Page 107 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

A collective hush falls over the room.

The silk pools around her feet. Her back is to the crowd, head tilted, arms raised gracefully. Her curves, her inked skin, the slow, poised way she walks off the stage—they all saylook, but don’t touch. And the crowd? They eat it up. Applause, whistles, a few gasps from the uninitiated.

I don’t smile. I own this.

“Quite impressive,” a voice says behind me. Smooth. Cultured. Dangerous.

I turn slowly.

“I’m blown away by the show.” He glances toward the stage where a model is mid-turn in a crimson silk number. “The craftsmanship. The restraint. There’s a certain...artistry in how you toe the line between luxury and sin.” His gaze slides back to me. “It’s rare to see such control.”

There’s something off about him, something measured and dangerous hiding behind the flattery. But before I can untangle it, a sudden wave of nausea swells in my gut. The perfume-laced air, the stress, the heat—it all crashes into me like a tidal wave.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, already moving. I barely make it to the nearest bathroom before I’m retching into the stall, every heave ripping through me as tears sting my eyes. Not now. Nottonight.

Behind me, footsteps echo.

“Are you alright?” His voice bounces off the tile, far too calm for someone standing in the women’s restroom. “You look pale. Let me?—”

“She doesn’t need your help.” Vasiliy’s voice slices through the air.

I wipe my mouth and stumble from the stall, only to find him standing between me and the stranger, shoulders squared, rage simmering just beneath the surface.

The other man doesn’t flinch. Instead, he offers a thin smile.

“Vasiliy Volkov,” he says smoothly. “What a surprise. It’s been…years, hasn’t it?”

That voice. That smile. Those eyes.

Recognition crashes into me. It’s in the posture. The eyes that echo his father’s. The self-satisfaction wrapped in silk and poison.

“You’re Yakov Gagarin.” My words are barely audible.

“The very same.” He inclines his head in mock politeness, the gesture too refined to be sincere.

“Your recovery is miraculous,” I add, unable to stop myself.

His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Some miracles come wrapped in steel and pain.” He nods at his legs. “But what doesn’t kill you…”

“Get away from her,” Vasiliy growls, stepping forward.

Yakov lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Now, now. Is that any way to greet a potential investor? I simply wanted to offer my compliments. The new Velvet Echo is…intriguing. A bit polished for my tastes, perhaps, but undeniably clever.”

“You’re not here for the ambiance,” Vasiliy snaps. “Cut the act.”

Yakov’s face shifts. That smooth civility peels back, revealing something cold and sharp. “Of course not,” he says. “This isn’t a social call. Consider it a warning visit. A reminder that old debts don’t just vanish.”

I stiffen. Sergey’s words echo in my mind: “Take your child and run.”The properties. The surveillance. My uncle’s sudden resurgence. None of it is a coincidence.

“I understand your pain,” I say carefully. “But the past?—”

“The past.” Yakov shakes his head. “Tell that to my sister. Oh, wait…you can’t.” He turns to me then, letting his gaze drop to my belly.

My heart hammers.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” he says almost gently. “How poetic, really. A Volkov child, born just in time to witness the fall of everything his name was built on.”

Vasiliy moves so fast I barely register it. One moment he’s beside me, the next, he’s slammed Yakov against the tiled wall, a hand wrapped around his throat.

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