Page 6 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

I grit my teeth, hating the fact the walls will close in around me again. The only reason I’ve survived this long is because I’m trying to escape the expectations that follow each bad decision and fuckup. At the end of the day, none of this matters. It shouldn’t matter. Even if I wanted—finally, truly wanted—to be healthy, none of that would change the truth: the Olenko curse is real, and I’m the only one left standing.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I reply, putting a smile on my lips just for fun. “See you soon.”

Her tentative agreement is all I need. Hanging up, I put the phone away and lean back against the wall. This is bullshit. Utter, complete, stupid bullshit.

Fuck. Me.

Fuck the therapies. Fuck the treatment. Fuck it all.

“Miss?”

I blink. It takes me a moment to notice the elevator’s stopped. Another woman—young and athletic, with a haircut worthy of a Bond Girl—is waiting patiently for me to move.

“Sorry.” I take a few steps out of the small space.

The minute the doors close, I turn left to go to my room. I don’t have many belongings, but what I do have, I don’t want to leave behind. As I’m fiddling with the card key at my door, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Heart thundering, I flip around.

There’s no one there.

It takes me a moment to get a grip. Vasiliy was asleep when I left his room. He drank a lot more than I did. It’ll take him a while longer to wake up.

My room feels oddly suffocating after a long night spent in his bed. Exhaustion burns behind my eyes, and my thoughts drift back to him. Why the hell did I let him make a mockery of my desires? Now that my mind isn’t half-muddled by alcohol, the damage is staggering.

Will he tell anyone? It’d be disastrous and humiliating if word got out that I let him fuck me.

People will ask questions. And I hate questions.

Never, ever has a one-night stand clouded my mind like this. But damn Vasiliy Volkov for getting under my skin, messing with my mind, and putting me in an impossible position. As his enemy, no less.

Muttering a string of curses under my breath, I dash into the bathroom and start stripping off my dress. I might as well try to enjoy the last few hours of anonymity. Anonymity from the whispers that follow the Olenko name through every society gathering, from looks ranging from pity to hatred from those who remember what our family once was and what we did. Before we became known as the dynasty that destroyed itself.

Wincing, I get the damn dress over my head. It drops to the ground, exposing my naked form in front of the big mirrors lining the vanity. Tiny bruises litter my body, scattered constellations created in the heat of last night.

This won’t do.

I can’t leave a trail of evidence.

Once is a coincidence, but not the second or third time...and definitely not if all these love bites are visible for public consumption. Besides, the lingering presence of his touch still makes my entire body sensitive, sending jolts of awareness along every inch of my skin.

Grabbing the shower gel, I squeeze a large amount into my hand and lather it against my skin. I can scrub him off me, sure, but what about the marks he left? On my body, my soul? That’snot something I can physically wash off. No matter how hard I rub, no matter how deeply the pungent lemon scent I’ve come to dislike chokes my senses, a tiny voice reminds me he’s been there. He’s possessed me to the deepest levels of depravity, and I let him.

Son of a bitch.

Once I’m done drying off, I put on a pair of jeans and a simple blue top, along with minimal makeup. The last thing I take is the black beret on the desk. When I find a matching pair of ankle boots, I’m ready to leave. I give the hotel room one last look. I’ll be even more excited to never see it again.

I’m finally going home. Back to my family, back to my life.

“New York, I hope you didn’t miss me too much,” I mutter under my breath, hoping the humor can drown the dread pooling in the pit of my stomach.

When I step out onto the street, the morning air helps clear my head a bit. The familiar weight of family karma settles back onto my shoulders, the desire to recover our legacy much heavier than even the regret of my last night’s unfortunate escapade into Vasiliy’s arms. Taking the subway is beyond awful, especially today, so I take a taxi to the airport, leaving Vasiliy behind without looking back once.

Or if I do, I don’t admit it to myself. Just like I don’t admit how many times I’ve caught myself searching crowds for my cousin’s face or reaching for my phone to call my brothers. Some ghosts never leave us, whether they’re family or lovers we shouldn’t have taken.

Chapter 3

The Devil’s Homecoming

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