Page 75 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“He won’t touch you again,” I promise, voice like steel. “I’ll end him.”

She clings to me, fingers curled tight in my shirt.

The doctor appears. I don’t want to let go. Not when she’s still trembling in my arms. But I force myself to ease back, just enough for him to examine her. She doesn’t let go of my hand, not even when the latex gloves snap on, not when the stethoscope touches her skin. Her fingers stay locked in mine like a lifeline.

And I grip back. Just as hard.

“Ms. Olenko,” he says gently, setting his bag down. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

“Nowhere specific,” she murmurs, her voice small and tight.

“Let’s start with what we can see.” He leans in, inspecting her arms and face. When she winces, he pauses, waiting for her nod before continuing. His touch is clinical, detached, unmoved by the blood crusting her palms or the bruise already darkening along her jaw. When his hand presses lightly to her abdomen, I don’t breathe. I watch her instead—how she bites her lip to keep from crying out.

Every instinct in me screams for retribution. But I stay. Because right now, she doesn’t need vengeance. She needs me here.

“The cuts are superficial,” the doctor says finally. “She’s taken a blow to the head. Likely a mild concussion. Some bruising, but no fractures.”

He hesitates.

I feel the shift in the room before he speaks again.

“But considering her condition…”

Galina’s eyes open, full of dread. “The baby?”

“We’ll do an ultrasound to be sure,” he replies calmly. “But there’s no sign of major trauma. Still, rest. Watch for cramping or bleeding. If anything changes, call me right away.”

Her grip tightens until it feels like she might crush my hand. “Okay,” she whispers.

He finishes cleaning her cuts, wraps her wrist and scalp in fresh bandages, and gathers his things. “Stay off your feet as much as possible. And stay near the bathroom. The concussion might still catch up with you.”

Galina barely nods. Her eyes are shut again, lips pressed tight.

When the door clicks shut behind him, I sit beside her and let the silence stretch.

I want to rip something apart. Matvei’s name is already etched onto the kill list I carry in my bones. If he wanted death, he picked the perfect way to earn it.

She places a trembling hand over her stomach, her gaze distant. “What are you thinking about?”

My jaw clenches. “I’m thinking when I find that motherfucker, I’ll skin him alive. Use his lungs as umbrella fabric. Sew his guts into a goddamn coat.”

A small smile tugs at her lips. “Wouldn’t that be terribly messy?”

“Only if the tailor’s sloppy.” I kiss her hand. “I’ll commission someone good.”

She tries to roll her eyes—winces instead. “Brutal as always, Volkov.”

My phone buzzes. Jaromir.

“He’s gone,” the message reads. “Looks like she got him good. There’s blood everywhere.”

I shove the phone into my pocket, heat boiling up my spine. “He ran. But I’ll smoke him out.”

Galina nods faintly. “Good.”

I reach for a cup of tea. “Here. Drink.”

She blinks at it. “Where did that come from?”

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