Page 120 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“You overplayed your hand,” Yakov says, eyes locked on Matvei. “This was never about your prison grudge. It was justice. For Ana.”

Matvei snarls, his scarred face contorted in hate. “You sanctimonious freak. You think Vladimir will save you now? He’ll toss you aside the moment you stop being useful.”

“Maybe,” Yakov replies evenly.

“Ana would be ashamed of what you’ve become,” Matvei spits. “A lapdog for men stronger than you.”

For a breath, something raw flickers across Yakov’s face—grief, sharp and unguarded. But it’s gone in the next blink.

“Take him,” he commands.

His men move, swift and sure.

But Matvei’s never been one to go quietly.

He dives behind a concrete barrier and opens fire, his shots deadly precise. Two of Yakov’s men drop before the rest scramble for cover.

Gunfire breaks out again, louder, messier, more frantic.

“This is it,” I hiss, turning to Katya and Katarina. “Now or never.”

We move low, weaving between machines and debris, heading for the east exit. The gun in my hand is heavy, a foreign weight I pray I won’t have to use. But hope’s a luxury I can’t afford anymore.

Halfway across the floor, a bullet screams past my head, so close I feel the heat of it shear the air, the sound cracking like a whip beside my ear. My breath catches, but I don’t freeze. It’s not the bullets you hear that kill you. The ones that hit? They’re silent. You never see them coming.

I drop instinctively, twisting toward the shooter.

One of Matvei’s men, gun raised for a second shot.

Then he’s airborne; Vasiliy crashing into him like a missile.

They go down in a blur of fists and fury. The man’s stronger, but Vasiliy fights like he’s possessed. Brutal, efficient, lethal.

But then, an opening. The man lands a solid hit to Vasiliy’s ribs, making him falter. His attacker scrambles for the gun on the ground.

I don’t think.

I fire.

The sound is deafening. The recoil bites. The man jerks once and collapses, blood blooming across his chest.

Vasiliy looks up, locking eyes with me through the smoke and wreckage.

And in that instant, we understand each other completely.

I would kill for him.

Just as he’d kill for me.

He grabs the downed man’s weapon and strides toward us, a storm in motion. When he reaches me, his hand brushes mine. Not tenderness—reassurance.

We’re alive.

Still standing.

Stillus.

“The others?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

---