Page 8 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“Your name?”

“Rebeka.”

She leads me through the club’s hollow heart to a corridor lined in polished wood that gleams like old bones. Halfway down, she stops at a black door heavy enough to stop bullets.

“I’ll let him know you’re here,” Rebeka murmurs before slipping inside.

I’ve played this game long enough to know what waits behind that door isn’t a welcome or reunion. My prison marks burn, each scar and tattoo a testament to survival. Whatever he wants, I’ve paid for the right to demand more. Power sits in my palm like a loaded gun. Yet my mouth tastes of copper, and my heart pounds prison rhythms against my ribs.

Everything changes.

Everything stays the same.

Life in an echo chamber of our own making.

The door swings open. Rebeka barely looks me in the eye. “He’ll see you now.”

I don’t respond.

My boots hit the floor like threats, not footsteps. I start toward the left—where the old office used to be—but Rebeka cuts in, voice cool, clipped. “This way, sir.” She opens the door on the right, revealing a new space dressed in white, gold, and too much self-importance.

I step inside, and the stench of curated wealth chokes me. Clean lines. Designer furniture. Soulless perfection. This isn’t an office. It’s a facade—just like everything Igor touches.

A second woman stands near the bar, posture stiff, obedient. Another doll polished and posed to impress. My jaw ticks.

Rebeka lingers, watching me like she’s trying to gauge if I’m about to snap. Smart. She should be afraid. Everyone should be.

I stalk across the room and drop onto the farthest sofa. My silence is intentional. My stare, a warning.

She offers the usual pleasantries. “Would you like a drink?”

My eyes cut to her without warmth. “Your name.”

A beat. “Helena.”

“Helena.” I let the name hang in the air, tasting it like blood on my tongue. She’s too composed. Too poised. Igor’s creature. But even caged animals bite when cornered. I catalog her tension, the way her hands twitch just before she hides them. I could break her in half before she blinked.

Then the doors open.

Igor walks in like he’s never missed a night of sleep. Clean-shaven. Tailored to perfection. Groomed like this city bends for him.

It makes me want to put my fist through something.

He meets my gaze, and for a fraction of a second, his Bratva mask slips. That faint smile cuts through the noise, just enough to remind me who he is. Who I am. And what we’ve both done to survive.

The monster inside me stirs, pacing just beneath the surface.

This is home.

But make no mistake.

The beast didn’t stay in Siberia.

It came back with me. And it’s hungry.

Igor Sokolov rises from his seat, stalking toward me, his blue eyes burning with that ruthless intent that ensures he’ll go down in our city’s history.It’s the kind of stare that built empires and buried bodies. He moves in with the casual dominance of someone who knows exactly how much power he holds—and how many people he’s broken to keep it.

He pulls me into a tight hug. But nothing about it fools me. I check his hands on instinct, fingers brushing his jacket for hidden steel. No blade. No blood. Doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous—just that today, the knife’s metaphorical.

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