Page 55 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Matvei curses under his breath and releases me.

The moment he steps back, Vasiliy is there, catching me before I fall. His hands are iron bands around my waist, but his eyes never leave Matvei.

“Go,” he commands, low and final.

Matvei spits on the floor. A slow, deliberate insult. Then, with a jerk of his head, he signals his men and disappears through the same doors he came in, his presence still poisoning the air.

The silence left behind is deafening.

I don’t move. Can’t move.

I just hold on to Vasiliy, trembling from the inside out, my hand still curled protectively over the life growing inside me.

He pulls me tighter. Not gently.

But in that moment, it’s the safest I’ve ever felt.

Chapter 17

What We Don’t Say

Galina

Aweek after bullets shattered our illusion of safety, the Velvet Echo wears its wounds like warpaint. A new chandelier hangs above us, dripping with crystal and decadence, even more ostentatious than the one destroyed. Because that’s what we do in this world: break beautiful things and replace them as if they never existed in the first place.

But beneath the polished chrome and fresh layers of paint, fear still lingers. It clings to the walls. It breathes with us.

The dancers no longer count beats—they count exits. Waiters flinch at the sound of dropped glassware, their nerves fraying like cheap tulle.

And Vasiliy? He hasn’t said a single word about the life growing inside me. Part of me is relieved; his silence makes it easier to keep my plans. But another part? That part still flinches, still waits.

I rest my hands on my still-flat stomach, standing on the mezzanine as Jaromir drills the staff below. His voice cracks across the floor like a whip, the words indistinct from up here, but the message clear in every movement. He’s part general, part executioner. One misstep and heads will roll.

Two sharp claps from his hands, loud as gunfire.

The waitstaff scatter, then fall into line, trays trembling in their hands as they execute their routines with the precision of soldiers in formation. The fear keeps them sharp. Failure, in this club, is not an option.

Back in my workroom, I bury myself in fabric and distraction. Silk, sequins, the illusion of control. Half our show pieces were lost in the firefight—bullet-riddled dreams lying in tatters on the floor that night. And no matter how skilled the seamstresses are, needle and thread can’t repair the deeper wounds. The ones we don’t speak of.

My fingers tremble as I adjust the neckline of a new gown, betraying the nerves I try to cover with calm. They trembled like this that night, too, when Matvei almost took me. When Vasiliy’s face cracked wide open, all that ruthless control shattered in an instant. I saw something in his eyes then. Shock. Fury. Possession. Maybe even fear.

But he hasn’t said a word since. Won’t look at me unless it’s business. He held me like a priceless artifact—something too fragile to confront. Now he’s back to ice. Dangerous. And I hate how much I miss the warmth of his claim, even if it burned.

He hasn’t touched me. Not since that night. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe distance makes it easier to walk away. But my body still remembers him. Still aches, even when my mind knows better. Still feels like it belongs to someone I can’t afford to belong to.

“Hem needs to rise,” Oksana says, her voice sharp and cool, slicing into my spiral. She nods toward the gown under my hands. “Skin sells fantasy.”

“Mystery sells better.” I keep my tone steady, though I feel anything but. Like the mystery of Vasiliy’s silence or the question of what Vladimir will do next. The quiet itself feels like a blade, pressed against my throat.

“If you give it all away,” I add, adjusting the fabric, “they lose the hunger.”

Oksana hums, pleased. “Keep them starving.”

“Keep them waiting.” The words come bitter on my tongue.

She studies me, mouth painted crimson, smile poised like a weapon. “Smart girl.”

Then she steps closer. Her voice drops to something intimate and edged. “Your uncle’s wolves are circling again. Word is, they’re planning something.”

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