Page 40 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

She softens her tone. “I’m Detective Rong, but call me Lai.”

I know this game—offer the illusion of intimacy, then wait for someone to bleed into it.

I sit on the edge of the vanity stool. My shoulders slump. My voice dips into something that sounds just broken enough. “Lai… I appreciate the concern. But I’m not trapped. I’m not some lost girl waiting for rescue.”

She nods. “A lot of women say that. Until they don’t have the chance to say anything else.”

There it is, the threat dressed as compassion. The warning masked as care.

And beneath it? A plea. A deal she’s itching to make.

Good.

Because the moment she believes I’m a crack in Vasiliy Volkov’s armor…

She becomes mine to use.

I straighten, shoulders drawn back, and meet her gaze without flinching. “You’re not going to change anyone’s mind, Detective. But I appreciate the concern. And I suspect you don’t have much of a choice but to offer it.”

Rong doesn’t blink. She just pulls over a stool, dragging it closer until I can smell her perfume, the kind meant to blend in. “Then maybe you can explain something to me,” she says, her voice dropping to something softer. “Why would Boris Olenko’s daughter take a job slinging drinks in the club her family lost?” She leans in. “Unless someone’s making you.”

It’s almost convincing, the worry in her tone. Almost.

But I’ve spent too long crawling through the ashes of my family’s empire to fall for that expression. Pity is a tool like any other, and I’ve seen it sharpened into a weapon by people far more ruthless than this detective.

“You know about Vladimir?” I ask carefully. Watching.

Her eyes flare. Barely. But I catch it—the quick flicker, the subtle twitch of her hand toward the collar of her coat.

She knows him. Or fears him. Maybe both.

“We’re familiar with his...activities,” she says, measured.

That hesitation? That’s gold.

“Then you already know what he’s capable of,” I murmur, dropping my voice low. Letting just enough tremble into the words to make them feel real. “What people like him can do. Regardless of whether they are family.”

“Is that what this is?” she presses, suddenly sharper. “You’re here for protection?”

I give a small laugh—dry, hollow. “Protection?” I echo, the word sour on my tongue. “He’s my uncle. But in our world, blood only goes so far. Loyalty is what matters. And Vladimir—” I pause, letting the weight of his name settle between us, “—knows exactly how to buy it.”

Rong tilts her head, lips pursed. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?”

I drop my gaze to my hands and give her the moment of silence she’s hoping will unravel me. Then I say, quietly, “The Volkovs aren’t the monsters everyone thinks they are.”

Even as I say it, the truth of it stings. Not because it’s a lie. But because somewhere along the way, it stopped being one.

“Vasiliy—” I catch myself. “Mr. Volkov gave me a chance when no one else would.”

That slips out before I can stop it. And I hate the way it makes me sound. Vulnerable. Grateful.

But Rong hears it. Her expression falters, revealing something desperate beneath her polished surface. “A chance to do what?” she asks. “To prove your loyalty? Or to disappear under someone else’s control?”

I smile, but it’s a sad thing. “To prove I’m more than a name that died with my family’s legacy.”

She studies me like she’s searching for cracks. Trying to figure out where the mask ends. I let her look.

“You know we can help you,” she says finally. “If you’re in trouble—if anything’s happening here—you don’t have to handle it alone.”

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