Page 62 of Cruel Obsession

This wasn’t the plan. I came here to negotiate—to warn him away from my turf, to end the threats against my business. Not this.

Pizdets!This fucking complicates things.

I kneel beside him, fingers searching for a pulse I already know won’t be there. His neck sits at an impossible angle, eyes staring upward at nothing.

It’s not my first death. Not even my first kill. But it’s the first one that happened without intention, without choice. Just like with Mishka.

That thought breaks something inside me.

I stand, legs unsteady, staring down at what I’ve done.

Footsteps approach from behind—fast, purposeful. My hand moves instinctively toward my weapon before I register the familiar gait.

“Chert voz’mi, pakhan!”Stefan’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears.

I turn to find him emerging from the shadows near the restaurant’s side entrance, his bald head catching the streetlight. Behind him, the limo door clicks open, and my driver steps out, face carefully blank as he takes in the scene.

The realization hits me: it all happened in seconds.

How fucking fast did this spiral?

“Handle it,” I say, the words scraping out. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

Stefan moves closer, his eyes scanning Tulikov’s broken form with the practiced assessment of a man who’s seen worse.

“Da.”

No questions. No judgment. Just the quiet acceptance of a man who understands the Bratva life better than most.

The driver has already retreated to the vehicle, understanding his role without needing to be told. See nothing. Know nothing.

“And prepare the jet,” I add, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. “I’m flying back tonight.”

“Khoroshiy, pakhan.”

Stefan pulls out his phone, already making the calls that will erase this night from existence. His efficiency should comfort me—it’s saved my arse more times than I can count. Instead, it sits like acid in my stomach.

Of course he knows what to do. Stefan has cleaned up worse messes than this—for my father, for the Bratva, and now for me.

I turn away, unable to look at Tulikov’s body any longer. Each step carries me toward the limo, but the distance does nothing to separate me from what just happened.

Sergei Tulikov. Power broker. Father. A man I despised but never planned to kill.

Yet here we are.

Another death on my hands. Another life I’ve taken, this time because he dared touch my most vulnerable points—Mishka’s memory and Mirabel’s safety.

The ultimate fucking irony: I’ve spent my life building walls between myself and my father’s brutality. Yet with one unintended death, I’ve become exactly what I swore I wouldn’t. The line between us blurs a little more each year, and tonight it’s nearly invisible.

The limo door opens. I slide inside without looking back, leaving Stefan to handle what I’ve left behind—the mess, the body, the evidence of what I’ve become.

***

Hours later, the steady hum of the jet’s engines provides the only soundtrack to my thoughts. The flight crew has strict instructions not to disturb me, and they’ll obey thoseinstructions if they know what’s good for them. I’m on my third vodka… not that it’s helping. Nothing helps on nights like this.

I close my eyes, but all I see is Tulikov’s neck snapping. Mishka’s blood blooming across his shirt. Two deaths. Two accidents. Two moments that define me more than all my deliberate choices combined.

My father will find out about Tulikov soon enough. Will he see it as weakness or strength? A liability or an opportunity? Every move on this chessboard shifts the balance of power. Even when I’m not trying to play, I change the game.