Page 100 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

I should feel relief.

But I wonder if I’ve just made another mistake.

Then his fingers find mine.

And I squeeze back.

Some chains are made of steel. Others are forged in fire—need, loyalty, love.

Whatever binds me to Vasiliy, I know one thing for certain.

I don’t want to be free of it.

The rain comes down harder as we pull up to the club.

Whatever storm’s coming, we’ll face it together.

We don’t have any other choice.

Chapter 30

Breaking the Chain

Galina

“Are you sure about this?” Vasiliy asks for what feels like the tenth time, his voice low as he idles at the curb in front of my childhood home.

I stare out the window at the stoic gray brick facade. It looks smaller than I remember. Meaner. “Not even a little bit,” I admit, fingers tightening around the door handle. “But Mila says this is part of my emotional rehab. Her words, not mine.”

“And you trust her?” His tone is neutral, but the sharp line of his jaw says he doesn’t.

“She’s my therapist, not my priest,” I say with a shrug. “Her job is to make sure I stop spinning in circles. And apparently, facing the people who made me this way is step one.”

Vasiliy doesn’t reply. His eyes are locked on the house like it’s a potential ambush site. His silence is more protective than disapproving, like he’s already imagining worst-case scenarios and planning how to neutralize them.

“If they lay a single finger on you?—”

“They won’t.” I try to sound confident. “They’re my parents.”

“Exactly,” he mutters. “That’s what makes them dangerous.”

With a breath that tastes like anxiety, I push open the car door. I’m halfway up the front steps when I realize Vasiliy’s shadow is right behind me.

“Don’t you have a meeting at the club?”

“Cleared my calendar,” he says, unapologetically.

My eyes narrow. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he grabs me by the waist, hauling me close. His mouth crashes against mine in a kiss that’s more possession than passion, more warning than welcome. When he pulls back, his voice is low and deadly calm.

“To remind them,” he says. “That whatever they say in there, whatever they try to take from you—you don’t walk alone anymore.”

That warmth I hate to need spreads through my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper, fingers curling into the lapels of his coat for just a second longer than necessary.

The moment shatters as the front door swings open before I can even ring the bell.

My mother stands there, perfectly put together in pearls and judgment, eyes cutting straight past me to the man behind.

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