Page 73 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

The door creaks open.

I swing.

Matvei catches the rod inches from his face. His scarred mouth stretches into a grin, cold and cruel. “Nice try,koroleva.”

Before I can scream, his fist slams into my jaw. Pain fractures my vision—white sparks bursting behind my eyes. I stumble, but I don’t fall. I won’t. My heel snaps out toward his knee, but he’s faster than I remember, sidestepping with that same sadistic smirk.

“Time to send my own regards to your master,” he growls, advancing. “I owe him more than a few scars.”

I duck his next punch, heart slamming against my ribs, scanning for anything—anything—to use. My hand lands on a box of glass beads. Useless, but sharp. I hurl it at his face.

It buys me half a second.

I bolt for the door.

I make it two steps.

His arms wrap around me from behind like a steel trap. One forearm crushes my windpipe, and the world tilts sideways. My fingers claw at his arm, my lungs screaming for air.

Don’t black out. Don’t you dare.

I slam my heel into his instep, drive my palm into the base of his nose. Blood gushes. He snarls. The pressure around my throat increases. Stars explode across my vision. I twist, flailing and elbowing whatever part of him I can reach. Another groan. Another burst of pain. I throw my head back—and connect with his chin.Crack.

“You fucking bitch,” he spits, grabbing me by the waist andthrowingme.

I hit a shelf hard. Crates crash down around me. One catches my shoulder. Another smashes against my head. The world spins. Blood drips. My scalp’s wet. My hands are cut. My baby?—

Protect the baby.

Matvei’s on me in seconds, crushing me to the floor. I scream, but his hand covers my mouth like a muzzle. His weight pins me down, suffocating, immovable. His body shakes—fury, frustration, something darker. Something hungrier.

Then I see it.

The look in his eyes.

His belt loosens. Zipper slides. My blood turns to ice.

Tears blur my vision. But I don’t beg. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He thinks I’m weak. Powerless.

He’s wrong.

My hand grazes something slick and cold—a half-empty bottle of vodka. I grip it, tight, and swing.

The bottle shatters against his skull with a sickening crunch. Vodka sprays everywhere, burning my nose, my eyes. He jerks sideways, cursing in Russian, blood and liquor mixing as he reels.

I scramble to my feet.

No shoes. No plan.

Just survival.

I sprint, slipping on the polished floor, adrenaline propelling me forward. Behind me, Matvei’s boots hammer the floor. I don’t look back.

“Help!” I scream, lungs raw. “Somebody, please!”

The stairs blur beneath my feet. I take them two at a time, my chest heaving. My legs feel like jelly. But I keep moving.

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