Page 20 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

No. He doesn’t. Not when I used to sneak vodka out of the VIP lockers. Not when I slipped upstairs with boys I was too young to understand. Not when I came home with smeared lipstick and lies on my breath. Raffe never said a word.

Not then. Maybe not now too.

“You shouldn’t go in there.” Raffe’s voice drops—quieter now, rough around the edges. Not a threat. A warning. Maybe even a trace of concern.

He’s not stopping me.

Because he knows exactly who I am.

What I’ve always been.

And what I came here to do.

“Funny,” I mutter, jaw tight. “Different stage, same script. At least we’re consistent.”

The silence between us stretches taut, ready to snap.

Finally, his shoulders drop, just a fraction. A flicker of something worn and human pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“If this goes bad—and it will—I won’t be able to help you.” He pauses. “Good luck,solnyshko. You’re gonna need it.”

Then he’s gone. Just the soft fade of footsteps and the ghost of a nickname that used to mean something.

Now it feels like an epitaph.

One breath. Two. Three. I smooth my hands down my dress, fingers brushing the outline of the key. The anxiety tightens, coiling like wire beneath my skin, but I don’t let it win. By the time I press the door open, I’ve locked it down. Shoved the panic deep beneath muscle and grit.

The office is a different kind of violence.

Where my father’s space was all old-world opulence—rich wood, leather, and a constant haze of cigar smoke—Vasiliy’s is sterile, controlled. A study in precision. Every object is curated, nothing accidental. A perfect replica of a man who turns ruthlessness into art.

His desk gleams. His books are arranged with military discipline. His wealth whispers instead of shouts.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

His monitor glows faintly. Screensavers cycle through—black-and-white cityscapes, sharp cliffs, still water. Images of solitude. Distance. Survival. What is he trying to hold on to? Or forget?

I don’t let myself spiral.

Top drawer—clean. Corporate camouflage. Expensive pens, imported whiskey, meaningless clutter. But the second drawer?—

My breath catches.

Color-coded files. Exactly like my father used to keep. Blue for financials. Red for personnel. Black for operations. I recognize them before I even read the tabs. The system is muscle memory, burned into my childhood like lullabies no one should have to learn.

And then—there. Tucked behind the folders, the soft glow of a lockbox pulses once, then fades.

That’s it.

My fingers close around the edges just as footsteps echo in the hall. Heavy. Familiar.

Shit.

Panic slams into me like a fist.

I jerk back from the drawer, adrenaline turning my limbs to liquid. There’s no time to slip back out the way I came—no time to be clever. I spin toward the back exit, the one built into the bones of this place. A Prohibition relic, the bolt-hole my father once called “insurance.”

My hand finds the panel. I press.

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