Page 108 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“If you dare to threaten my family again?—”

“You’ll what?” Yakov’s voice is calm, unsettlingly so. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t flinch. “Kill me? Like Igor killed my sister? Cripple me again, like Nikolai did? Go ahead and try. None of it changes what’s coming.”

Vasiliy shoves him back with a snarl, releasing him. “Get out. While I’m still feeling merciful.”

Yakov straightens his jacket like nothing happened, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel with eerie composure. “Naturally. I wouldn’t want to miss the rest of the show.” He glances at me. “Truly stunning work, Ms. Olenko. A shame it will all be ashes soon.”

He moves to the door, pausing just before stepping out. “Oh, and Vasiliy? Give Igor my regards. Tell him his son is growing up strong. Looks more and more like his mother every day.”

The door clicks shut behind him, the sound too soft for the weight it carries.

My legs give out. I sink onto the small couch, breath hitching. Vasiliy kneels in front of me in an instant, hands gentle but trembling as they frame my face.

“Lisichka, are you hurt?” His voice is low, thick with fury barely held in check.

“No.” I force the word past lips that don’t quite cooperate. “I just…wasn’t ready.”

“A trap,” he says darkly. “He baited you.”

He rises slowly, and I see it in his face—that shift. The calm before the storm. Vasiliy Volkov, wolf unchained. “He won’t get near you again. Or the baby. I swear on everything I am.”

“They’re closing in,” I whisper. “Yakov. My uncle. All of them. They won’t stop?—”

“Then we’ll stop them first.” He pulls me against him, and I press my face into the space between his shoulder and throat, breathing him in. That scent—leather, smoke, and the safety of home.

I nod, but dread still coils in my belly. This whole night—the lights, the glamour, the success—suddenly feels like a paper shield in a burning war zone.

“We should go back,” I say, pulling away. “If we’re gone too long, people will start to ask questions.”

Vasiliy helps me up, his hand warm at the small of my back. “Take Raffe with you. I don’t want you alone for a second tonight.”

I want to argue, but I don’t. Not after what just happened. “Okay.”

He kisses my forehead, then steps back, already switching gears. “I’ll have Jaromir roll out the new protocols. And Galina—” His gaze sharpens, dangerous. “Stay away from Yakov.”

I rest a hand on my stomach, protectively. The life inside me suddenly feels more fragile than ever. “I know. That’s what terrifies me.”

Beyond the bathroom door, the music continues—smooth, seductive, the bassline humming like a heartbeat. The models are still on the runway. The crowd is still clapping. As if nothing just unraveled in this room.

I fix my dress, reapply my lipstick, and stare down the woman in the mirror. Composed. Cool. Unbothered.

No one in that crowd will see the storm I carry.

But it’s coming. And I’ll be ready.

I take a deep breath and step back into the Velvet Echo’s warmth and golden light. The music swells. The crowd murmurs. The show must go on.

But something’s shifted.

The shadows seem deeper now, more watchful. Every corner feels like a threat, every smile a possible mask. Yakov’s presence has pierced the illusion of safety. This world doesn’t allow peace. Not for long.

Let them come, I think, lifting my chin. We’ve survived worse. We’ll survive this too.

Together.

Then Vasiliy’s phone buzzes.

I watch the change in real time—his posture stiffens, color draining from his face as he listens. Whatever he hears tightens every muscle in his body.

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