Page 5 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Last night comes back in violent flashes: the bathroom’s fluorescent confessional, the desperate stumble to his room, amber liquid burning paths to absolution. My body bears the evidence of his possession—fingerprints blooming purple on my hips, teeth marks at my throat. Each ache is a testament to how completely I shattered beneath his hands, and I hate how my flesh still hums with want, even now.

I turn with careful precision, a prey animal studying its predator. Prison has carved away his civilized veneer, leaving something leaner, deadlier in its place. His blond hair fallsacross the pillow like tarnished gold, features cut from marble even in sleep. Those steel-gray eyes that stripped me bare are hidden now, but their ghost haunts me still.

The Vasiliy of legend—the golden son of Russia’s Federal Security Service, the FSB, successor to the infamous KGB—would never have allowed such vulnerability. But this man wears his scars like medals of honor, each one a chapter written in violence. The tattoos mapping his skin tell stories in a language of pain and survival. I recognize enough prison symbolism to know these marks weren’t chosen for aesthetics—they’re a history of blood and iron, etched deep where even Siberia’s winter couldn’t reach.

A year in Russia’s frozen hell has transformed him into something that makes my pulse quicken with equal parts fear and fascination. The sophisticated agent I grew up hearing whispered warnings about has been stripped to bone and sinew, a monster playing at civilization in his designer suits. I should be terrified of the beast wearing such elegant camouflage. Instead, I’m drawn to the raw truth of him—the savage barely contained beneath his polished surface.

He shifts, and terror claws up my throat. I need to disappear before those gray eyes open, before I’m forced to face our collision in the unforgiving daylight. My clothes mark a path of surrender from door to bed—each discarded piece a marker of how eagerly I fell. The memory of his hands, rough with need and vengeance, makes my skin flush traitor-hot despite my desperate grasp at dignity.

Every movement as I ease from the sheets sends fresh pain spiraling through my core. The ache between my thighs speaks of conquest, of possession—but worse is the knowledge that I matched his savagery with my own hunger, tooth for tooth, mark for mark. What kind of monster does that make me?

His breathing shifts, and I still like prey. One glance from those winter-gray eyes, and I might forget why this was damnation dressed as salvation. I might forget how deeply I despise him for the ways he’s fractured my family, for the power he wields over me.

Escape is survival.

The dress slides over bruised skin like a bandage over wounds that run soul-deep. My ruined underwear goes into my purse—a trophy of mutual destruction.

I give myself one final glance—one last indulgence—as I burn him into memory. The warrior forged in prison steel, sculpted by violence and silence, lies dangerously still. Even in sleep, Vasiliy radiates the kind of menace that doesn’t rest. He’s carved from survival and brutality, and I was stupid enough to bare my throat to the wolf.

Regret curdles in my gut like poison. I should’ve walked away. Should’ve remembered that his family didn’t just ruin mine—they annihilated it. The Volkovs didn’t break us by accident. They gutted us with precision. And still, I crawled back to the man who wears their sins like a crown.

Weak. That’s what my father always called me. And maybe he was right. Because last night, I didn’t just let Vasiliy touch me—I let him unmake me. I let him burn his claim into my skin, reshape me in the heat of his fury. I didn’t fight the monster.

I welcomed him.

Bastard.

A hollow ache blooms behind my ribs—something old, familiar, and almost too painful to name. I crush it under the weight of habit, suffocating emotion with practiced indifference. Last night wasn’t redemption. It was a purge. A violent, desperate exorcism. Letting the anger bleed out so I can put the mask back on and face the world.

I call it survival.

Freedom waits just beyond this door. One step, and I’m gone.

If only it were that easy.

The sound of my phone vibrating is thunderous in dawn’s fragile silence. Heart pounding against my ribs, I flee. Only when the elevator’s steel doors seal me away do I remember how to breathe. The number glowing on my screen bears a New York City area code—a ghost reaching across oceans.

“Hello?” English falls from my lips like a shield.

“Galina Olenko?” A woman’s voice mimics my chosen tongue.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Mila Agapova. Doctor Orlov informed me of your release from his institution and your approval to return to New York, conditional on continued treatment.”

My pulse drums war rhythms, but I keep my voice smooth. “And you’re calling because...?”

“I’m a psychologist. Doctor Orlov requested I oversee your treatment. He believes you’re ready for standard therapy. Together, we’ll work on your reintegration into normal life.”

Normal. The word tastes like ashes on my tongue. Normal died screaming with my siblings, buried beneath the weight of inherited, generational madness. My future is a carefully constructed cage of therapy sessions and manufactured meaning, walking the razor’s edge between sanity and the darkness that whispers in my blood. The same shadow that sang my siblings to their graves, the curse that transforms Olenko greatness into magnificent ruin.

“I hate to be so direct, but I’m afraid you don’t really have a choice, Miss Olenko,” Mila says after a long silence. Her tone is gentler than her words would suggest. Maybe too gentle.

“Please call me Galina,” I reply. “Also, thanks for the call. I’ll be sure to get in touch as soon as I arrive in New York. My flight’s in a few hours.”

“Excellent,” the therapist praises. “I look forward to working with you. I can see Doctor Orlov was right. You’re in a perfect place to heal.”

Hardly.

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