Page 78 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“Exactly.” He doesn’t hesitate and pulls out his phone and hits dial.

The call goes through on speaker. Nikolai answers on the first ring, his voice steady.

“Brat. How’s Galina?”

“Healing,” Vasiliy says, eyes flicking to mine. The softness there doesn’t match his voice. “Listen. Yakov Gagarin just bought the buildings next to the club. Is that who I think it is?”

A pause.

Then Nikolai’s breath hisses through the speaker. “Shit.”

Not the kind of shit that’s casual. The kind that means blood, history, danger.

“This could be very bad,” he adds. “We need to loop in Igor. Immediately.”

Vasiliy’s eyes narrow. “Remind me. Why the fuck does that name still matter?”

“Yakov Gagarin is Anastasiya’s brother,” Nikolai says, voice flat with old resentment. “Igor got involved with her—it quickly turned into a blood feud. Their father came to me after everything went to hell. In exchange for my help, he gave his blessing for Katya to marry into our family. Well, at least at first... Then Ana died in childbirth, and… Well, let’s just say Yakov didn’t take it quietly. I’m the reason he’s in that chair now.”

Vasiliy huffs, jaw tight. “Right. You snapped his spine.”

Nikolai’s voice turns sharp. “Only after he snatched my wife.”

The line drops like a knife between them. The Gagarins aren’t some faded rumor—they’re real Bratva, old-school and deeply connected. This wasn’t a rivalry. It was a war dressed in family ties.

I blink, trying to absorb the full weight of it. I remember hearing Yakov’s name in whispers, usually when the old guard talked about who had power without needing to flash it. The Gagarins were the kind of family you didn’t provoke unless you were ready for fallout. My father mentioned them once, maybe twice, always with the tone he reserved for men who could crush you with a phone call. I think there was talk of an alliance. It never happened.

“Doesn’t sound promising,” I murmur, trying to stay composed. But the dread that coils low in my stomach says otherwise. “This wasn’t random, was it?”

Vasiliy shakes his head slowly. “No. This is positioning. Too precise to be anything else. Someone’s testing the perimeter.”

“We need to talk to Igor,” I say, watching Vasiliy’s eyes narrow. “They’re circling,” I whisper. “Block by block. Building by building. If they’re working with Vladimir?—”

“They’re not getting anything,” Vasiliy cuts in. There’s something dangerous in his tone—something that promises war. “Not you. Not our child.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Nikolai clears his throat. “Speaking of children…congratulations. Not the best timing, but then again, I’m not one to talk. And, while we’re here, are we just going to brush over the fact that Galina kidnapped our sister and tried to kill her?”

“You chained your wife in your basement, remember?” Vasiliy counters, the words more tired than angry.

“Semantics,” Nikolai replies smoothly. “We’re married now. Very happy. But let’s not be shocked if the next family get together is a bit tense.”

“Noted,” Vasiliy mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Silence settles, heavy with old sins and fresh threats. I don’t blame them for remembering what I did—what I used to be. I’ve bled for those mistakes. Buried brothers. Watched my cousin die. There are nights I can’t look in the mirror without seeing the monster I was.

When the call ends, I push up from the couch, legs shaky, head still pounding from the concussion. “If Gagarin and my uncle are aligning, we need a plan. We?—”

My vision tilts, blurs. I stumble.

Vasiliy is there in seconds, guiding me back down with careful hands. “You’re not helping anyone if you pass out,” he says, voice soft but unyielding. “The doctor said to rest. That wasn’t a suggestion.”

His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady, thumbs tracing gentle circles against my collarbone. It’s such a small thing, but it knocks the wind out of me.

“I’m not helpless,” I bite out, the frustration burning just beneath my skin. “This isn’t just your fight.”

“I know.” His hand rises to my cheek, brushing over the fading bruise with infuriating tenderness. “But right now? Your only job is to heal and protect what’s growing inside you. Let me handle the rest.”

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