The Ruthless Mafia King

The news had spread faster than fire.

Alessandro Moretti spotted with an unknown woman.

Identity revealed: Emilia Blake — daughter of Victor Blake.

Even without her face fully visible, the headline was enough. The underworld wasn't stupid — and neither were the families that had once bowed to the Blake name. Or the ones who wanted it dead.

Emilia sat on the edge of the bed in Alessandro's penthouse, clutching the newspaper like it might bite her. Her heart felt numb. She wasn't ready for this. For the weight of a name she never asked to carry.

Alessandro stood by the window, his back to her, suit jacket draped over one arm, phone in the other.

"I don't care who leaked it," he snapped. "Find them. Now."

He ended the call and turned, eyes locking on hers.

"They know," she said quietly.

"They were going to find out eventually," he replied. "But not like this."

She stood, her voice shaking now. "You knew this would happen."

"Yes."

"And you didn't warn me?"

"I did," he said coldly. "Just not with flowers and poetry."

She walked past him, heading toward the balcony for air, but he caught her wrist — not hard, just firm enough to stop her.

"I didn't do this to hurt you, Emilia."

She didn't pull away. "Then why did you do it?"

He stared at her for a long time. "Because you're not just some girl anymore. You're a target. You needed protection, and I'm the only one who can keep you breathing."

She shook her head. "You mean keep me in check."

"No," he said, stepping closer. "I mean keep you alive."

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky, a storm forming over the city.

Inside, Emilia realized something chilling:

She didn't trust Alessandro Moretti.

But she didn't trust anyone else either.