A King's Weakness

The file lay open before her, its pages thick with the weight of history, crimes woven into ink like blood spilled over time. Bianca's fingers traced the edges, her gaze locked onto the man captured in a photograph—a face carved from stone, eyes cold and calculating, a ruler among wolves.

Lorenzo Valente.

The dossier was meticulous, detailing his rise in the underworld, the calculated destruction of his enemies, the silent expansion of his empire. He was not merely a king; he was the architect of his reign, each move deliberate, each strike fatal.

Bianca turned the page, absorbing everything—his known allies, his adversaries, his financial networks. The deeper she read, the clearer it became: Lorenzo was not a man who could be brought down by force alone. Vittorio had been right. This was a war of deception, of patience.

Her eyes skimmed over the list of his most frequented places—high-end clubs, private estates, underground fight rings where blood and money mingled under dim lights. But one thing stood out among all his business dealings: Loyalty. Lorenzo inspired it, demanded it, rewarded it. And that, more than anything, made him dangerous.

But then, at the very bottom of the file, a name appeared.

Isabella Valente.

Bianca's brow furrowed as she skimmed through the section. His sister. His only weakness. Unlike Lorenzo, she was untouched by the darkness of his world, oblivious to the empire built beneath her feet. The file stated she was young, naive, living in a world where her brother was nothing more than a successful businessman.

Bianca leaned back in her chair, pressing her fingers together in thought. If Lorenzo Valente could be broken, it would be through her.

With one final glance at his photograph, she shut the file.

The hunt had begun.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Across the city, in the heart of Palermo's underworld, Lorenzo Valente stood at the head of a long mahogany table, his presence commanding even in silence. The air was thick with the scent of cigars and whiskey, a haze of smoke curling around the dimly lit room.

Seated before him were the men who controlled the city's underbelly—rival bosses, uneasy allies, men who thrived in the shadows.

"I need an answer," Lorenzo said, his voice low, controlled. "Either you're in, or you're out."

A man to his right shifted, fingers tapping against his glass. "It's a dangerous move, Valente. Expanding into Milan means war with the families there."

Lorenzo's gaze flicked to him, sharp and unyielding. "Then let them declare war."

A ripple of unease passed through the room, but no one dared challenge him outright. They knew better. Lorenzo did not issue empty threats. He delivered promises.

Before anyone could speak, his phone vibrated against the table. He glanced at the screen.

Isabella.

His expression remained unreadable, but something in his eyes shifted. He rarely took personal calls during business, but Isabella was different. Without a word, he stepped away from the table and answered.

The first thing he heard was his little sister crying.

His grip on the phone tightened. "Isabella?"

A sniffle. Then, a tearful wail. "L-Lory, I don't want to take it! It's bitter, it's disgusting—"

He exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead. "Take what?"

"The tablet! The doctor gave me this horrible, horrible medicine and—and—" Another sniffle. "I hate it!"

Lorenzo glanced at the men behind him, their conversation resuming in murmurs. He stepped further away, lowering his voice. "Isabella, you need to take your medicine. It's important."

"I don't care! I won't do it! Not unless you come home right now and bring me ice cream. A lot of it. More than last time."

His lips twitched, just barely. "You're blackmailing me?"

A pause. Then, in a much softer voice, "...Yes."

He exhaled, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"I'm sick," she reminded him. "And sad. And alone. And my big brother is busy doing boring business things instead of making me feel better."

A smirk ghosted over his lips. "Fine. I'll be home soon."

"And the ice cream?"

"I'll bring all of Palermo's ice cream if it means you stop crying."

A small giggle. Then, in a whisper, "I love you, Lory."

His chest tightened. "I love you too, Bella."

The call ended, leaving him in silence. He tucked his phone into his pocket and turned back toward the table, his expression unreadable.

The deal could wait.

There were many things Lorenzo Valente was willing to sacrifice for power. But his sister was not one of them.

He strode out of the room without another word.

The night in Palermo was restless, but as Lorenzo stepped into his car, there was only one destination in his mind—home.

And he was bringing ice cream.

The moment Lorenzo stepped into the grand estate, he wasted no time, his long strides carrying him swiftly up the marble staircase. The muffled sounds of distress reached him even before he reached the door to Isabella's room.

Pushing it open, he found her curled up on the bed, her cheeks flushed with fever, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. Their mother sat beside her, attempting—without success—to coax her into taking the tablet in her hand.

"I don't want it!" Isabella cried; her voice thick with frustration as she turned her face away. "It's disgusting! I'd rather stay sick forever."

Lorenzo exhaled sharply, stepping further inside. "Isabella," he called, his tone carrying the authority of an older brother who wouldn't take no for an answer.

Her head snapped toward him, her lower lip quivering. "Lory!" she whined, her voice immediately shifting into one of pleading. "Make Mamma stop! She's forcing me to take this horrible thing."

Lorenzo sat on the edge of her bed, his gaze sweeping over her flushed face, her damp forehead. She was burning up.

"You have a fever," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "You need to take the medicine."

She sniffled. "Not until I get my ice cream."

He arched a brow. "Ice cream?"

She nodded stubbornly. "You promised."

His lips twitched, though he didn't allow himself to smile. "I said I'd bring ice cream, not that you'd get it before taking your medicine."

"That's unfair!" she huffed, throwing herself back onto the pillows in frustration. "You always do this. You make promises and then twist them."

"That's called being a responsible older brother." He picked up the small glass of water from the bedside table and held out the tablet. "Now, take it."

"No."

Lorenzo narrowed his eyes. "Isabella."

"No."

"Isabella Valente, you're sixteen years old, not six."

"I don't care." She shook her head vehemently. "I'd rather die than take that thing."

Their mother sighed, rubbing her temples in exasperation. "She's been at this for half an hour, Lorenzo. She won't listen."

Lorenzo tilted his head, studying his sister's pouting expression. The stubborn glint in her eyes was a reflection of their own bloodline—Valentes never backed down easily. But neither did he.

He set the glass back down, his voice softening. "You know, Tesoro (sweetheart), when I was your age—actually, when I was younger than you—I had to take medicine way worse than this."

She eyed him warily. "You did?"

He nodded. "And you know what happened when I refused to take it?"

"What?" she asked, curiosity creeping into her voice.

He smirked. "Mamma threatened to make me drink an entire bottle of it."

Isabella gasped, horrified. "No way!"

"Oh yes," their mother chimed in, shaking her head. "And it worked."

Lorenzo leaned closer, lowering his voice. "So, if you don't want me to go grab a second tablet and make you take both—"

Her eyes widened. "You wouldn't."

He raised a brow. "Try me."

She groaned dramatically before snatching the tablet from his hand. "Fine! But I still think you're evil."

He simply watched as she popped the pill into her mouth, making a face as she swallowed it down with water. When she was done, she glared at him. "There. Happy?"

"Very."

She exhaled heavily. "Okay, now, ice cream."

Lorenzo stood, straightening his cuffs. "No."

Her mouth felt open. "What?!"

"You're sick, Isabella. No ice cream until you're better."

Her expression twisted with betrayal. "Lory, you—" She stopped, her lips pressing together in a firm line before she grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.

Lorenzo caught it midair, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Temper tantrums don't work on me, sorellina (little sister)."

"I hate you."

He smirked. "No, you don't."

She crossed her arms, turning her face away. "Yes, I do."

Lorenzo sighed, stepping closer. He sat beside her again, brushing a hand over her hair, tucking the damp strands behind her ear. His voice softened. "Rest, Isabella. You'll feel better in the morning."

She peeked up at him through her lashes, her annoyance wavering. "You promise?"

"I promise."

With that, she let out a small sigh and nestled deeper into the pillows. He stayed beside her until her breathing evened out, until the fever seemed less threatening, until the room felt calmer. He ran a gentle hand through her hair, watching as sleep finally claimed her, unaware of the silent vow he made every night—to protect her, no matter the cost.

After their father's death, he hadn't just inherited an empire steeped in power and blood. He had taken on a role far greater, far heavier. He had become more than the leader of a ruthless dynasty. He had become a guardian, a protector, a father to the only soul untouched by the legacy he carried. In a world where mercy was a weakness and loyalty was bought with violence, Isabella remained the only fragment of innocence left in his life.

She was his only weakness. The only thing that could break him.

And he would do anything to protect her. Anything.

As he stepped out of her room, the warmth of her presence faded, replaced by the cold, relentless reality waiting beyond these walls. The moment he shut the door behind him, the man who had whispered soft reassurances and held his sister close ceased to exist.

He was no longer just Isabella's brother.

He was Lorenzo Valente. The Mafia King.

And outside this sanctuary, the world was still waiting to be ruled.