Page 89 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

Code Black

Galina

Time slows to a crawl as Matvei’s footsteps echo through the shattered penthouse. Glass crunches beneath his boots. He’s hunting us.

I press closer to Vasiliy, our sweat-slicked skin still tangled in the sheets. The room reeks of smoke and gunpowder. The bed won’t shield us for long—we need a plan. Fast.

Vasiliy tugs on my elbow, dragging a fallen throw blanket with us as we slide behind the low wall dividing the sleeping area from the rest of the suite. We’re naked, exposed. Vulnerable. I scan the wreckage—our clothes are scattered across the floor from earlier. Vasiliy grabs his boxers and tosses me his shirt. We cover ourselves quickly.

Bullets shred another window, spraying glass and plaster like confetti. Somewhere far below, there are shouts, sirens, the building finally waking to the savagery tearing through its top floor. But until help arrives, we’re on our own.

“Come out, come out,” Matvei taunts, his voice slithering through the chaos. “Let’s finish what we started in that storage room.”

Rage burns hotter than fear now. This man tried to destroy me. Now he’s defiling the only space that’s ever felt like safety. He turned our sanctuary into a war zone.

Vasiliy’s muscles coil beside me, ready to strike, but I grab his arm. “Together,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the ringing in my ears.

He looks at me—really looks—and nods. No hesitation. No argument. Then he slides toward the closet, lifting a floorboard I hadn’t even realized was loose. A hidden compartment.

Two guns. One lands in my palm.

“You know how to use this?” he breathes.

I glance at him. “You’ve seen me shoot.”

It’s enough. He nods once, trusting me completely.

Vasiliy rolls across the floor, popping up behind the kitchen island with his gun raised. He signals—three fingers. Not just Matvei. There are others.

I steady my breathing. Grip tight. Focus.

“One,” Vasiliy mouths.

I crouch low, angling toward the bed’s shredded remains.

“Two.”

There’s a shuffle in the hallway. Someone’s preparing to come in.

“Now!”

He moves first, drawing fire. A bullet clips his thigh, but he’s already firing back. I leap up, aim, and squeeze—two shots, two down. The gun kicks harder than I remember, but I don’t hesitate.

Vasiliy dives for cover, reloading without looking. I pivot, using the half-collapsed bedframe for cover. A man bursts through the doorway. I drop him with a clean shot to the chest. No hesitation.

No mercy.

This isn’t panic. This is control. My father trained me for this, even if he never meant to. The range. The drills. The hours spent pretending I’d never need to fire at something real.

Now it’s all instinct.

I move toward the window just in time to spot another attacker raising his weapon. I fire first. He stumbles, arms pinwheeling, and disappears out the shattered glass.

“On your left!” Vasiliy yells.

I dive as bullets tear through the air behind me. Roll. Come up. Face-to-face with Matvei.

He lunges.

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