyallused to call me. Before the empire fell.

My fingers hover over my stomach. Protective. Instinctual. But my mouth moves before fear can root me in place.

“This is a private rehearsal,” I say. “The club’s closed.”

Matvei’s laugh slithers through the air, cold and slick. “We’re not here for bottle service, sweetheart. Vladimir wants to discuss...family matters.”

The way he says it—family matters—like it’s a private joke between monsters, makes my blood chill.

Behind me, the models scatter, stilettos skittering across the floor like startled birds. But I don’t move. I can’t. If I give them fear, they’ll take more. I lock my knees, lift my chin.

Five men. Armed. Watching me like prey.

I know how this works. Let them make the first move. Let them think they have control.

Then take it back.

My nails dig into my palms as I force my voice calm. “If Vladimir wants to talk, he can book a meeting like everyone else.” I start edging toward the stage, where I know the panic buttons are hidden. “Through the proper channels.”

But Matvei doesn’t want negotiations. His smile splits wider, meaner. “Enough games.” He steps forward, hand slipping beneath his coat. “You’re coming with us.”

My heel brushes the edge of the stage.

Not enough time.

He lunges. I pivot. But his hand snaps out like a whip, grabbing the lapel of my jacket and yanking hard. I stumble forward, and that’s when the room explodes.

Vasiliy’s security hits the side doors like a battering ram, guns drawn, barking commands. I dive behind a table, the worldsplintering into chaos. Screams. Gunshots. Shattered glass. I hit the ground hard, shielding my stomach as bullets chew through velvet and wood.

“You!” Vasiliy’s voice cuts through the madness like thunder, laced with fury and fire.

I press myself flat against the floor. Through the smoke and scream of bullets, I hear it—the low snarl of recognition, of ancient hate rekindled.

“Surprise,” Matvei taunts, laughing through the gunfire.

“You’re in my house,” Vasiliy growls. “You forget what happens to men who break my rules?”

Matvei’s answer is pure venom. “I’m not just here for you. I’m taking everything. Starting with her.”

Then I hear the words that make my soul freeze: “Vladimir wants the little queen back.”

My stomach turns to lead. My hand clutches instinctively at the curve of my abdomen.

Vasiliy’s voice drops to ice. “You’re not in a position to demand anything.”

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