The Ruthless Mafia King

The invitation was more of a command.

A formal dinner hosted by the Mancini family — one of the oldest and most unpredictable syndicates in the city. On the surface, it was diplomacy. In truth, it was bait.

A test.

To see what Alessandro Moretti would do now that his greatest enemy's daughter was at his side.

"Are you sure I should go?" Emilia asked as she stood in the dressing room, slipping into a fitted black gown that draped like a weapon.

Alessandro stood behind her, adjusting his cufflinks, watching her through the mirror.

"They invited us," he said. "Not me."

She met his gaze. "Then let's give them something to choke on."

The dinner was held in an opulent estate overlooking the water — all candlelight, crystal, and the scent of danger behind every smile.

Alessandro entered first, his presence part shadow, part storm.

Emilia followed.

Every head turned.

Conversations paused. Glasses froze mid-air. The Blake girl was real — and she'd walked into a den of wolves on the arm of their king.

"Alessandro," greeted Matteo Mancini, the silver-haired patriarch. "You've brought... a guest."

Alessandro didn't smile. "This is Emilia Blake."

The room tensed.

"Blake," Matteo repeated, swirling his wine. "A name once feared. Buried, I thought."

"Buried things don't stay buried forever," Emilia said, her voice calm, clear.

Matteo chuckled, impressed. "Spoken like a true daughter of the fire."

They were seated at the head table, but the night was anything but comfortable. Thin compliments masked threats. Every toast dripped with warning.

Halfway through, a younger Mancini — Nico — leaned toward Emilia and whispered, "You know, your father once sat in this very chair. Before Moretti made sure he never sat anywhere again."

She didn't flinch.

But Alessandro did.

"What did you say to her?" he asked coldly.

"Only history," Nico said, raising his hands.

Alessandro placed a heavy hand on the back of Emilia's chair. "Watch your mouth when you speak to her. Or you'll be history."

After the dinner, in the car, Emilia sat quiet.

"Was it true?" she finally asked. "Did you kill my father?"

Alessandro didn't answer right away.

Then softly: "If I had… you wouldn't be wearing my ring."

She looked at him, unsure if that was comfort — or another warning.

But one thing was clear.

This wasn't just a dinner.

It was a declaration.

The game had changed.