Page 57 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

About the baby. About Matvei. About Detective Rong’s real allegiance.

The irony isn’t lost on me; a week ago, I was desperate to keep secrets from him. Now I’m desperate to confess. Because the only side I’m on anymore is this life growing inside me. This fragile thing that makes me retch at dawn and crave ice cream like it’s oxygen. It’s both my greatest liability and my sharpest blade.

But one wrong word could destroy everything. Vasiliy is a man who trades in control. If he sees me as a threat—or worse, a pawn—I won’t survive it. Neither will the baby.

The mirror shows the lie I’ve crafted: flawless silk, immaculate makeup, calculating poise. But underneath, the cracks run deep. And one of them is about to give—not for love, not for longing, but for the fragile life I have to protect.

Five minutes until the meeting.

Five minutes to decide how much truth to risk.

The child. The cop. My uncle’s wolves in the dark.

But one truth burns brighter than the rest: I can’t do this alone. Not anymore. Vasiliy might be my only shot at survival. At least until I give birth.

After that?

A man like him has no business raising a child.

But I still have to make him see what’s at stake. Still have to make him let us go. Not out of mercy. Out of strategy. Out of survival.

Without signing our death warrant.

I square my shoulders, spine straightening. There’s no room for fear now. No room for mistakes.

I swore I’d survive whatever it costs.

And I will.

Because this time?

I’m not just fighting for myself.

I’m fighting for us.

“You’re late,” Jaromir snaps as I step into Vasiliy’s den.

“Thirty-seven seconds early,” I reply coolly, ice sharpening every syllable.

He mutters something under his breath, voice as dark as his suit. I ignore it, sliding into position between Raffe—our new head of security—and Ignatiy, the numbers man. My pulse taps a warning against my ribs.

“Enough.” Vasiliy doesn’t raise his voice.

He never has to.

His presence swallows the room whole, thick as smoke and twice as suffocating. His eyes sweep across us, surgical and sharp, before locking onto me with lethal precision. My breath stutters. I look away, but the weight of him lingers, branding, burning.

He takes the sofa like a throne, casual only in the way a predator lounges. “Security concerns,” he says, drumming his fingers on the edge of his glass. “We need to talk.”

“We’re keeping the recent incident in mind, obviously,” Jaromir says. “It’s all anyone’s talking about. Another slip, and our reputation goes up in smoke.”

“No more incidents,” Vasiliy agrees, gaze sliding across the room. “Not if we want to court the high-end clientele.”

“In that case,” my voice cuts in, steady by force of will, “we need to make sure my uncle’s men don’t get through the doors again.”

He tenses. That cold, unreadable stillness wraps around him like armor. Not a word. Not a glance toward my stomach. Just more of that razor-sharp silence.

His hands flex open, then curl closed again. “Suggestions?”

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