Page 56 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Ice spills into my veins. “Who told you that?”

“Men love to talk when they think they’re safe,” she says. “Especially to the pretty ones they underestimate.”

“You won’t just be something to look at,” I murmur, meaning every word. “You’ll own the room.”

Her smile turns razor-sharp. “Darling, I already do.”

Before I can respond, the door creaks open. Harsh sunlight floods the room, followed by the sound of polished shoes against marble. And then I feel it—his presence.

Vasiliy.

He enters like a storm in a tailored suit, his shadows trailing behind him like smoke. And even now—after everything—I can’t stop the stutter in my heart.

He looks exhausted. Harder. More haunted.

Like me.

Does he lie awake too, drowning in everything we didn’t say?

Because today might be the day he finally speaks.

And I don’t know if I want the truth...or if I’m still too afraid to hear it.

His gaze sweeps the room like a searchlight before landing on me.

For a single, searing second, everything unsaid crackles in the space between us. Electricity. Memory. The weight of what we’ve become.

Then his expression hardens into marble. And just like that, I’m invisible again. A shadow beneath his notice.

“Security meeting. Ten minutes.” His voice could freeze hell. “Don’t be late.”

He turns and vanishes into his office, leaving a wake of silence in his path.

I stand frozen, nausea churning—not just from the child I carry, but from the way he won’t even say my name. It should make things simpler, cleaner. But it doesn’t. It just twists the knife of everything we didn’t say that night. A week ago, he painted these walls with blood to keep me safe. Now he won’t meet my eyes. The fortress I thought I’d breached is rebuilt—steel and silence, braced against whatever storm I’ve become.

“Paradise lost?” Oksana murmurs, faux sympathy dripping like venom.

I don’t respond. Instead, I bury myself in the beadwork beneath my fingers, the gown’s intricate detail more forgiving than the woman beside me. Crystal after crystal—tiny stars sewn into our private darkness. This show has to be flawless. My redemption. My escape hatch. My proof that I’m more than a legacy or a liability.

That my child deserves something better than shadows and blood money.

“Speaking of paradise…” Oksana doesn’t let up. She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “Detective Rong’s been sniffing around again. Very interested in our little production.” A pause. “Unless you already knew that?”

The air sharpens.

She’s testing me. Watching to see what I’ll flinch at. How many people know what I’m after? How long before someone decides my secrets are too dangerous to leave unchecked?

My hands steady over silk as I forge my voice into steel. “I’ll handle it. The show goes on.”

“Of course it does, precious.” Her smirk darkens. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Dance while Rome burns?”

She glides away, leaving my pulse pounding in her wake.

I press my palm to my belly—still flat, still hidden, still terrifying. I built this dream to be clean. Real. Something I could pass down without shame. But now? The path forward is a fog of threats and illusions. I can’t see the end. I can barely see the next step.

Only the crystals beneath my fingers feel real. Each bead a quiet victory. Each stitch proof that something beautiful can bloom in a warzone.

I need to talk to Vasiliy.

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