Page 91 of Mafia King's Ruthless Obsession

We’re okay. Two words I’d never expected to hear. But it’s the truth. Through all the danger and gunfire, we are alive.

“Take a bath. Relax,” he tells me, nodding at his private bathroom. “I’ll bring Jaromir up to speed, and then I’ll join you.”

“You’ll stay with me? Don’t go anywhere.”

“Don’t worry, Galina, “ Vasiliy answers and kisses my forehead. “Never.”

With a nod, I walk into his bathroom and run water into the huge tub. Sitting on the cool tile, I breathe deeply, trying to bring my emotions under control.

The world has tried to break me for years. This is far from over. My uncle, Matvei, all our fucking enemies combined—they’re still out there, plotting their next move. Let them come. We’re done running, done hiding. They wanted a war? They’ve got one.

And this time, we’re fighting together.

Chapter 27

Quiet Is a Lie We Tell Ourselves

Vasiliyi

The adrenaline fades, leaving behind a brutal kind of clarity. My limbs are heavy, my muscles torn between exhaustion and tension. Every bruise throbs in sync with my heartbeat. I can still hear the echo of gunfire, Galina’s breath hitching in fear, the sickening shatter of glass. It loops in my head.

But she’s safe. She and the baby are alive. That’s the only thing holding me together right now.

Jaromir’s latest call replays in my mind. Raffe and the others cleared the penthouse. No bodies, no sign of Matvei. Just destruction. Damaged walls, scattered blood, shattered glass—and then, insult to injury, a car bomb. They rigged my private vehicle to explode. One of my men died bringing it down. That could’ve been us.

It nearly was.

I don’t know what twists tighter in my chest—the fury or the guilt.

“Sit,” Galina says, nudging me into my office bathroom. Her voice is firmer than her touch, which is surprisingly gentle as she presses on my shoulder until I lower myself onto the edge of the tub.

“You’re bleeding,” she adds, already pulling supplies from the cabinet.

“It’s nothing,” I grunt, but the sting in my thigh says otherwise. I glance at the full, steaming tub beside me. “You didn’t wash up yet?”

“I will,” she says without looking at me. “But you first.”

She kneels beside me, wetting a cloth under warm water. The overhead lights make her hair gleam, her expression drawn in quiet focus as she dabs gently at the blood on my face. Her fingers skim the cut near my jaw, and I flinch—not from pain, but from the intimacy. I don’t let people touch me like this. I don’t let anyone tend to my wounds.

But she’s not anyone.

“You protected me,” she murmurs. “Now let me do the same.”

Her hands are steady. Her voice is soft. And somehow, that does more damage to my defenses than any bullet.

“You missed your calling,” I mutter. “Could’ve been a nurse.”

She snorts. “With my bedside manner? I’d terrify patients.”

She reaches my shoulder and pauses, brushing her fingers over the deeper gash there. “This one needs stitches.”

“Leave it,” I say, catching her wrist. “It’s not a big deal.”

She narrows her eyes. “And I’m used to people listening when I talk.”

Her stubbornness should irritate me. Instead, it grounds me. Anchors me. This woman—this fierce, clever, maddening woman—will never let me bleed alone. And maybe, for once, that’s not a weakness.

“Fine,” I exhale. “But just clean it. No needles.”

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