The Mafia Boss' Weakness

Landon

“D-Diego, please! I’m s-sorry!” My voice cracks as I kneel before the man I’ve come to love—bloodied, broken, and desperate. I’m praying he’ll hear me, really hear me, beneath the wreckage of what I’ve done. I started this journey with a mission: infiltrate, expose, dismantle. Take him down.

But everything changed once I met him—once I saw the man behind the name, behind the empire. Now he sits a few feet away, calm and cold, his eyes unreadable. “Convince me why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” he says, voice low and lethal. I’ve heard that tone before. It always precedes violence.

I’m a mess. My ribs scream with every breath, one eye swollen shut, my lip split and crusted with blood. His men didn’t hold back. I’m kneeling in a pool of pain, my body trembling uncontrollably. The metallic tang of blood coats my tongue, makes me gag. “I-I did start undercover, yes. I was supposed to take you down. But I couldn’t. Not after I got to know you. Please, Diego, you have to believe me! I’ve been feeding the DEA false intel for months!”

His scowl deepens, jaw clenched. “You think that changes the fact that you betrayed me?” he growls.

I flinch. “No. It doesn’t. But I swear—I love you. I couldn’t hurt you. Not anymore.”

“You already did!” he roars, rising to his feet. “You used me. You wormed your way into my life to destroy my family!”

I shake my head, frantic. “It started that way, yes. But it changed. It’s real now. It’s real to me. I hoped it was real to you, too.” My voice drops to a whisper, fragile and raw.

He scoffs. “If it was real, why didn’t you come clean?” He turns toward the table—a gleaming array of tools laid out like instruments in a symphony of pain. My breath catches. “No! Please, Diego!” My body trembles violently. I had hoped love would be enough. That when he found out—and I knew he would—it would stop him from killing me.

But looking at him now, knife in hand, I’m not so sure.

He kneels beside me, blade glinting in the low light. He runs it along my cheek, and a sting blooms where the edge kisses my skin. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t gut you right now,” he murmurs.

Even now, he affects me. My heart races—not just from fear, but from something deeper. Something twisted and profound.

“I’m sorry, Diego. I know nothing I say can undo what I’ve done. But I’m not working against you anymore. I was all in—feet first—two months after I met you. You cracked me open. Hell, I’m still open.”

He switches cheeks, this time sparing my skin.

“I’d heard your name for years—suspected of drug manufacturing and distribution. When I saw your photo, something drew me in. When the DEA planned a covert op, I volunteered. They told me to get close, to use the rumors about your sexuality. I met you, and two months later, I was in love. I’ve been feeding them lies ever since.”

He studies me, eyes sharp and searching. “So you want me to believe love stopped you from betraying me?”

“We’ve been together over a year! Why would I lie for you for so long if I didn’t love you?”

“You were scared,” he says flatly.

“Yes! I knew what you were capable of. I thought if I told you, you’d kill me on the spot!”

His grip tightens on the knife. Then he pulls a gun from his waistband and presses it to my temple. “Get up,” he growls.

I tremble, rising to my knees, tears streaking my face. My chest tightens with panic. I’m seconds away from death—I can feel it in the way his finger twitches near the trigger. He looks down at me, and something shifts in his eyes. The fury dims, just slightly, replaced by something softer. Something dangerous in a different way.

“Why did you have to make me fall in love with you?” he whispers, voice cracking, the gun beginning to shake in his hand.

His words hit me like a punch to the chest. I shiver—not from cold, but from the flicker of hope that blooms inside me. Fragile. Foolish.

I kneel there, frozen, watching him. Slowly, I lift my hands, the chains clinking with every movement. I move like prey—cautious, slow, gauging his reaction. When I finally touch his free hand, his eyes flutter shut. I grip it with both of mine, desperate, reverent.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his hand. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to find out like this. I was just too much of a coward to come clean.”

“I’ve wanted to tell you for so long. That’s why I kept you at arm’s length. The guilt—it was suffocating. But I do love you. Even if you can’t believe it, it’s the truth.”

He opens his eyes slowly and looks down at me. “If you were anyone else, you’d already be dead.”

“I know,” I nod rapidly. “I know that. Thank you for listening. You could’ve killed me the moment you found out, but you didn’t. I know people will question why.”

“I’m sorry for putting you in this position.”

“You think I should let you live?” he murmurs.

“No. I don’t presume to know what you should do. If I die, I’ll just be grateful I got to explain myself.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “You were always such a comedian.”

“I never thought I was funny. You were the one who laughed.”

For the first time in days, Diego smiles. It’s faint, but it’s real. “You were always snarky as hell. Stand up,” he says, voice gentler now.

I groan as I rise, every movement a scream of pain. My ribs feel like shattered glass inside me.

He looks alarmed. “Where does it hurt? What’s broken?”

Oh, now he wants to know.

He unlocks the shackles and massages my wrists gently, his touch surprisingly tender. “Couple ribs, I think. My nose. The rest is what you see.”

He takes my hand and leads me out of the cell—the concrete tomb that’s held me for five agonizing days. And then I see it—the living room. I know this place. I’ve been here before. Many times. Back when things were simpler—when I was still pretending, and the lies hadn’t yet tangled themselves into truth. Back when I’d sit on that velvet couch, sipping wine with him, laughing at his dry humor, pretending I wasn’t falling in love.

It’s been a little over a week since I was last here, but it feels like a lifetime.

The contrast is staggering. The cell was a tomb—cold, damp, and suffocating. The walls were bare concrete, stained with blood and mildew. The air was thick with rot and despair. Every sound echoed like a threat. I lived in that darkness for a week, but it felt like eternity.

Now, I’m standing in a room bathed in golden light. The floors gleam with polished wood, and the walls are painted in rich, warm tones. Plush furniture surrounds a roaring fireplace. The scent of fresh flowers and expensive cologne fills the air. It’s elegant. Familiar. Safe—at least, it used to be.

I feel like I’ve stepped into a memory. Like I’ve been pulled out of hell and dropped into a dream of how I once lived. But I’m not the same man who walked these halls a year ago. Now I stand here bruised, bleeding, and terrified.

Men are seated all around, their eyes narrowing as they take me in.

Diego raises his voice. “Get the doctor. Now. Landon is under my protection. He is mine. No one—and I do mean NO ONE—is to touch him.”

Whispers ripple through the room before he even finishes speaking.

Antonio, his second-in-command, stands. “Sir—”

Diego silences him with a glare. Antonio sits without another word.

Diego leads me into an equally lavish bedroom. He gestures toward the bathroom. “Go shower. Use the robe. I’ll leave clothes on the bed.”

He leaves, and I stagger into the bathroom, shedding my torn, bloodied clothes. I turn the water on and step under the stream. The heat hits me like a wave of mercy. I gasp. It’s the first time in days I’ve felt warmth.

The water runs over my skin, washing away the filth, the blood, the fear. I brace my hands against the tile and let it pour over me, eyes closed, chest heaving. I feel human again. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it dulls beneath the comfort of the steam. My skin tingles as the grime lifts away, and I watch the water swirl red and brown at my feet. I scrub until my skin feels raw, until the mirror fogs and the air is thick with heat.

I wrap myself in the robe, soft and clean, and stare at my reflection. I barely recognize myself. But beneath the bruises and swelling, I see something else.

I survived.

For now.

If you're wondering how I got here, I'd have to go back to the beginning.