Page 17 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

“If you stay,” I say, “you make yourself available to me. Fully. No games. No condoms. I won’t be restrained. You’ll be mine. And you’ll be taken like it.”

Her breath falters. Fury burns behind her eyes, but something else flickers there too.

Curiosity.

Hunger.

I release her and step back.

She’s off balance, gripping the edge of the desk to ground herself. She’s furious, humiliated.

And wet.

I can smell it.

“Anything else?” she snaps, trying to reclaim the upper hand.

“Yes,” I say, voice low and rough. “You remember who you belong to now. I don’t share. I don’t tolerate lies. And I expect you clean, loyal, andmine.”

“Then write it into a fucking contract,” she snarls.

I smile—slow, dark, unshakable. “Don’t worry,lisichka. Your physical’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

She turns sharply, walking out like she doesn’t feel every inch of her body still reacting to mine. But her scent tells a different story. Her pulse. The flush at her throat. The sway in her hips that wasn’t there when she walked in.

“Just remember,” I call after her, “a deal is a deal.”

She hesitates at the door, swallowing hard.

And I know I’ve won—for now.

But this is no victory.

This is the start of something that might burn us both to the ground.

And I can’t wait.

Chapter 6

Signed in Blood

Galina

The deals at the bar make my skin crawl.

Every envelope slipped under folded napkins, every coded glance passed between weathered businessmen and too-young girls is another scream swallowed by the bass and the bourbon. Three nights here, and I’ve already started to map the underworld choreography—the subtle signals, the palm-pressed promises, the weight of silence bought with cash. A hundred ways to say “how much” without speaking at all.

Jaromir looms near the bar, a statue cast in smoke and expensive fabric. He doesn’t move much. He doesn’t have to. His presence is enough to sour the air, to stain the space with the stink of authority and something more dangerous—compliance. Everyone bends around him, like he’s gravity.

I watch him while pretending not to.

The floor supervisor’s ledger looks pristine, of course. Color-coded columns. Clean lines. But beneath the surface? Rot. I’ve started picking at the cracks, peeling back layers of numbers that don’t add up. There’s a rhythm to the corruption, a beat beneath the books. White powder shuffled through VIP rooms. Flesh, money, favors. Vasiliy’s name isn’t on any page, but his fingerprints are everywhere.

His empire grows like frost on a window—beautiful, silent, and merciless. He doesn’t conquer. He consumes.

My grip tightens around the tray of empty glasses, knuckles straining to hold back the tremor crawling up my arms. Another envelope slides across the bar. Oksana—blond, blank-eyed, perfect—steps forward to collect the buyer. She smiles the way a doll might, nothing behind it but habit. Then she leads him toward the door.Thatdoor.

The one they all disappear through.

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