Page 46 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

I bolt.

The bathroom door slams behind me. I barely make it to the stall before everything comes up—lunch, nerves, maybe part of my soul. Acid scorches my throat as I retch again, braced on shaking arms, cold tile biting into my knees.

It’s not just physical anymore.

It’s becoming impossible to ignore.

When the last dry heave fades, I slump against the wall, my shirt clinging to my sweat-soaked back. I peel it off and stagger to the sink, dousing my face in cold water like that might scrubaway the unraveling. I catch sight of myself in the mirror—cheekbones sharp, eyes hollow, skin too pale.

I look like prey.

And I hate it.

“That’s not me,” I whisper, and the woman in the mirror flinches at the sound.

I force my spine straight, dry my hands beneath the hum of lukewarm air, and fix my hair with steady fingers. I button my shirt like armor, adjust my lipstick. By the time I step out, no one would know I’ve been kneeling on tile.

Except someone does.

“Here,” a voice says softly.

I turn. Rebeka.

One of the few survivors from my father’s era—beautiful, ageless, unreadable. She holds out a bottle of water, her brow raised in silent judgment…or something uncomfortably close to concern.

“Thanks,” I mutter, swishing the water around my mouth before swallowing hard. “Must’ve eaten something off.”

“Food poisoning doesn’t last three weeks,” she says, arms crossing as she leans against the sink. “And it doesn’t make you gag every time someone walks by wearing perfume.”

My pulse spikes.

“You’ve been watching me?”

“We all watch each other here,” she replies. “Especially the ones who think they can hide.”

Her meaning is sharp enough to draw blood. The daughter of Boris Olenko, reduced to staff. A mistress pretending to be a manager. A girl playing queen in someone else’s empire.

The truth hovers like steam in the room, heavy and undeniable.

I swallow again. “Does anyone else know?”

“Just me. For now.” Rebeka’s voice softens—almost. “But you should be careful. Vasiliy…isn’t the kind of man who likes surprises.”

That earns a laugh, low and bitter.

Vasiliy Volkov, who calculates every move before you even make it. Who tracks his empire through a spiderweb of cameras and secrets. How would he react to something that can’t be controlled?

Something with a heartbeat.

A shiver crawls up my spine.

I’m not afraid of becoming a mother.

I’m afraid of becoming someone else’s weakness.

But it’s not just Vasiliy I have to worry about.

A baby shifts everything.

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