Page 4 of Mafia Obsession

Drago shrugs. “Wait on Pakhan’s private balcony.”

I hide the twitch, referring toKirillas pakhan.

“How is Yuri?” I heard he turned seventy this past summer.

That’s one hundred and forty in mafia years. Have I overlooked that Yuri Volkov may no longer be running that brotherhood?

“Still breathing,” the enforcer says and points to the balcony. “Have a seat. I’ll send you a woman.”

“Don’t bother.” I turn around, furious that Kirill didn’t wait for me.

Had the tables been turned, though, I wouldn’t have waited for him.

The private balcony overlooks the gaming floor. Slot machines ding in an annoying chorus of bells below. They find my spine like an electric screwdriver.

“Whiskey, sir?” A smiling server in a tight blouse that shows off cleavage appears on my left with a drink resting on her tray. “And anything else you need while you wait?”

Her last offer comes with long batting eyelashes. Most women in these clubs make themselves available to me. Someone spread a rumor that I have an enormous cock, can fuck for hours, and make a woman come so hard she’ll pass out.

Despite this server’s beauty and willingness, I don’t feel anything. Haven’t felt that want or need for a woman in my bed in a long time.

“Thank you.” I take the glass of whiskey from her tray. “This is all I want.”

Yet, as those words leave my lips, I catch a head of champagne-blonde hair move through the crowd below. A spark fires through me. A zing, shocking me alert. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Heat punches through my chest, sharp and sudden.

The woman stops near the edge of the gaming floor. She’s not gambling, not drinking, just leaning against one of the columns. Just existing. And doing it quietly.

But not to me. To me, her presence is ear-piercingly loud.

She’s tall, standing nearly eye level with most men around her. But in that short, tight pink dress, her long legs and cleavage on display, she is shockingly unnoticed by the men around her.

Yet the room bends and leavesmeunsteady with an energy that draws me in.

What in fuck’s sake is this? Infatuation isn’t in my vocabulary.

My grip tightens on my drink. If I don’t ease up, I will shatter the glass. Every instinct I’ve spent decades mastering snaps like a rabid dog let off its leash.

I’ve seen beautiful women. Thousands of them. I’ve taken my pick when I’ve wanted them. All with contracts. All without consequence. All meaningless. Desire has always been a controlled burn. A switch I flipped on and off. A need I satisfy and soon forget. I had a mafia house to steal back, a brother to bury, a sister to find, and a war to end. I didn’t have time to fucking feel anything.

This, this wave of heat in my chest out of nowhere is burning me alive.

This bird’s-eye view of the gambling floor is not enough. I sprint down the stairs to the main level for a better look. Keeping my distance from across the hall, I see the blonde’s face isn’t perfect. Not in the way men typically catalogue beauty. Her nose is wide, her eyes aren’t big or piercing blue or green, and her jaw can’t cut glass. But her face has character. Her eyes are almond-shaped and amber. Her mouth is expressive. Her lips look soft and inviting.

Inviting my cock.

And fuck, if her look isn’t awakening me.

She isn’t smiling. There’s not the slightest lift to her lips. My heart stutters. It’s not a metaphor. This thing in my chest physically misfires like it forgot its rhythm.

The woman looks closed and guarded. As if she’s pulled herself tight and locked everything down. Her gaze moves over the crowd without interest, without warmth. But with…

Fear.

That’s to be expected. This is a Bratva club, and dangerous things happen here. Mostly to women.

Yet I’m the one who can’t breathe.

Leaning my forearms on the railing opposite the woman, I fix my gaze on her, mentally pulling her into me. The way I’m pulled into her.