Page 116 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“Our deal was clear,” he says tightly. “The Volkovs and Sokolovs pay for Ana. But it’s done clean. Professional.”

Matvei scoffs. “Your way is too slow. You want suffering. I want bodies.”

“You’ll get them.” Yakov’s voice drops, dangerous and smooth. “But you don’t raze an empire in a day. There’s a method to dismantling power.”

Even now, bruised and bleeding, I can see it:Yakov’s not just a thug with a vendetta. He’s something else. Strategic. Cold. Bound by his own code, as fractured as it may be.

I turn to Katarina. “Wait…Yakov’s working with my uncle?”

She shakes her head. “No. Not exactly. From what we’ve picked up, Matvei’s gone rogue. He’s using Yakov’s people, but he doesn’t give a damn about Yakov’s motives.”

“He wants Vasiliy,” Katya adds, low and steady. “There’s history there.”

Vasiliy’s stories come back to me in flashes. Bits he told me when his guard was down, quiet moments where something in him cracked just enough to let the truth bleed through. The prison in Siberia. Matvei. The boiling oil.

A feud forged in chains.

“We need to work together,” I whisper, testing the zip ties at my wrists. They bite deep, but there’s give. I just need something sharp. Something small.

Katarina’s gaze shifts—me, the guard, the floor, back to me. She gives a slight nod.

She’s ready.

We all are.

A commotion erupts across the room. Jaromir steps forward, his voice slicing through the tension like a wire about to snap.

“This has gone far enough,” he says, ignoring Matvei completely as he addresses Yakov. “You promised justice for Ana. Not this. Not a war. This—” He gestures to the warehouse, to us, to everything “—this is madness.”

“Careful,” Matvei warns, his hand sliding to the gun on his hip like it’s second nature. “Watch your tone, lover boy.”

“My place was by Ana’s side,” Jaromir says, his voice cracking at the edges. “Everything I did—betraying Volkov, helping you—it was for her. But this?” His eyes flick to us. “This isn’t justice. It’s cruelty. And she would’ve hated every second of it.”

Yakov’s expression turns to ice. “Ana’s dead,” he says. “What she wanted no longer matters.”

“She was the love of my life.” Jaromir is unraveling, desperation leaking from every word. “You asked me to help you destroy Igor. I agreed. But not like this. Not with women locked in corners and threats against unborn children.”

The gunshot cuts him off.

It’s fast—too fast to track. One second Jaromir’s standing, the next he’s crumpled on the floor, blood blooming through his thigh like ink in water.

Matvei lowers his weapon, unconcerned. “Anyone else feel like growing a conscience?”

The guards shuffle. Eyes dart. But none speak.

I glance at Yakov. His jaw flexes. Something cold flickers across his face—not anger, but disapproval. Maybe even regret. But it’s too late. The balance of power has already shifted. Matvei’s taken control, and Yakov knows it.

“Was that necessary?” Yakov asks tightly.

“Entirely,” Matvei says, sliding his weapon back into its holster. “Sentiment is weakness. We can’t afford weakness. Not now.”

Yakov turns to the nearest guard. “Help him.”

The man hesitates. His gaze flicks, not to Yakov but to Matvei. Only when Matvei gives a lazy, dismissive nod does the guard move toward Jaromir.

It’s subtle.

But it’s damning.

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