Page 125 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

As they argue, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye—Matvei inching toward a fallen rifle.

Shit.

“Watch out!” I shove Vladimir aside as Matvei grabs the weapon.

The gun fires. A white-hot streak of pain tears across my shoulder.

I don’t wait.

I charge.

We collide in a storm of fists and fury. He’s snarling, spitting, firing wild. I knock the rifle away and hammer him back with blow after blow, adrenaline burning out the pain.

Above us, Sergey and Yakov clash—a verbal war turning physical. Yakov lifts his weapon, aiming at Igor across the factory.

“He took Ana!” Yakov screams. “He deserves to die!”

But Sergey moves like a man half his age, slamming into his son just as the shot cracks off. The bullet goes wide, embedding itself in a concrete column.

Father and son collapse in a struggle, old grief erupting into violence.

Below, Matvei and I are locked in our own reckoning.

We fight like men with nothing left to lose. He lands a vicious punch to my jaw. I drop to my knees, dazed, gasping. My arms feel leaden. My body screams for air, for mercy.

But then I hear him.

“I’ll finish what I started in Siberia,” Matvei growls, drawing a second blade from his boot. “And then I’ll carve the bastard out of her. Maybe I’ll let her watch?—”

My world narrows.

I stop hearing the battle. The shouts. The gunfire.

All I hear is that one sentence.

My body reacts before thought can.

I lunge, roaring, the sound torn from the depths of me. We crash to the floor. The knife clatters away.

I don’t stop.

I pin him, fists raining down, then wrap my hands around his throat. His eyes bulge, mouth open in a silent scream as I squeeze. Harder.Harder.

His claws rake at my arms. Blood slicks my skin.

I don’t feel it.

There’s only one truth left:

You don’t threaten what’s mine and live.

A gunshot cracks through the air, close enough to rattle my bones. Matvei’s body jolts beneath me. His hands go slack.

I look up.

Vladimir stands above us, his pistol still raised. Smoke curls from the barrel.

“He was mine,” I growl, not yet releasing my grip on Matvei’s throat.

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