Page 110 of Sweet Obsession
But I didn’t step back.
I stepped forward.
And when Misha turned to look at me, I met his gaze without blinking.
A hush fell heavier. His actions had weight.
Not just among us. But among the Bratva heads. Their wives. Their sons.
And yet I didn’t lower my gaze.
I walked toward him, heels clicking against the marble like a challenge, and reached for the hand still holding the blade.
I pressed my fingers over his knuckles, careful of the blood. Of what he’d done.
Of what it meant.
“Misha,” I said quietly, for him alone. “If you keep bleeding the world for me like this, there won’t be any of you left.”
Lev suddenly lunged.
Misha spun with the kind of elegance only brutality could teach. His arm deflected the punch, and then his elbow cracked into Lev’s ribs. Chairs scraped across marble. A glass shattered near the podium. Someone screamed.
And then, chaos.
The room erupted.
Guards surged from both sides. The Odessa men stepped forward. Nikolai and Oleg stepped forward too, pulling blades from their belts. A gun was drawn—then slapped out of someone’s hand before it could trigger a war.
Tables overturned. Wine spilled like blood. The Chita family took cover behind a pillar while Khabarovsk’s patriarch barked for his sons to stand down. But no one listened. Not really.
Because all eyes were on them.
Misha. Lev. Chernov.
And me.
Three men and one woman wrapped in violence and power.
The way Chernov bled, pale, shaking, clutching his side, it wasn’t just about betrayal. It was about desecration.
Misha didn’t just punish him. He humiliated him.
And now the whole Bratva knew.
I stepped between them.
Between Misha and the man he wanted to kill.
And I looked Misha in the eye. Only him.
“Please,” I added, lower now. “End this.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not submission. But restraint. Which, from a man like Misha, was the most violent kind of love.
He lowered the blade.
Just enough.
