Page 38 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“Forgive me for being blunt,” I say, folding my hands on the desk, my tone as polished as the wood beneath my elbows. “But as you can imagine, I don’t have much time for theater. Why are you really here?”

Rong doesn’t flinch. She just taps her fingers against the chair’s armrest—measured, rhythmic, as if to remind me she’s the one keeping time. Lawson shifts beside her, his discomfort bleeding into the air like cheap cologne.

“No reason,” he says after a pause, the words clumsy. “Just doing our rounds. Making sure neighborhood standards are…upheld.”

A weak line. A placeholder. But Rong doesn’t let him flounder for long.

“In the interest of building trust between the Velvet Echo and the NYPD,” she says, slipping on professionalism like a secondskin, “we won’t be asking for your client list. After all, discretion benefits everyone.” Her eyes cut to mine. “We’re interested in a…symbiotic relationship.”

And there it is. The real ask. Dressed in silk and civility, but it reeks of pressure. The kind that doesn’t come from a precinct. It comes from something higher. Something darker.

I offer her a smile, polite and empty. “You’re welcome to stop by anytime. Enjoy a drink, maybe a show.” I keep my voice neutral, steering carefully around the wordpartnership. Dirty cops are useful tools, but I prefer to use them through intermediaries. Never directly. Never visibly. Exposure is vulnerability.

Rong stands. A signal. We’re done here.

But her eyes stay on mine just a fraction too long. And in that sliver of silence, her mask cracks—barely. Not fear. Not yet. But desperation. The kind that comes from running out of options.

I watch her go, the door clicking softly behind her. The moment it does, the weight of it presses on my spine. My instincts flare, teeth bared beneath the surface. She’s not just nosing around. She’s trying to survive something. And she thinks leaning on me will buy her time.

She’s wrong.

But it’s not her I focus on as the silence folds in again. It’s the woman still standing in my office, framed in soft light and sharper lines.

Galina.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. Just lifts her chin slightly, that defiant fire still burning in her eyes.

She played it perfectly.

Distracting. Composed. Untraceable. She offered them nothing of substance and made it look like generosity. Her performance would’ve made Boris proud—hell, even I’mimpressed. But the pride curdles quickly. Because no matter how artfully she protects this club, I know she doesn’t do it for me.

She does it because, in her mind, it still belongs to her.

And that will always be our fatal flaw.

“That will be all,” I say, keeping my voice even.

She doesn’t move. Not at first. Then, “Yes, sir.”

The words drip with obedience. But her tone? Her posture?

It’s a challenge.

Her mouth is painted in that shade I can’t fucking stop thinking about, and her hair spills like fire over her shoulders. One word, one look, and I could have her back in my lap, riding the edge of her own rules. But I don’t move. Because the second I touch her again, I’ll lose the last sliver of control I’m still pretending to have.

She turns, the sway of her hips just subtle enough to be intentional.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

And the worst part?

So do I.

As the door closes behind her, silence returns.

But it doesn’t feel empty.

It feels like the opening move in a game neither of us is ready to quit.

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