Emma didn't let go of his hand.
But she didn't hold on tighter, either.
They stood beneath the gnarled old olive tree, its branches swaying gently in the early evening wind. Sunlight scattered through the leaves, streaking her face with gold and shadow. Mark felt the warmth of her fingers, but also the hesitation in her grip. Something had shifted in her, in the space between them.
"Mark," she said softly, not quite meeting his eyes, "you need to leave."
His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
Emma looked past him, toward the distant horizon where the sky touched the vineyard rows. Her voice came slower this time, heavier. "I brought you here because you needed to understand. Not just who you are--but what I am."
Mark stood still. He'd felt something unspoken humming beneath their conversations since the day she'd handed him that black velvet box. Something ancient. Something dangerous.
"My father," she continued, "isn't just some old aristocrat with too many secrets. He's mafia, Mark. Old blood. Sicilian. One of the original hands that built the Council."
Mark didn't speak. Didn't move.
Emma finally looked at him. "He runs the Black Crescent. The family that moves oil, guns, money--across borders, across governments. He's not just powerful. He's untouchable."
Mark swallowed. The weight of her words settled on his shoulders like chains. Still, he didn't back away.
"And you," he said quietly, "you're what? His heir?"
"I'm the reason they'll kill you," she said. "Because I didn't just bring you here. I brought you into this world. And now that door can't be closed."
A long silence passed between them.
"So what?" Mark asked. "You brought me here to break up with me? To give me one last view before you send me packing?"
She shook her head. Her voice trembled, but her words didn't. "I brought you here because I love you. And because I thought… maybe there was a chance you'd understand what it means to walk away before it's too late."
He stepped forward, closing the space between them.
"If your father is mafia," Mark said slowly, "then I'll become a bigger mafia than him."
Emma's lips parted like she was about to protest, but no words came. She stared at him, eyes wide, caught somewhere between fear and disbelief.
"That's not who you are," she whispered.
"But maybe it's who I need to be."
"You don't get it. My father… he doesn't fear war. He is war. He raised killers and kings. You stand against him, and you don't come back."
Mark's gaze didn't waver. "Then I'll stand beside him. Or above him. But I won't run. Not from you. Not from anyone."
Emma turned away, brushing a tear off her cheek before it could fall. "You're not scared enough."
"I am," he said. "But I'm more scared of losing you."
Silence wrapped around them like fog. The garden seemed to close in, the wind pressing at their backs.
Finally, Emma turned back to him. Her eyes weren't soft anymore. They were sharp. Focused.
"Then you walk this road knowing what it costs," she said. "There's no halfway. No mercy. You enter this world, you either climb the throne or die at its base."
Mark nodded once. "Then show me the door."
---
They walked through the house together, but not side by side. Emma led. Mark followed. Every hallway felt like it had eyes. Every painting, every chandelier, every polished wood panel carried the weight of legacy and judgment.
Down the marble steps, past halls lined with tapestries older than their nation, into the lower levels where the walls turned to stone. The air changed the deeper they went--cooler, stiller, like even sound was reluctant to live here.
At the bottom of the stairs stood a thick iron-bound door.
Emma stopped.
"This is it," she said, not looking at him. "Once we go in, there's no undoing it."
Mark stepped beside her. "Then let's go in."
She opened the door.
The room beyond was unlike anything Mark expected. It wasn't a throne room. It wasn't a dungeon. It was a study. Old oak. Dim firelight. A wall of aged books, another of weapons displayed like museum pieces. In the center, a man sat in a leather chair by the fire, a glass of something dark in one hand, a silver cane resting against his knee.
He didn't rise.
"So," the man said, without looking at Mark, "this is the boy."
Emma stepped inside first. "His name is Mark."
"Names are earned," the man replied.
Mark entered. He didn't sit.
The man finally looked up. His eyes were sharp and cold, the kind that had seen too much and forgotten even more.
"You've been stirring dust in places that should've stayed buried," he said to Mark. "You opened a box meant to stay closed. You touched a legacy meant for blood."
"I didn't know what I was opening," Mark said.
"You do now."
Mark nodded. "And I'm not walking away from it."
The man sipped his drink. "Brave. Stupid. Sometimes the same thing."
He stood, setting the glass down. There was no mistaking the strength in him. He didn't move like an old man. He moved like a wolf waiting to decide if you were worth tearing apart.
"I built a world where fear keeps men honest," he said. "You want to stand in it, you better bring more than conviction. You better bring fire."
"I'm not afraid of fire," Mark said.
"Good," the man replied. "Because you're walking into it."
He turned, walked to a desk, and pulled a drawer. From it, he retrieved a black envelope, sealed with a silver stamp in the shape of a crescent.
"Palermo," he said. "Safe house. One contact. No backup. No favors. You survive one week, maybe the Council doesn't put a bullet in your throat."
Emma moved beside Mark. Her father's eyes narrowed.
"She doesn't go with you," he said sharply.
"She's already in it," Mark said.
"She survives because she knows when to keep her distance. You go in alone, maybe you look like a fool. A child playing dress-up. That might buy you time. But if you bring her? That's a declaration. And declarations get answered in blood."
Mark looked to Emma. Her hand trembled at her side, but she didn't step forward.
"Then I go alone," he said.
Her voice was barely audible. "Mark…"
He leaned in, kissed her forehead gently. "Seven days. Like the blossoms. I'll be back before they fall."
"And if you're not?" she whispered.
He stepped back, looked her straight in the eyes. "Then let them burn for it."
---
The gravel road stretched long and empty, lit by the fading fire of the sunset. Mark walked alone, the black envelope tucked inside his coat, his thoughts a storm behind his eyes.
Behind him, Emma stood on the porch, arms crossed tight against the wind. She watched him until he disappeared past the rise, past the vineyard rows, past the point where he was still her Mark.
She stood there long after the sun had gone, long after the wind had chilled, until the silence told her what she didn't want to hear.
He was gone.
And what came back--if it came back--would be something else.
***
A/N : traning arc begins now.
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