Chapter 1
Zarkia Blair's books to read on Kobo
1. Mafia Ties Trilogy Series:
Master’s Possession Book 1
Student’s Obsession Book 2
Enemy’s Protection Book 3
2.Standalone: Mafia's Deception
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“I own the CROWN”
Reis:
“Reis—!”
My mother’s shout crashes into my room as she storms in like she’s running from a hyena. The sound snaps me out of my crying spell, the one I’ve been stuck in since last night, since the heart-wrenching news.
Not the kind that says your father is dead.
That part already broke me.
I couldn’t do shit for a week. I barely moved, barely ate, barely breathed. But once we laid him to rest, once the dirt covered the coffin, my mind finally started to settle—until the second blow landed.
The one that says we have to move out of the estate.
Leave everything behind.
Just like that.
As if I never lived here my entire life.
As if I wasn’t born here.
Had my first solid food here.
Cried here.
Laughed here.
Crawled, took my first steps, and walked straight into my father’s arms here.
It feels like we were just renting the place.
Like we never belonged.
How can we just leave after twenty-three years, after so many memories soaked into these walls?
“What?” The word barely makes it past my lips, my voice shredded and hoarse as I try to lift my head from the pillow.
My eyes burn when light sneaks through the curtain.
Fuck… my body feels sore. Heavy. Like grief has weight.
Mom is already tearing through my room, yanking clothes from my walk-in closet and throwing them onto my bed.
Forcing my voice out, I croak, “Mom?” Then louder, sharper. “What’s going on?”
She comes back carrying a bulky pile of clothes in her arms and drops them on my bed, mixing them with the rest like none of it matters.
She looks exhausted.
Dark circles ring her eyes, the kind that expensive make-up tries—and fails—to hide. She’s been crying. A lot.
Panting, she says, “We’re not going back to Spain. We’re going to the Krotovs’ estate. So wake up, pack up, and hurry.”
“What?”
The Krotovs?
The name alone makes my skin prickle.
My stomach twists.
I push myself off the bed, my limbs sluggish, confusion crashing through my head as I follow her toward the closet.
“The Krotovs?” My voice cracks. “Why?”
She doesn’t even look at me. “I’m marrying Mr. Krotov.”
“What the fuck, Mom?”
The world keeps moving—but I stop.
My lungs forget how to work. My fingertips go numb, heavy. My heartbeat slams so hard it builds pressure in my ears, my breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts like it’s trying to escape my body.
“No,” I whisper. Then louder, spiraling back into reality. “No, no, no—”
I shake my head violently, like my body is malfunctioning, like it can’t stop on its own.
I don’t have a problem with Mr. Krotov. He seems… decent. I’ve met him a few times with my dad. He was a mafia boss too, but—
I have a problem with his son.
Zahid Krotov.
The only guy at campus who gives me chills with a single stare, like I killed his favourite pet—or something worse.
He never smiles.
And he follows me.
Everywhere.
Even when I try to hide, I still catch him watching. Observing. Calculating. Like he’s figuring out how to snatch me, what to do to me afterward. Worse things.
He thinks I don’t notice.
But I do.
I told my father once. He laughed it off. Like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.
“I can’t,” I choke, stumbling backward. Tears spill before I can stop them. “Mom—” My body trembles. “I can’t live there.”
She ignores me.
Keeps throwing my clothes onto the bed. Opening drawers. Shoving things into my bag without care. Without mercy.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she snaps. Her alto voice is louder now. Sharper. Scary. “You’re not a child anymore.”
She grabs my jacket and shoves it onto the pile like it didn’t cost a hundred thousand dollars. Like that money didn’t mean anything back then.
And now?
Now I have nothing.
Just zero.
She turns quickly, her hanging earrings swinging, catching on her earlobes as she faces me. “At least you get to keep your expensive clothes. At least you get to keep that ridiculous orange car of yours that makes so much noise. We’re drowning in debt, Reis. Be grateful.”
I shake my head, backing away.
“You’re choosing him over me?”
She finally exhales and stops what she’s doing. When she looks at me, her stare is cold. Tired. Like she’s already done with me.
“I’m choosing survival,” she says. “Blame your father for dying poor. Not me. He’s the one who left us like this. And there’s nothing left for us in Spain but hunger.”
And just like that…
I know I’m no longer a son.
I’m luggage.
