Page 79 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

His conviction is maddening. And somehow, exactly what I need.

Maybe this didn’t start like a love story. Maybe it never will be one.

But looking at him now, it feels like my real life didn’t begin until the day I walked into the Velvet Echo and said his name.

“Are you hungry?” Vasiliy pivots, leaning against the kitchen island, his arms crossed, head tilted like he’s trying to read my mood.

I glance up from the throw blanket pooled in my lap, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he murmurs softly. “Any requests?”

I hesitate, almost embarrassed by the simplicity of what I want. “Maybe…an omelet? With olives and cheese? If you have them. Nothing spicy.”

“Consider it done.”

He crosses the kitchen with that effortless grace that somehow doesn’t intimidate me anymore. I watch as he moves through the space, pulling ingredients from the fridge, setting pans on the stove. It’s domestic in the strangest, most disarming way—this man who commands with a look now standing barefoot, grating cheese like he’s done it a thousand times.

It’s the quiet that gets me. No orders. No theatrics. Just the steady rhythm of chopping and the faint sizzle of eggs hitting the pan.

“I thought you lived off black tea and vengeance,” I tease lightly from the couch.

Vasiliy glances over his shoulder, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Only on weekdays. On weekends, it’s cappuccinos and croissants.”

We eat together on the couch, plates balanced on our knees, music playing softly in the background. He makes sure I have enough tea, that I’ve taken my vitamins, and when I wince shifting positions, his hand hovers instinctively, ready to steady me, but not overstepping.

After we eat, I stretch out on the cushions, and at some point, I drift off. When I wake again, the room is bathed in golden light. Vasiliy is sitting at the foot of the couch, one hand loosely cradling his phone, the other resting on the blanket over my ankle.

“Still tired?” he asks, his voice low and warm. “Want me to help you to bed?”

I shake my head, easing upright. “I’m okay. Just…still sore.”

His eyes flick over me, lingering on the bruises he’s probably memorized by now. “Anything hurting worse than it should?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Galina.”

My breath catches at how earnestly he says it. No edge. No implication. Just...care.

“What makes you think I’m pretending?”

His fingers find my hand, his thumb brushing across the ridge of a healing bruise. “Because you’ve been trying to carry everything on your own since the moment I met you.”

I look down, his touch grounding me more than I want to admit.

“You don’t have to anymore,” he adds quietly.

It takes me a second to find my voice. “This—everything we’re in—it’s not the life I imagined for our baby.”

His expression hardens, not in anger, but in grief. “Neither did I.”

“I don’t want to raise our child in shadows,” I say quietly. “I want something else. Something clean. No debts, no blood feuds, no looking over our shoulders every time we leave the house.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, slowly, he nods.

“I’ve already started making moves,” he says. “To clean up the club. To create something that can stand on its own. You gave me the reason, Galina. Now I just have to follow through.”

Hope stirs in my chest, warm and cautious. “You really mean that?”

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