The Ruthless Mafia King

The sky over New York was dark again — not with clouds, but with everything unsaid between them.

Emilia didn't return to the penthouse that night.

She stayed in one of the guest residences below, in a room Alessandro never touched. It was sterile, unfamiliar, and painfully silent. But it gave her space. The one thing she hadn't realized she needed until the weight of Alessandro's world began pressing into her ribs.

She didn't cry.

She couldn't.

Because the moment she let tears fall, she feared she wouldn't be able to stop.

Upstairs, Alessandro sat in his office with a bottle of untouched bourbon and a security feed showing every room in his tower — including hers.

He watched her pace.

He watched her try to sleep.

He watched her not call him.

And still… he said nothing.

Not to her. Not to anyone.

Because what could he say?

He had pulled her into this world to protect her.

And now she was breaking under it.

Because of him.

The next day, Emilia stepped into the training hall.

The guard on duty blinked in confusion. "Miss Blake?"

"Give me a blade," she said flatly.

"I… I don't think—"

"Now."

He obeyed.

And Emilia stood in the center of the mat, gripping the knife tightly, facing the steel dummy at the end of the hall.

She remembered nothing of combat.

But everything of pain.

With a cry she didn't know she was holding, she lunged — striking, slicing, cutting into rubber and steel until her hands shook and her lungs burned.

She didn't stop until her knees hit the ground.

And even then, she didn't cry.

But someone else had seen.

Alessandro stood in the shadows near the door — silent, still, watching her fall apart the only way she knew how: through control.

He didn't enter.

He didn't speak.

Because he knew this wasn't a moment for power.

This was a moment for surrender.

And even kings don't always know how to kneel.