Page 65 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

His voice echoes in my mind like a curse:”You belong to me. You’re carrying my baby. I’ll be the baby’s father. That’s final.”

As if that ends the conversation. As if I don’t get a say in my own goddamn future.

“You should rest,lisichka,” Vasiliy says, stepping out of his bedroom. The jacket’s gone, his tie hanging loose around his neck. He looks…disarmed. Almost casual. But the possessiveness in his voice is still there.

I don’t move or turn around. “Don’t fucking call me that.”

His footsteps stop.

“It suits you.” A careful pause. “It’s just a nickname.”

“Not to me.” My voice slices through the quiet.

The silence stretches. Then I hear him approach, like he knows he’s stepping into a minefield.

“What about it bothers you?” he asks, low and cautious.

“Like I’m something you get to name. To command.”

“You are mine,” he says, quiet, but unyielding. “And you’re carrying my child. Everything I do is to protect you.”

“Protect?” I laugh, sharp and hollow. “Is that what you call it? Locking me away? Controlling my every move? Making choices for me?”

His shadow spills across the floor, long and dark. “You know why I had to?—”

“My father used to call one of the dancerslisichka,” I cut in, my voice quiet but sharp. “At first, it sounded sweet. Intimate.”

He stills.

“Until it wasn’t anymore,” I continue. “Until her wrists were bruised, and she flinched every time he said it. He also claimed it was for her protection.”

The air between us is taut. Forty floors below, the city pulses with life. Up here in the clouds, it’s just the two of us—and the weight of what we won’t say.

When I finally look at him, something in his eyes has changed. The heat is still there, but it’s wrapped in something quieter. Regret, maybe. Guilt.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Controlling you through pain and fear?”

I should back away. But I don’t. My body won’t let me.

My pulse trips over itself as his presence crowds mine. Heat flushes my skin, nipples pebbling beneath my blouse like a traitor. Every instinct screamsdanger, but not the kind I want to run from.

“What else would you call it?” I say, breathy. “You act like the baby gives you the right to put me in a cage.”

His hands rise to my shoulders. Not rough. Not claiming. Just…present. “You’re not that dancer,” he says quietly. “And I’m not your father. I protect what’s mine, yes. But I’m not trying to break you.”

“Then stop trying to own me,” I hiss. “This baby isn’t a contract.”

“No,” he says. “But the deal you agreed to is.”

My throat tightens. “Maybe,” I say. “But?—”

He cuts me off gently, tipping my chin up. His eyes search mine—hard, haunted. For a moment, I see something raw flicker there. Something unguarded.

And then he kisses me.

Not like before. Not with hunger or command. But with something soft. Something almost reverent. As if I’m not just his. As if I’mrealto him.Important.

And in that fragile breath between denial and surrender, I let myself believe it. Let myself melt into the kiss. Pretend the walls between us are gone. Pretend he feels it, too.

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