Page 27 of Obsessed Bratva King

I can’t act rashly. Not yet. Not here, where the streets are busy, where Cora is just inside, oblivious to the way my world is closing in on her.

I count the seconds. Thirty. Sixty.

The man doesn’t move.

Doesn’t leave.

His gaze flickers toward the restaurant again. Again.

Something inside me snaps.

Sliding out of the SUV, I melt into the crowd, my steps measured, controlled. Silent. The man doesn’t see me coming—he’s too focused on the restaurant, on Cora, on something he will never get the chance to touch.

I track his movement as he pushes off the lamppost and starts down the sidewalk, still watching, still lingering.

I close the distance.

One step. Another.

My hand clamps around his arm in a vice grip as I lean in, my voice low, even. Lethal.

The man stiffens. “What the?—”

I squeeze harder, my fingers digging into muscle, my grip unforgiving. I lean in, my mouth barely inches from his ear.

“Make a sound, and I will put a bullet in your stomach right here, right now.”

He doesn’t struggle, but I feel the tension in his body—the moment of hesitation, the calculation of whether he can run.

He can’t.

He knows it.

He swallows hard and nods.

I guide him toward my SUV, my grip unrelenting, my pace calm. No one notices.

I open the driver-side door and shove him inside. He barely has time to gasp before I slide in beside him, slamming the door shut. I point the gun straight at him. “Key’s in the ignition. Drive. Take it slow.”

The engine hums as he pulls away from the curb, merging into the steady flow of traffic.

His breath comes faster now, his pulse jumping in his throat. I can see it—his hands flexing against his knees, his body stiff, his mind scrambling for a way out.

“Listen, I don’t?—”

“Shut up.” My voice is calm, flat. But there’s no mistaking the steel in it.

He shuts up.

“Take a left. That alley.”

He does as I say, swallowing hard. “I’m not doing nothing, mister. Please, I’ve got kids.”

“Stop here. Out.”

The man stumbles as he climbs out of the car, his legs barely holding him up. He smells of sweat and fear, the stink of desperation clinging to him. I keep my grip tight on my gun, steering him into the shadows of the alley.

His breath comes fast, panicked. He tries to turn his head, to get a good look at me, as if seeing my face will help him.

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