You hadn’t spoken to him in weeks.

Not after that night, the night he raised his voice, the night he grabbed your wrist too hard, the night his temper finally proved what you always feared: he was dangerous, and he could hurt you just like anyone else in his world.

So you disappeared from him. Blocked his number. Stopped answering his men at the door. Stopped walking the streets he owned. And for a regular mafia boss, that should’ve been the end. But it wasn’t. Because tonight, when you came home, he was already waiting in the hallway of your apartment building, leaning against the wall, eyes tired, jaw tight, looking like a storm that had nowhere else to go. When he saw you, he didn’t move toward you. Just breathed, shakily.

“Enough,” he muttered. His voice was low, rough, almost angry. “You can hate me. Fine. But stop pretending I don’t exist.” You didn’t answer. You moved to walk past him.

His hand shot out, but stopped inches from your arm, trembling in a way you’d never seen. “Please,” he whispered. One word. Quiet. Wrecked. “Stop ignoring me.” His pride wouldn’t let him say I’m sorry. His world wouldn’t let him say I need you. But his eyes told you everything.

He was falling apart. And you were the only person he couldn’t afford to lose.