Page 41 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

The words settle like dust in the air.

I could hand her everything. The ledgers. The whispers. The whole rotted foundation holding this empire up. I could watch it all burn.

But the thought of betraying Vasiliy curdles in my stomach.

I reach out, squeeze her hand like it’s a lifeline I’m considering grabbing. “I appreciate that,” I say, low and careful. “But I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Something flickers behind her eyes—frustration, or maybe disappointment.

She slips a card into my palm. “In case you remember anything. About your employer. Or yourself.”

Ah. There it is.

It was never about me. Not really.

She wants Vasiliy. She wants to crack him open and see what leaks out.

“The Velvet Echo runs clean,” I say softly. “But if anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

And I offer the faintest smile. Just enough to look like a maybe. Just enough to keep her watching.

Because if she’s watching me, she’s not watching him.

And that might be the only way we all survive.

She nods, brisk and businesslike, then offers her hand. “Until next time. Stay sharp, Galina. And watch your back. Men like Volkov—” her eyes narrow slightly, “—they protect what’s useful. The moment you’re not...”

She leaves the rest unsaid. But I hear it anyway.

Once the door clicks shut behind her, I stay still, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back wears vulnerability like a costume—soft around the edges, a little too open. But beneath that, something harder is coiled, watchful. Something Rong didn’t quite see.

She’s right, though. I do need to be careful.

Just not for the reasons she thinks.

I slip her card into my purse. Not because I trust her. Not even because I plan to use it.

But because in this world, having a cop in your back pocket is worth more than sentiment. Just in case.

My gaze flicks to the clock.

6:34 a.m.

Vasiliy leaves at seven, and if I want to catch him before the masks go back on and the night resets itself into silence, I need to move.

Chapter 13

The Crown She Doesn’t Know She’s Wearing

Vasiliyi

The sun hasn’t yet broken over Manhattan’s skyline, but the club is already quiet, and I’m still wired, caught in the aftermath of everything Galina stirred loose in me last night. Her dance replays on a merciless loop behind my eyes. The arch of her spine. The calculated strength in every twist. The moment her mask slipped, and I saw the woman beneath the armor. Not just a performance, not just seduction. It was a revelation. Unintentional, unfiltered, and far more dangerous than anything she’s done with intent.

She bared her soul without meaning to. And that’s what makes it lethal.

I grip the teacup tighter, the black tea scalding my throat like penance. Strong, bitter—no sugar, no softness. Just heat and control. But it does nothing to cauterize the wound she left behind. My palms still remember the armrests, the leather groaning beneath my grip as I fought the instinct to drag her from that stage and bend her to my will.

It wasn’t just lust. Lust is fleeting and contained.

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