Page 80 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

He looks at me then—really looks. The kind of stare that strips you down to bone and breath. “I want more than survivalfor us,” he says, low and fierce. “I want peace. Even if I have to carve it out with my bare hands.”

My heart stumbles at the quiet conviction in his voice.

“Come here,” I murmur, reaching for him.

He doesn’t hesitate. He never does. He sinks onto the couch beside me, sliding one arm around my waist and pulling me into the solid heat of his chest. There’s no urgency now, no sharp edges or frantic hunger. Just the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin, and the weight of everything he’s not saying.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs into my hair. “Not now. Not ever.”

And for the first time, I believe it.

We sit there for a long moment, suspended in something that feels too fragile to name. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.

Then I shift in his arms and look up at him. “Then let’s build something different,” I say softly. “Something better. For us. For the baby.”

His eyes search mine—sharp but steady—and for a heartbeat, I think I’ve pushed too far. But then his expression shifts. Not softer exactly, just...determined. Like steel cooling after being tempered in fire.

“Done.” His voice is resolute. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. You, me, and our child. Together.”

“What?” I blink at him, stunned by how easily the words fall from his lips. “Just like that?”

“I’ve never wanted this life,” he says. “Not really. I’ve spent most of it working undercover, feeding intel back to the FSB, trying to keep one foot in and one out. But walking away from it all isn’t as easy as it sounds. Until you.”

I stare at him. “You were FSB. Before Siberia,”

He nods once. “Yes. And when I came to New York, I thought I could keep running the club without getting draggeddeeper into Igor’s world. But it’s harder than I thought. That’s why I’ve been trying to buy those buildings next door—to start separating the business from the Bratva product. The fashion show idea gave me leverage I didn’t have before. Something clean. Aboveboard. I was going to use it and push Igor into moving his operations somewhere else.”

A glimmer of hope sparks in my chest. “You really mean that?”

“I do.” His hand finds mine, thumb tracing gentle circles over my wrist. “I’ll do anything for our baby, Galina. And for you.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Not because they’re sweet, but because they’re real. I can feel the truth in them. The weight of all the things he’s already done to protect us.

I lean forward, curling into him, breathing him in. His scent—sharp, clean, and uniquely him—wraps around me like safety. His arms tighten, pulling me closer, and for a second, I let myself believe that we might actually be okay.

“Bratva politics be damned,” I whisper into the crook of his neck. “No one’s taking this away from us.”

“Let them try,” he growls, voice vibrating against my skin.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. There’s heat in his eyes now, a slow burn that crackles beneath the surface.

“Galina,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion.

I meet his gaze. “Yeah?”

“I’ve wanted a thousand things in this life,” he says. “But nothing like I want this.”

And then he kisses me.

There’s no violence in it. No dominance. Just heat and tenderness and something deep enough to drown in. His lips move over mine like he’s memorizing every breath, every sigh. When our mouths part, I feel something inside me shifting.

I’ve seen the worst of him. And still, I’m here.

So is he.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he whispers in Russian, the words wrapping around my ribs like silk and steel. I feel them in my bones.

I don’t respond right away. Not because I don’t feel the same, but because I’m overwhelmed by it. It’s too big, too sudden. Too much.

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