Page 61 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

And maybe that’s enough. For now.

I nod once and reach for the burner phone with fingers that shouldn’t be trembling, but they are. Rage, fear, need—they all blur together now.

Detective Rong answers on the second ring.

I pass the phone to Galina, our eyes locking in a moment that says everything. My gaze grants permission. Hers accepts the risk.

My heart hammers in my chest as she lifts the phone, slipping the sleek voice modulator over her throat like she’d done this before. The soft click as it activates sounds louder than any gunshot. In seconds, her voice will be untraceable, stripped of pitch, accent, identity. Just cold, genderless menace. I should feel relief. Instead, dread coils tighter.

A part of me wants to rip the phone from her hands. To shield her. To end this madness before it consumes her completely. But I don’t move. I just watch, jaw clenched, as she becomes the weapon we both need her to be.

And I do the only thing I know how to do well.

I bury myself in silence. In control. In the monster.

She answers, her voice dipped in honey and arsenic. “Detective Rong.”

“Who is this?” Rong’s voice is impatient, laced with skepticism.

Galina’s free hand curls around her stomach, and the sight of it almost drops me to my knees. That small, unconscious gestureshe’s now doing all the time—the way she protects what’s ours—hits me harder than any bullet ever could.Our child.The words burn through me, violent and unwanted.

“I planted a bomb,” she says, her tone chilling. “In your city.”

A long pause.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” she says coolly.

“If it doesn’t matter, I’ve got better things to do than chase ghosts.”

But Galina doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t waver. She steps into the role like she was born for it.

“There’s a bomb in the Velvet Echo. One hour. Clock’s ticking. Let’s see how many bodies you want on your conscience.”

“Is this a threat or a joke?”

“Wrong question, Detective,” she says, calm as glass. “Can you make it in time?”

She ends the call without waiting for an answer, her fingers steady as she peels the voice modulator from her throat. The adhesive gives with a soft, skin-tight snap. I hold the evidence bag open as she drops the phone inside, then adds the device without a word. No hesitation. No room for second thoughts.

The bag seals with a soft hiss, and I lock it away inside the wall safe, like burying a sin we’ll pretend never existed.

Perfect execution. But she’s shaking now.

Not obviously. Most people wouldn’t notice. But I see it.

The cracks beneath the mask. The exhaustion etched under her eyes. The ghost of last week still carved into her posture. Morning sickness has hollowed out her cheeks and dulled her glow. She’s still standing, still swinging, but the fight is eating her from the inside out.

And I did this. I brought her into this world. Dragged her under.

A wave of guilt claws up my throat. I want to reach for her. Ask about her health. About the baby. Aboutus.

But if I open that door—if I let her in—I’ll have to admit what I am.

A killer. A weapon. A curse dressed in tailored suits and bloodstained promises.

So I don’t touch her. I don’t speak.

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