Page 58 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“They’ve been watching the club,” Raffe says. “Not inside. Just close enough to rattle us.”

“Those fuckers.” Jaromir pushes out of his chair. “We should end them.”

“No.” My voice is firm. “We show them they have more to lose by stepping foot in here.”

Vasiliy’s arms fold across his chest. “How?”

“We invite the police,” I say. His gaze catches mine. The gleam in his eyes isn’t warmth—it’s calculation. “We make sure my uncle’s men know the club’s under watch.”

“We can’t trust the cops,” Jaromir barks. “They want to bury us.”

“They’re coming either way,” I counter. “This way, we control the narrative. And their presence keeps Vladimir’s wolves at bay.”

Vasiliy exhales through his nose, fingers pressing into his temples. “It can’t be subtle. If we want this to work, it has to be loud enough for Vladimir to notice.”

“I have just the thing,” I say, a wicked little smile tugging at my lips. “An anonymous tip. A bomb threat.”

Jaromir explodes. “That’s insane! We don’t call in threats on our own club.”

“If they find the stash, we’re done,” Ignatiy adds, finally weighing in.

“That’s why we move it first,” I say, looking straight at Vasiliy. “Clear the backrooms. Scrub the bar. Sweep every surface. We stash everything in the tunnel storage and let the police come. We look spotless.”

“Unless Vladimir jumps the gun and storms in before the cops arrive,” Vasiliy mutters. “We can’t afford another shootout.”

“Then we move fast,” I reply. “Evacuate the clients through the back. Quiet, in small groups. No panic. No headlines.”

Vasiliy doesn’t hesitate. “You heard her,” he growls, flicking his fingers at Jaromir and Raffe. “Start cleaning.”

They spring into motion, phones already in hand as they storm out to orchestrate the sweep.

I stay rooted, expecting to be dismissed too.

But he doesn’t say a word.

And I don’t move.

Vasiliy rounds the desk and drops into his chair. He leans back, one arm slung over the chair’s armrest.

“How do you know Matvei?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

“We go way back.” He pauses, eyes dragging over me like he’s deciding just how much to give. “I put him in Siberia. Then landed there myself. Let’s just say we had quality time.”

But Vasiliy doesn’t want to linger in the past. He shifts, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“Given your bloodline,” he says, voice dropping, “I shouldn’t be surprised you’re this fucking good at this.”

It takes me a second to register the words. A compliment. From Vasiliy Volkov.

My lips tug into a small, genuine smile, until I meet his gaze.

Heavy. Measuring. Too sharp to be soft, too focused to be casual. It turns the compliment into something I can’t quite hold onto. Something with teeth.

“Thank you,” I murmur, wary now.

He doesn’t look away. For a moment, I think he might say something more—something real. About the baby. About us. About whatever this thing is between two people who have no business wanting anything at all.

But then his expression shutters.

---