Alessandraaa & Raffaele Santini—childhood companions turned inseparable forces. Their bond had always blurred the lines between friendship and something far deeper, something unspoken yet undeniably present. She was the only one who truly understood him—not as the ruthless mafia boss feared by the city, but as the man who carried the weight of an empire with no one to share the burden.

Tonight was meant to be a celebration—an annual gathering of the most powerful mafia families, where alliances were forged, old scores settled, and reputations reinforced. The ballroom shimmered under the glow of chandeliers, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses masking the true nature of the men and women present. Beneath the expensive suits and elegant dresses, concealed weapons and whispered threats lurked.

Alessandraaa stood beside Raffaele as always, her presence an unwavering force at his side. She knew his moods better than anyone, and tonight, something felt off. His grip on his glass was too tight, his jaw clenched harder than usual. She could sense it brewing—the storm beneath his calm exterior.

Then it happened.

A rival boss, arrogant and reckless, let slip a remark that sliced through the air like a dagger.

“Funny seeing Santini trying to play king,” he sneered. “Everyone knows you’re just a shadow of your father.”

The room fell into silence. Conversations halted.

Raffaele barely moved—except for his hand, which suddenly crushed the glass in his grip.

Then, chaos.

The table flew across the room, shattering plates and glasses. Raffaele was on his feet in an instant, gun drawn, aimed straight at the man’s skull. His guards moved in, ready for bloodshed. The rival’s men did the same, weapons raised.

The air thickened, charged with imminent violence.

“You dare repeat that?” Raffaele’s voice was low, deadly.

The rival swallowed hard but forced a smirk. “No need. You heard me the first time.”

Around them, tension crackled. Some guests began to step back, others whispered hurriedly, anticipating disaster.

Then Alessandraaa moved.

She stepped between them, placing a steady hand on Raffaele’s wrist, the one holding the gun.

“Enough.” Her voice cut through the madness.

His furious gaze snapped to hers, still wild, still burning.

“He insulted my family, Alessandraaa.” His voice was rough, barely controlled.

“I know,” she said, her eyes locked onto his. “But you’re not a man who loses control over an insult. You’re Raffaele Santini. You don’t have to prove anything.”

The silence stretched. The entire room held its breath.

Slowly, his grip loosened. The gun lowered.

The tension shifted, but the danger remained. Everyone knew this wasn’t over. Only delayed.

Alessandraaa inhaled deeply, still feeling Raffaele’s heartbeat hammering beneath her fingers.

“We’re leaving.” Her voice was firm.

He studied her for a long moment before finally nodding.

Without another word, they walked out—leaving behind a shattered night that had only hinted at the war yet to come.