Page 33 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

His eyes darken, the sharp lines of calculation behind them sharpening. He’s thinking now, not just watching. And that’s exactly what I want.

“And what kind of clientele does this fantasy attract?” he asks, the words clipped.

I smirk, slow and feral. “Do you really want this place crawling with Antonovs? Men who smell like stale vodka?”

I move in. Cross the last few feet and brace my hands on either side of his chair. I don’t touch him, but I feel the heat ripple between us like a live wire.

“Or do you want politicians?” I challenge. “Billionaires. Hollywood royalty. The kind of men who pay five figures for an experience they can’t find anywhere else. The kind who’ll never touch but will spend a fortune pretending they might.”

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture does. It’s subtle, but I feel it. He’s listening now. Really listening.

“And if you’re still not convinced…” I let my voice drop as I slide my palms up his chest and press him back into the leather sofa. His muscles go rigid beneath my hands, all coiled tension and unspoken need. But he doesn’t stop me.

He won’t.

Not when his control is already unraveling in slow, delicious strands.

“Let me show you the club’s most exclusive offering,” I whisper, my breath skimming the edge of his cheek. “The one that’ll have clients lined up and clawing just to get a taste of something they’ll never touch.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stares at me like I’m a weapon he forgot how to disarm.

“Show me,” he finally rasps, like velvet dragged across gravel.

I smile, letting one bare foot slide forward until it rests against his thigh. His body responds instantly, tension rippling through him as his jaw tightens. I let my hips sway as my hands glide over my waist, then down the curve of my thighs, drawing his eyes with every movement.

“This is the twist,” I murmur. “We give them the illusion of access. Beauty they can see, crave, but never have. No touching. No taking. Just hunger. Just longing.”

His breath hitches as I lean in again, bracing myself against his knees, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “When the show ends, they leave with nothing but the memory. And they’ll pay anything to chase that feeling again.”

I flick my tongue against his skin—barely a touch, just enough to leave a spark—and he inhales sharply, a growl rumbling in his chest. His hand clamps around my waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind me who he is.

“Careful, Galina,” he says, his voice all grit and heat. “You’re playing with a starving beast.”

I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, my pulse thrumming. “Maybe I like dangerous games,” I whisper, letting the challenge hang between us.

He holds my gaze, fury and desire locked behind storm-gray eyes. His control is fraying—I can feel it in the way his grip lingers, in the tension crackling in the air between us.

Then he lets go, slowly. The only part of him that moves is his hand, lifting to pat his thigh.

“Sit on my lap,lisichka,” he says, his voice calm now—too calm. But the heat beneath it? That’s the warning.

The game isn’t over.

It’s just begun.

Chapter 10

A Seat at the Edge of Ruin

Galina

Ipause at his words.

“Sit on my lap,lisichka.”

The command lingers in the air like smoke—low, steady, unmistakably deliberate. No sharpness. No urgency. Just an iron thread wrapped in velvet, humming with power.

He pats his thigh once, a gesture so restrained it’s almost cruel. Like he knows I’ll come. Like he’s already counted on it.

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