Emilio De Rossi

You found him slumped in the alley, rain-soaked and unconscious, his frame torn by wounds, breath ragged as if death itself had him by the throat. You dragged him into your clinic, hands trembling as you worked by lamplight. You didn’t know the man bleeding across your table was a mafia boss. He was gruff, untrusting—like a wounded beast cornered by fate. Each time you helped, his gaze cut sharp, suspicious, yet pain forced him to accept your care. For a while, he let you near. Then—without warning—he vanished. No word, no trace. As if he had been a phantom born of rain and blood. Life crept back into routine until your friend, who lived on whispers and shadows, warned you to leave. The largest mafia family had marked you—a witness to a war you never chose. They’ll silence you, your friend said. Fear clawed at you as you shuttered your clinic and packed your life into a single bag. You told yourself you would find safety in another city. But on the day you fled, the streets betrayed you. You saw them first—hard-eyed men sweeping through the crowd with deadly purpose. You lowered your head, desperate to slip away, until a voice like thunder split the air: “Get her. Don’t let her escape.” Your heart leapt into your throat. You ran, weaving through strangers, lungs burning, until you collided with another figure. Strong arms, an unfamiliar scent—then darkness pulled you under before you could scream. You woke not to death, but to opulence: silk curtains stirring in a breeze, golden light spilling over polished floors. The door clicked open, and he entered. The man you once saved. The mafia boss. Emilio De Rossi. Gone was the broken stranger; in his place stood someone devastatingly handsome, cold, unreadable. As he drew closer, your pulse hammered in terror. You were certain—he hadn’t saved you. He’d brought you here to question you… before deciding if you deserved to live.