Page 36 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“I thought you wanted?—”

“To torment you? Humiliate you? I’d rather have pleasure. Your pleasure. Whatever we’re doing here, it belongs to both of us now.”

With that, he lifts my hips, ripping my panties and slamming my body down to take his full length. His mouth crashes against mine, swallowing my cries as he sets an unforgiving rhythm, working himself deep into my pussy with each thrust.

Each stroke is a claiming, driving out every doubt with his bruising possession. It should feel like surrender. Submission. Instead, it’s a challenge. A promise that nothing between us will ever be straightforward.

“Give yourself to me,” he orders, bending me back until I have to brace my hands against his knees for support. One handslides from my hip to the sensitive little nub between my thighs. When his rough fingers brush against my flesh, an involuntary cry spills out of my mouth.

His laugh is low and dangerous. “Let me see you fall apart, Galina. Let me watch you come undone for me.”

My fingers are too slow, my body not my own. He’s not pulling me closer or forcing me away, just claiming each piece and demanding to witness my destruction. This is all part of the game he’s playing, whether it’s a reward or a punishment. But the orgasm rocks through me like an avalanche, a storm, everything at once.

He watches, every muscle rigid and pulsing. Only then does he drive himself to his own release, emptying himself into me as our mingled cries echo through the club.

We stay like that for several seconds, panting. I should get off his lap, push him away and reclaim some distance. Instead, I rest my cheek against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the bare skin peeking out beneath his collar. This closeness is impossible, and yet I’m clinging to him like a blanket during a storm.

“When we leave here,” Vasiliy says, and I find myself shocked by his tender tone, “you should start preparing. Let’s develop your idea. Then we re-evaluate.”

It isn’t a generous gesture. Everything he says is a threat, an order he expects me to obey. No, not everything. The way he carefully sets me on my feet, steadying me as the aftershocks pass. The fact that he doesn’t yank his zipper up like after a random fuck. His warm touch on my naked thigh. None of that is a threat.

I grab my dress from the floor, putting it on. A chill crawls over my skin, but I only give him a defiant smile.

And as I make my way across the club, his presence lingers, an indelible stain on my battered heart.

If not for him, perhaps the emptiness and regret would be eating away at my core. I don’t know who I am without hatred festering in my chest, but the sense of purpose it has given me won’t guide me alone.

Because by allowing me this, he gave me a taste of what we could be.

It’s also a warning shot.

A reminder that this war between us isn’t over.

Chapter 11

Kingdom of Glass

Vasiliyi

The detectives stride into the Velvet Echo, their badges catching the light from the crystal chandeliers.I tighten my grip on the security monitor, observing their purposeful approach across the main floor.The female detective’s sharp gaze sweeps the room with a meticulousness reminiscent of FSB training—this isn’t a routine visit; they’re building a case.

Jaromir, stationed across the room, acknowledges them with a subtle nod, a signal for me to act.He moves toward the stairwell leading to the surveillance control room, prepared to monitor the situation closely.

The detectives navigate past a group of well-dressed patrons in the salon, heading directly for the bar.Their presence doesn’t go unnoticed; an air of tension ripples through the club.Several shady figures near the stage lower their heads and disperse, retreating like roaches exposed to light.

“Sir,” Jaromir’s voice crackles through the intercom, “what are your orders?” His tone is smooth, obedient. But something about it scratches the inside of my skull. Jaromir’s usually sharper, more clipped. Today he sounds...strained.

I adjust my tie, a reflex honed from countless interrogations, both as the questioner and the questioned.”Escort them up.”

Returning my attention to the monitors, I position myself on the sofa, placing a tumbler of vodka on the armrest.I must embody the role of the startled yet cooperative businessman, always ready to assist the authorities.But their calculated approach suggests deeper intentions.

The security feed shows them ascending the stairs, the male detective’s hand hovering near his concealed weapon—a rookie mistake, revealing his nerves.The woman, however, moves with the precision of someone who knows exactly what they’re after.

As they reach my office door, Galina emerges from the storeroom below.Even through the grainy footage, I notice her brief hesitation upon spotting them.Then she squares her shoulders, lifting her chin in that familiar defiant manner—the same stance she adopted confronting Antonov.A complex emotion stirs within me—pride, perhaps, mingled with anticipation.

Galina intercepts the detectives in the hallway, engaging them in a conversation beyond my hearing.She gestures toward the main room and begins walking, the detectives following her lead.

Recognizing my cue, I switch off the monitors just as my office door opens, revealing the trio.Galina enters first, her expression composed.The male detective’s gaze briefly drops below her neckline, his hand twitching toward the recorder in his pocket.His partner, however, fixes her eyes on me, her demeanor that of a hunter assessing potential prey.

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