Page 13 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Twenty minutes later, I step off onto cracked pavement. Heat rises from the ground in waves, distorting the skyline, the memories, the mistakes. The walk is short, but every step is a knife carving into who I used to be.

Then I see it.

The Velvet Echo, gleaming like polished sin, dares me to come closer. It used to be mine—my inheritance, my fortress, my altar. Now it’s enemy territory, wearing Volkov’s fingerprints like war paint. The man who branded me with his mouth now sits on my throne.

The universe really is a vindictive bitch.

The bus hisses behind me as it pulls away—no escape. No retreat. Just forward, into the fire. I pull my coat tighter, let the wind tangle my hair. Vulnerability becomes a shield. Submission, a weapon.

Let him think I’m here to kneel.

Let him forget dragons know how to play dead before they burn everything down.

Flashes of memory slice through me—whispers in the hallways, blood rinsed from marble, names whispered like curses, then crossed off the ledger for good. The Velvet Echo isn’t just a club. It’s a sanctum for the damned.

And I was born in it.

The sun glints off the blacked-out windows like a warning. Inside, the rhythm has changed, but the violence hasn’t. I can smell it—new management, same rot.

Perfect.

I square my shoulders, lifting my chin as I step toward the door.

Volkov might think he’s inherited power.

He’s about to find out he inherited me.

Raffe stands at the entrance like a ghost dredged from the past. His face is unreadable. But his hesitation? That says everything.

He remembers. They all will.

“Miss Olenko.” Raffe’s voice is careful, too neutral. Like he’s handling a live grenade.

I give him a smile—cold, pretty, and sharp enough to scar. “Is Mr. Volkov receiving visitors?”

His gaze narrows. He knows I remember the rhythm of this place. Knows I shouldn’t be standing here unless something’s cracked. “He might be.”

“Tell him Galina Olenko needs a word.” Sweet as cyanide. “He’ll want to see me.”

As he steps away to make the call, I drink in the club’s new skin. Cameras now tilt like sentries, sweeping across every corner with military discipline. Guards posted in positions I recognize—strategic, deliberate. Not for show. For control. This is no longer just a strip club.

This is a fortress.

A Bratva stronghold wearing stilettos and perfume.

And yet Raffe’s still here, which tells me everything. Volkov kept him because he knows—some stains can’t be scrubbed clean. Some ghosts are useful.

“This way,” he says.

My heels crack against the marble like warning shots. Every head turns. Recognition sparks in a few pairs of eyes.

Good.

Let them remember.

Let them wonder if I came back to beg or burn it all down.

The Velvet Echo hasn’t changed much inside—still draped in decadent sin, all crimson velvet and gleaming gold, a temple built for secrets. Rebeka lounges like she owns the place, draped across a sofa, lacquered nails glinting like claws. She glances at me without warmth, and I give her the same. Helena’s nearby, all angles and calculation, her scowl sharpening the moment she clocks me. A new waitress hovers on the fringe, caught in the crossfire of past and present, loyalty and fear.

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