Page 122 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Like I summoned him, he drops beside us a second later, crouched and assessing.

“Perimeter’s secured,” he says quickly. “Vladimir’s men are pinning Matvei’s crew from the north. We’ve got an opening.”

“And Yakov?” I ask, scanning the upper level. The chaos still has a center, and I know he’s watching from it.

“Last seen up top. Flanked. Not sure who’s still loyal to him.”

“He’s not loyal to anyone,” Katarina snaps, crouched near us, voice low and cold. “Never has been.”

I don’t argue. She’s right. Yakov didn’t just plan this; he orchestrated it like a performance. But now that it’s gone feral, he’s nowhere to be found. Watching while the bodies drop.

“Get the women out,” I tell Nikolai, already rising. “I’m going after Matvei.”

“No,” Galina says sharply, grabbing my arm.

Her grip is fierce. So is her glare.

“We move as one,” she reminds me. “We agreed.”

For a beat, I want to fight her on it. To force her to stay behind, safe, out of range.

But she’s right.

This isn’t about protection anymore. It’s about trust.

And Galina Olenko is not a woman who hides.

“Fine,” I grit out, eyes locked with hers. “We do this together.”

I turn to Nikolai. “Take Katya and Katarina. Get them to the rendezvous point. Ten minutes. Then circle back if we’re not there.”

He nods once and moves, leading them through the wreckage.

Galina and I turn back into the fire.

Matvei stands above it all, a raised platform in the heart of the factory like some twisted throne. His face is soaked in sweat, scars shining under the industrial lights. He’s grinning. Firing. Living for this moment.

He has no strategy now. Just chaos. Just revenge.

“I’m ending this,” I say under my breath, checking the clip in my weapon. “One way or another.”

“Together,” Galina repeats.

We move, slipping between rusted conveyor belts and crumbling machines, ghosts in a place that once breathed industry and now only echoes with gunfire and screams.

My mind goes quiet.

Every move is instinct, FSB reflexes, prison conditioning, years of violence encoded into my muscles.

I was made for this.

But I’m not doing it alone anymore.

A bullet slices the air next to my ear and slams into the concrete pillar beside me with a sharp, unforgiving crack.

Instinct takes over.

I yank Galina down, body shielding hers, and return fire in a single smooth motion. The shooter drops. We move.

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