The Ruthless Mafia King

The next morning, the city was colder.

Not the weather — the silence.

Something had shifted after the Mancini dinner. Alessandro hadn't said much since they left. Emilia noticed it in the way he moved — tenser, quieter. Watching everything. Trusting no one.

She woke to find him gone, his side of the bed still warm. A note lay on the pillow:

"Don't leave the penthouse. No exceptions. — A"

And beneath it, a folded newspaper.

"Unconfirmed Explosion at Moretti Warehouse — No Casualties, but Smoke Rises in the East."

Emilia's blood turned to ice.

The first shot had been fired.

Hours later, Alessandro returned, his jaw tight, shirt sleeves rolled up, a smear of ash on his cheek.

She met him at the door. "What happened?"

He walked past her, straight to the bar, poured himself a drink he didn't sip.

"Mancini," he muttered. "They waited less than 12 hours."

Emilia's heart pounded. "They bombed your warehouse?"

"An empty one. A message."

"What kind of message?"

He looked up, eyes dark. "They don't approve of my choice."

"You mean me."

A bitter smile. "They don't see you as a woman. They see you as a threat. The daughter of the man they feared… now sleeping in the enemy's bed."

She stepped forward. "So what do we do?"

"We wait," he said. "And prepare."

"For what?"

His voice dropped. "For the next hit. Because they won't miss again."

That night, as Emilia stood by the window overlooking the city, Alessandro came up behind her.

"They won't stop, will they?" she asked.

"No."

"And you won't walk away?"

"I've never walked away from anything," he said. "And I'm not starting now."

She turned to him. "Even if it gets me killed?"

He leaned down, lips brushing her ear.

"Especially if it does."