Page 114 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Not just ready for the fight—starving for it.

He wanted a monster?

I’ll give him one.

Chapter 35

Soft Doesn’t Mean Weak

Galina

The world returns in fragments.

First, the jarring thump of tires over uneven ground, each bump ricocheting through my skull. Then voices—low, male, too close. The acidic rasp of Matvei, unmistakable. And behind that, another—calmer, colder, unfamiliar but laced with something sharp. Something controlled.

Pain creeps in last. A steady pulse at my temple from where Matvei struck me. My arms are bound at the wrists, zip ties biting into skin already rubbed raw. I keep still, eyes closed, letting the pain ground me. Letting the fear shape itself into focus. Agency.

I remember the rain. The tunnels. Mila’s voice on the other end of the line. Then nothing. Just darkness. A strike from behind.

“Almost there,” Matvei’s voice cuts through the low rumble of the car. “Our guest of honor is still sleeping like a baby.”

“She better not be damaged,” the other man says, tone clipped. Irritated, but not cruel. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

His voice lands with a strange weight. It’s not just impatience; it’s command wrapped in ice. And despite the pounding in my head, something in me goes still.

“Plans change,” Matvei replies with a laugh that scrapes down my spine.

The car slows, gravel crunching under the tires. I catch glimpses through barely parted lashes—industrial wreckage framed by a bruised sky. We must be somewhere deep in New Jersey. Abandoned factories. Rotting steel. The kind of place where things disappear and don’t come back.

The car stops. Doors open. Hands grab me, rough and careless, and Matvei throws me over his shoulder like I’m a thing. My head dangles, blood rushing, but I stay loose. Limp. Observing.

The structure we’re heading into is massive. Walkways and corridors web the interior, lit only by flickering bulbs and roving guards. But these men aren’t thugs; they move with purpose. Bratva muscle. Military. Efficient. Professional.

This isn’t just a hit job.

It’s an operation.

Inside, the air turns damp and stale, tinged with rust and old oil. The kind of place that remembers screams. A makeshift command post has been carved out from the rot—tables, monitors, lights rigged to expose exactly what they want seen. Which means everything else is meant to stay hidden.

And at the center of it all—seated like a king in exile—isYakov Gagarin.

He doesn’t rise. Doesn’t posture. He doesn’t need to.

He sits with the stillness of a man who’s done unspeakable things and made peace with every one of them. Even under the dim light, he’s striking—tall, broad-shouldered, cut from frost. The suit’s expensive, but not flashy. His eyes, though...those are the killers. Icy, calculating, framed by a face that could have been chiseled from war stories and prison walls. There’s no warmth there. Just silence thick with history.

His gaze flicks to me slung over Matvei’s shoulder. Something flickers—surprise, quickly buried beneath tight-lipped disapproval.

“What’s this?” he asks. Calm but edged. “I don’t recall asking for her.”

Matvei dumps me unceremoniously onto the concrete. Pain shoots up my side as I hit the ground, but I bite back a sound.

“Olenko’s little princess,” Matvei says, nudging my ribs with his boot. “Volkov’s whore. Carrying his spawn.”

I blink slowly. Groan. Time to play my part.

“Where…where am I?” I rasp, forcing my voice into a tremble.

Matvei crouches beside me, his scarred face twisting into a grin that makes bile rise in my throat. “Awake at last. You’re just in time for the show.”

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