Page 77 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

And I’ll use it to carve a future where no one touches what’s mine.

What’s ours.

Chapter 23

Tender Is the Fire

Galina

The penthouse feels like both a sanctuary and a cage.

From my spot on Vasiliy’s leather sofa, Manhattan stretches below like a glittering mirage—close enough to touch, impossible to reach. I’ve been stuck here for three days under doctor’s orders for “rest and monitoring.” But it’s not the bruises that itch under my skin.

It’s the waiting.

The enforced stillness. The suffocating sense of being observed.

Across the room, Vasiliy’s watching me again. He doesn’t even pretend otherwise. His gray eyes are as unreadable as ever, but I’ve come to recognize the shape of guilt behind them. Guilt, rage, but something gentle too.

“Staring again,” I murmur without looking up, pretending to use my phone.

He moves closer. Even in a black T-shirt and joggers, he carries the same deadly grace—like a panther draped in soft fabric.

“Just admiring how well you wear my shirt,” he replies, settling beside me. “You look like a pretty bird that flew into my cage.”

I snort. “Greedy alpha male.”

His eyes flare. “It’s sexy when you talk dirty.”

“That was sarcasm,” I deadpan.

“That was foreplay.” His smile is slow and rare, brushing against the raw edges of everything we’ve survived. He leans in and kisses my forehead. “Doctor said stay hydrated.”

He hands me a glass of water and a few prenatal vitamins. I swallow them carefully, trying not to flinch. My throat still hurts. The bruises are fading, but the memory of Matvei’s hands on me hasn’t.

Neither has the memory of Vasiliy’s hands—strong, steady, gentle after the violence. Like he was holding something precious. Something his rage hadn’t touched.

His phone buzzes. Again. He glances at it, frustration ghosting over his expression. The hunt for Matvei continues, but the bastard’s disappeared. Smoke and shadows. Probably tucked under Vladimir’s wing.

I remember the fear, the desperate surge of adrenaline, the scream that never fully left my lungs. But fear has no place in my life anymore. Not if I want a future. Not if I want one for this child.

“What’s the news?” I ask.

“Not about Matvei,” Vasiliy mutters, dropping into an armchair across from me. He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Different problem. You remember those buildings near the club? The ones I wanted to buy for storage?”

I nod, setting down the water. “What about them?”

“Someone beat us to it,” he says, voice clipped. “Yakov Gagarin.”

The name hits like a cold draft through an open window. I haven’t heard it in a couple of years, but it drips with meaning. Gagarin isn’t just another Bratva boss—he’s old-school, the kindof ruthless that raised nightmares in children and kept grown men quiet.

“Gagarin,” I repeat slowly. “He used to sit at the high table, didn’t he? Back when Moscow still pulled strings in New York.”

Vasiliy nods grimly. “Disappeared a couple of years ago.”

“And buying those buildings means he’s back,” I murmur.

“Back,” he confirms, “and choosing sides.”

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