Not A Savior

Emilio Cordello had spent his life mastering the art of observation. It was how he had built an empire, how he had survived in a world where trust was a death sentence. He noticed everything, the flick of a wrist, the hesitation in someone’s step, the way a person carried their fear like a weight pressing into their spine.

So when the diner bell jingled behind him, he didn’t need to turn around to know that someone new had entered. He caught the reflection in the glass as he slid a thick stack of bills onto the counter. A woman, young, chestnut hair spilling past her shoulders, long legs wrapped in tight jeans, her frame slim but with an unmistakable curve to her hips. That alone would have been enough to grab his attention, but it wasn’t her body that held his gaze. It was the redness around her eyes, the raw, swollen look of someone who had spent too much time crying.

Emilio didn’t linger. He never did. Time was a precious commodity to him, and not one that he wasted. He gave the waitress his usual nod, stepped out into the crisp night air, and made his way to his car. Emilio Cordello’s car was more than just a vehicle, it was an extension of his power, his presence, his control over the world around him. He drove a custom black Maserati, sleek and predatory, built for both speed and intimidation. The deep obsidian paint gleamed beneath the dim streetlights, its sculpted curves catching the glow like a panther waiting to strike. It wasn’t just about luxury; it was about command. When Emilio arrived somewhere in this car, people noticed they remembered. More often than not this car was a symbol of a death sentence, if Emilio had to be present than someone was going to pay. He should have left. He had places to be, men to meet, business to handle. Yet his fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he glanced through the windshield.

She was at the counter now, digging through her purse with a sort of frantic desperation that told him exactly what he needed to know. She wasn’t just upset; she was in trouble.

His jaw clenched. Not your problem. That was the rule. People, especially strangers, weren't his concern unless they owed him something. Loyalty, money, or blood. He built his kingdom on calculated decisions, not impulse.

Still though, something about her made it impossible to look away.

She was trying to hide it, but he could see the way her hands trembled as she counted her money, how her shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. She looked lost, and that feeling of being utterly adrift with no one to turn to was something Emilio understood too well.

He exhaled sharply and ran a hand over his jaw. He needed to leave. To stop staring at this girl like some lovesick idiot. He was Emilio Cordello, the kind of man people whispered about in fear, the kind of man who didn’t have time to play savior to broken women with tear-stained faces.

For some reason, he couldn’t drive away.

Instead, he watched her in utter fascination.

She finally handed the waitress a few crumpled bills, her expression carefully neutral, but he saw the hesitation in her posture. She was barely scraping by.

He had no idea why that bothered him. He was not the savior to damsels in distress. Besides the alluring curves of her hips, she was nothing like Emilio’s normal type of woman. He liked his women like he liked his life, fast, loose and with no strings attached.

Emilio Cordello didn’t do love. He didn’t do romance, commitment, or anything that required even the illusion of permanence. The women who passed through his life understood the rules, one night, no expectations, no attachments.

He met them in the dimly lit corners of his clubs, where the music pulsed like a heartbeat and the air was thick with desire and expensive liquor. They flocked to him, drawn in by the danger, the power, the unspoken promise of pleasure that came with being in the presence of a man like him. They whispered his name with a mixture of fear and fascination, their manicured fingers trailing over the lapels of his custom suits, trying to tempt him into giving them more than he ever would. Emilio never made promises. He never let them think they mattered.

They came to him because he was the king of this city, because his name carried weight in the underworld, because they wanted to know what it was like to belong to him, even if only for a night. When he desired, he would give them one night, he would give them exactly what they craved. He would let them experience the illusion of being close to him, of feeling the heat of his touch, the dominance in his voice, the way he took exactly what he wanted and left them breathless, ruined for any other man. Before the first streaks of dawn could be seen he would be gone.

No woman ever stayed in Emilio’s life. He wouldn’t allow it. Love was a weakness. It was the kind of thing that got men like him killed. He had seen it happen too many times, men who thought they could balance power and devotion; men who let emotions cloud their judgment and every single one of them had ended up dead.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, dragging him back into reality. With a sigh, he pulled it out and glanced at the name on the screen, Luca, one of his men. Probably waiting for him at the club, expecting him to handle some lowlife who owed the family more than he could ever repay.

Emilio ignored the call.

His eyes drifted back to the diner.

He didn't know this girl. Didn't know her name, her story, or why seeing her so vulnerable sent a strange, unfamiliar tug through his chest. Before he could fully analyze his own actions, he took a quick picture of her and sent it over to Wiz with a quick text saying that he wanted to know about her.

Finally, he shifted into reverse reluctantly pulling away from the girl and getting back to work.