HIS RUTHLESS MAFIA OBSESSION

CHAPTER FOUR

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Monsters wear Wedding Rings too. ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

|Andrey|

A sick smirk curves at the edge of my lips as I watch my newly wedded wife fumble with the envelope on a monitor.

Her penthouse feed.

The envelope she's about to open? Already mine.

I had intercepted it hours before her dainty little fingers touched it and replaced it with an evil generic display notice to fuel her frustration.

It contained no vital information; it was just a basic financial alert from an anonymous offshore institution that her shell company uses.

"Surprise, surprise, Malyshka," I mutter.

My burner buzzes, taking my attention away from the monitor.

Private line. Restricted ID.

Only two people have this number. One's already dead, and the other is halfway there.

I answer on the third ring.

"Mr. Maksim," a shaky voice stammers. "There's been... confusion about the warehouse. I was told—"

"Who told you to move my shipment to sector B instead of C?"

Silence.

I inhale slowly, letting the weight of my question hang like a blade. "You're being paid to follow instructions, Samuel. Not rewrite them."

"I thought it was the right call. There were eyes on the original drop, and I didn't want—"

"You thought?" I echo, my tone calm. Controlled. The kind that forces men to rethink their entire lives. "Are you paid to think?"

"N-no, sir. I just—"

"Do you know how many f*****g cameras are in sector B? You might as well have wrapped my crates in neon lights and handed them to the DEA with a bow."

"I—I didn't mean to—"

"Intent doesn't matter in my world." I lean back in my chair, watching the smoke curl above me.

"Only results. And the result, Samuel, is that now I have to burn a truckload of product because you had a feeling."

He breathes into the phone like he's choking on his heartbeat.

"You have twenty-four hours to clean it up. Remove every trace. If even one bullet from that shipment appears on a news channel or in a rival's hands..."

I pause.

"I won't kill you, Samuel. I'll kill your mother, your brother, and your dog. Then I'll send you their heads and ask how 'right' that feels."

I end the call before he can beg.

Fucking amateurs.

My eyes drift to the monitor across the room—screen four, lower left corner—which shows Genevieve's bedroom feed.

Ingrid just stormed out, fuming and seething layered on frustration. Now, it's just Genevieve again.

She doesn't break down.

Instead, she walks to the closet, back to the camera, and pulls her dress down slowly till she's naked.

I should look away. I don't.

The curve of her perfect, round ass catches the lamplight—full, sinful, and made to ruin men.

My jaw clenches.

I remember the way her lips parted when I kissed her at the altar. The way she gasped beneath me, tied and shaking, begging me with her body to finish what I started.

I didn't.

And yet, here I am... watching. Wanting.

God, I hate her.

But my c**k twitches like it doesn't.

She's chaos wrapped in a cursed silk. Every inch of her is a f*****g weapon.

If she knew how often I'd keep watching her like this? She'd weaponised that, too.

Knock.

The door behind me creaks.

"Come in, Miss Ophelia."

The woman who raised me as a son steps in, holding a tray of black coffee and that judgemental look she wears so f*****g well.

"You've been up all night," she says.

"I've been working."

"You've been watching her."

"Same thing."

She walks past me and sets the tray down without another word. But her silence has weight.

That's what I hate about her—she doesn't need to speak to make me feel like a sinner.

"I assume she's not dead?" she finally asks, glancing at the monitor.

"Unfortunately."

Miss Ophelia folds her arms, sharp eyes narrowing. "So she tried to kill you, and now you're watching her like a lovesick boy?"

"You said she was lovely too, remember?" I shoot her a warning glare. "Don't mistake surveillance for sentiment."

She lifts her brows. "Then explain it to me."

I lean against the desk, crossing one leg over the other as I take a drag of my cigar, inhaling deeply and letting the smoke burn into my chest.

"I didn't need to marry her. I could've cornered her, stripped away her empire, and kept her locked up until she gave me what I wanted. But that's not how you break someone like her."

"Why didn't you?" Miss Ophelia presses.

A cold smile creeps to my lips. "Because caged animal bites. But a wife? A wife thinks she's free until she realises she isn't."

She says nothing, so I go on.

"I didn't marry her out of affection, Ophelia. I married her to dismantle her."

Her lips press into a tight line.

"She thinks this marriage gives her leverage. That she's playing me—but all I gave her was a setup. A deal—and she took it with a smile."

Miss Ophelia's voice drops. "You've done a lot of terrible things, Andrey. But dragging that woman into your vendetta—"

"She's not innocent." I cut her off.

"No one in our world is!" Miss Ophelia retorts.

I turn back to the monitor, my voice lower now. "Her three husbands... they were my father's closest allies. Men he trusted with his life."

Miss Ophelia's silence is answer enough.

"They died," I say. "One by one. Quick. Clean. Untraceable. And then he did, too. The minute his allies fell, he was alone."

A pause.

"And she—Genevieve—was the one common thread between them all. Married to each one before they dropped. I used to think she was just cursed. Now? I think she's the f*****g plague."

"You think she killed them?"

"I think she watched them die. Maybe helped, or even orchestrated it."

Miss Ophelia lowers her gaze. "And marrying her... gives you answers?"

"No," I say, dragging in another breath. "It gives me control."

I didn't marry her for love.

Fuck no.

I could've dragged her into a cellar, stripped her empire bare, and made her bleed answers until her mascara ran like ink.

But where's the fun in that?

No. I did it smartly.

The Queen of the Ruthless Reapers thinks I want her body, her cartel, and maybe her loyalty.

Let her believe whatever the f**k she wants.

Because I'm not just going to be her husband. I will be the reason she drowns in everything she tried to survive— that I promise.

"You never talk about your father anymore," Miss Ophelia places her palm on my shoulder, cutting through my thoughts.

I don't turn. Don't flinch. "I don't need to."

She stays silent.

"There's nothing to say about the Batya(old man)," I say flatly. "He wasn't the kind of man you missed. He was the kind you resented for making you need him."

I pause.

"And now he's gone—and the silence feels worse than anything he ever said."

I clench my jaw as I stare at the screen.

"If he were still here, maybe I'd still be that spoiled asshole with a paintbrush and too much money. Maybe I wouldn't have had to become... this."

"Then why did you come back?" my housekeeper asks, furrowing her brows.

"To prove he was wrong. That I wasn't just some soft-handed artist. That I could bleed for this empire, too."

Several heartbeats pass.

"I spent half my life trying to make him proud, but he couldn't see the good in me."

"I've always been proud of you, Cara mío. " Her voice is tight, warm. And for once, I turn to her with a little smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

"I know. You always were."

My eyes shift back to the screen.

Genevieve pulls the sheet to cover her body. The room darkens on the screen.

"You don't have to do this, Cara mio. If your father saw what you're doing now," her judgy voice comes barely above a whisper. "Would he be proud?"

"No," I say, scoffing, "but he'd tell me to finish the job."

I check my wristwatch.

The meeting with a Belgian tycoon will commence in fifteen minutes, and I need to be there.

And if he delivers what I need, it'll be the first crack in Genevieve's empire—the first splinter in her loyalty circle.

My phone buzzes.

"Sir, he's on the move," the familiar voice of my bodyguard seeps through the speaker.

I don't say anything, and the line goes dead.

"Don't wait up, Ophelia," I turn to my housekeeper, "I won't be home tonight."

Before I can step out of the room, her voice stops me.

"Wait."

Her voice isn't her own.

It's trembling.

And I know whatever she's about to say...

I won't like it.