Page 124 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

The history. The hate. The unfinished war we brought out of Siberia and into this place.

Then I catch movement over his shoulder.

Galina.

One of Matvei’s men tries to flank us; she intercepts him without hesitation. Quick, efficient. She ducks under his reach, slides in, and fires once. The man drops.

She pivots immediately, eyes scanning for the next threat, gun still raised.

The sight of her—fighting, surviving,protecting—floods my chest with fierce pride and love. It’s a split-second distraction.

And that’s all Matvei needs.

His fist slams into the side of my head.

My vision flashes white. The floor tilts. Stars burst behind my eyes as I stumble back, disoriented. Another hit follows, then another—hammering blows I can barely block. He’s all teeth and hate now, pressing his advantage like the animal he’s always been.

I hit the concrete hard, the air punched from my lungs. My ribs scream. The world spins.

Matvei looms, knife raised, eyes glittering with triumph.

“I’ve waited years for this,” he says, breathless. “Goodbye, Volkov.”

The blade starts its descent.

But it never lands.

A blur of motion knocks him aside. Vladimir Olenko, stepping between us with steel in his eyes and fire in his blood.

“Not today,” he growls, kicking the knife away. “The Olenko family settles its own scores.”

I push myself upright, pain buzzing through my skull. Blood trickles into one eye, hot and blinding.

Vladimir turns toward me. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is low and deliberate.

“This isn’t about saving you,” he says. “This is about my niece. Her child. My blood.”

His gaze shifts briefly to Galina, who’s now at my side, gun steady, eyes locked on Matvei.

“Some things,” Vladimir says, “transcend grudges.”

I nod, the meaning not lost on me. For Vladimir Olenko to step in—to save a Volkov—means the world has truly gone to hell. But in this moment, hell is ours to own.

Matvei rises, panting. He’s seething. “You think this changes anything?” he spits. “You’re all already dead.”

But before anyone can respond, a new sounds rise above the din. Measured footsteps. A cane tapping the floor.

Sergey Gagarin.

He strides through the carnage like a ghost through fire. His face is carved from marble, eyes colder than death, flanked by security. The room stills around him. Even Matvei hesitates.

“Father?” Yakov’s voice rings out from the upper level. He stands near the catwalk, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “What are you doing here?”

Sergey doesn’t stop. “Ending this madness.” His voice cuts, clean and final. “Ana wouldn’t have wanted this.”

“Don’t you dare speak her name!” Yakov roars. His calm unravels in real time. “You let them get away with what they did to her!”

Sergey halts and looks up, eyes never wavering. “And what did this vengeance buy you? Dead men. Ruined legacies. Where does it stop, son?”

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