The Ruthless Mafia King

The dress wasn't her choice.

It lay waiting for her on the bed — deep emerald green, satin, backless, with a slit that dared anyone to look away. Next to it, a delicate velvet box with a single note:

"Wear this. — A"

Emilia stared at the ensemble like it might explode. She'd been in the penthouse for three days now — three days of silent meals delivered by shadow-faced staff, three days of pacing floors, and three nights of dreaming about the man who held her fate in his hands.

Tonight was the first time he summoned her.

And she didn't know if she wanted to slap him or kiss him.

She wore the dress.

When the elevator doors opened to the upper lounge, she stepped out cautiously — heels clicking on polished obsidian floors, hair falling in soft curls down her back. Her nerves simmered under every inch of exposed skin.

Alessandro stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, nursing a glass of dark liquor. He turned at the sound of her footsteps — and for the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

Not power. Not calculation.

Desire.

"You look..." He paused, voice lower. Rougher. "Unforgettable."

She didn't thank him.

"What is this?" she asked instead, crossing her arms. "Some mafia date night?"

He chuckled softly, swirling his drink. "Something like that. I thought you should understand what world you've stepped into."

"What? The world of billionaires who play dress-up in glass towers while people die in their name?"

He stepped closer. "You're not wrong. But you're not innocent either."

"I never asked for this."

"No," he said. "But your blood did."

The silence between them stretched. Tense. Electric.

Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a thin file.

"Your father," he said, placing it on the table. "Everything I know. Everything I've buried."

Her breath caught. "Why give it to me?"

"Because you need to stop believing you're just some girl from a small town."

"And you?" she whispered. "What do you believe I am?"

He took another step toward her, their bodies inches apart.

"I think," he said, eyes darkening, "you're the only threat I've never wanted to kill."

And when his hand brushed her waist — just a whisper of contact — she didn't move away.

Neither of them did.