The Ruthless Mafia King

The city outside burned quietly — in whispers, in threats, in shadows moving behind power.

But inside the penthouse, something else was burning too.

Emilia.

Alessandro.

Neither of them could sleep. The air was thick with unspoken words and rising heat. They were both too wired, too restless — and too drawn to each other to pretend otherwise.

"I can't promise you peace," Alessandro said, leaning against the doorway of her bedroom. "But I can promise you won't face the war alone."

Emilia looked up from where she sat on the bed. "You think this is still about survival?"

His jaw tensed. "Isn't it?"

"No," she whispered, rising slowly. "It's about you. It's always been about you."

He didn't move as she approached, didn't speak as she touched the edge of his open shirt.

Her fingers trembled.

Not from fear.

From the weight of choosing him — again.

"I don't care what name I carry," she said. "I don't care what legacy you fight. I care that when I wake up… I know you're still breathing beside me."

He gripped her wrist, his touch firm, but not cruel. "I kill for the ones I protect, Emilia."

"Then protect me," she said. "All of me."

He pulled her into him — mouth hungry, hands desperate. And when he kissed her, it wasn't sweet.

It was savage.

Because this wasn't romance.

It was possession.

Two fires colliding — and neither one backing down.

Later, as they lay tangled in each other's heat, breath steadying, Alessandro traced the curve of her spine.

"You're everything I was told to destroy," he murmured.

She turned to face him, eyes soft but unyielding. "And you're everything I was raised to fear."

Silence.

Then she smiled — small, defiant.

"So what now?"

He leaned in, brushing his lips over hers again.

"Now we burn the rulebook."