chapter 13
Reyhan Pratama stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his home office, arms folded, watching the Jakarta skyline glow against the breaking dawn. A month had passed since his impulsive marriage to Alya Rachman, yet each morning brought the same internal collision: relief that she was safe… and guilt that he'd forced her into this world.
He sipped his black coffee, eyes drifting to the small garden below—the sanctuary where he had first witnessed her silent sujood. Her devotion had unsettled him then; now, it grounded him. She moved through his household as though she belonged, transforming cold marble into home.
His phone buzzed. A message from Zaki:
"Victor's men hit the southern docks last night. Losses are mounting."
Reyhan set the cup down with a sharp exhale. The empire he built on discipline and fear was crumbling under Victor Arman's shadow campaign. Yet his mind kept wandering—to Alya, kneeling on her prayer mat, face illuminated by moonlight.
--- Later that morning, Reyhan found Alya in the library, head bowed over a stack of bound journals. The afternoon light slanted through the shutters, casting stripes across her hair. He paused in the doorway, admiration and something unnameable filling his chest.
"Studying accounts?" he asked with a hint of wry humor, stepping inside.
She looked up, startled, then offered him a gentle nod and tapped the open ledger before her—numbers detailing household expenses.
He took a seat across from her. "You're helping Dewi with the finances?"
Alya pointed to the ledgers and then to him, signing slowly, "I learn."
He leaned forward, softening. "Then teach me what you've learned," he challenged, his tone light but sincere.
In that moment, Mafia heir and mute bride discovered a new battlefield: spreadsheets and ledgers, shared diligence forging trust.
--- By evening, Reyhan retreated to his study to address the crisis at hand. The mahogany desk was strewn with shipping manifests stamped "URGENT." Each delay, each lost container of contraband, ate into his power.
He dialed Andika Pratama's number, voice clipped: "Father, the eastern corridor is compromised. Reinforcements?"
On speaker, Andika's steady baritone replied, "We move reinforcements at first light. Maintain control, son."
He hung up and rubbed his temples. Control. He needed it. Yet control eluded him whenever he thought of Alya's quiet courage.
A light knock startled him. Zaki entered, closing the door behind him.
Reyhan gestured to the vacant chair. "What's your read?"
Zaki sank in, eyes grave. "Victor's not just attacking docks. He's infiltrating our supply chain. Food shipments, medical supplies—he's shaping public opinion against us. If we don't counterattack, we'll lose more than black-market routes. Our people will turn."
Reyhan's jaw clenched. "Then we hit back. Hard."
Zaki hesitated, then laid a folder on the desk. "I've identified one of his traders. We could flip him."
Reyhan stared at the name: a man known for loyalty. He nodded. "Prepare the meeting. Discreet."
Zaki rose. "One more thing—Alya…" He paused, searching his cousin's face. "She… she's changed you. I've never seen you so… protective."
Reyhan turned away, voice tight. "She needs safety. That's all."
But he didn't add: "That's everything."
--- Night fell heavy with monsoon clouds. Reyhan found Alya in the east wing corridor, illuminated by a single wall lantern. She carried a tray of mint tea.
He accepted the glass, warmth seeping into his palms. They stood side by side, neither speaking, the corridor's hush enveloping them.
Finally, he said, "You brought this?"
Alya nodded, then tapped her chest and pointed at him in inquiry.
He smiled faintly. "Thank you."
She dipped her head, eyes soft in the lantern's glow. He studied the curve of her profile—a quiet strength he could never forge in himself.
He cleared his throat: "I'm… sorry for everything you've endured."
She looked at him, confusion flickering. He continued, voice low: "I know you carry wounds deeper than silence."
She blinked, and he realized how little he knew the weight she carried. Before he could retreat, he added, "I want to help carry them."
Her lips quivered into a tentative smile, and for the first time, he felt he'd spoken true.
--- The following afternoon, Reyhan escorted Alya through the Pratama warehouse district. Guards saluted as they passed. Each nod reminded him of his responsibility—not just to the business, but to her safety.
Alya surveyed the activity with calm curiosity. She pointed at the inventory manifest on his tablet, then sketched a sign in the air—her first unsolicited lesson.
Reyhan watched, impressed. "You're teaching me again," he observed.
She shrugged, pleased, and tapped "thank you" in sign. He winked.
They stopped before a row of shipping crates. Reyhan tapped one: "This client is late on payment. I'm meeting him tonight."
Alya's brow furrowed. She signed: "Be careful." Her concern struck him more than any weapon.
He took her hand briefly. "I will be."
--- Back at the mansion, tension crackled through the family dinner. Dewi, Andika, and Hendra exchanged hushed looks as news of the warehouse raid spread. Sari and Bu Rina clustered at the end of the table, offering Alya worried glances.
Reyhan sat tall at the head, deflecting questions with calm authority. Yet each time his gaze drifted to Alya—her silent composure anchoring his resolve.
Midway through the meal, Zaki caught Reyhan's eye and discreetly passed him a note:
> "Victor's trader confirmed. Meeting at midnight warehouse."
Reyhan nodded imperceptibly, slipping the note into his pocket.
Alya's eyes met his. He gave a small, reassuring nod. In her silence, she understood.
--- At midnight, Reyhan entered the abandoned warehouse alone. The air was thick with dust and danger. He found Victor's trader—a jittery man flanked by two goons.
Reyhan's voice was even: "I understand you have new orders."
The trader stammered, but before he could speak, Reyhan produced a photograph: Alya's face as she had looked the night of his father's punishment.
The man's eyes widened. "Please… I had no choice. They—"
Reyhan stepped forward, imposing but not violent. "Then you know the price of loyalty." He tapped his temple. "Tell me everything."
Shaken, the trader spilled Victor's strategy: blackmail, supply sabotage, public smear campaigns.
Reyhan's mind raced. He thanked the man, letting him retreat. Once alone, he pressed his palms to his eyes. The empire he inherited might burn, but he would not let it consume her peace.
--- Dawn found him back in his office, drafting counterorders. He paused only once—when he noticed Alya's scarf on the chair. He closed his eyes, remembering her gentle kindness: offering coffee, teaching him sign language, daring to laugh.
A flicker of resolve lit within him. He stood, crossed the hallway, and knocked on her door.
When she opened it, bleary-eyed, he held out a small box. Inside: a silver pendant engraved with two joined hands—a sign for "trust."
He knelt. "I want you to know—no matter what battles I face, you are my truest alliance."
Alya's lips trembled as she accepted it, tapping her chest in gratitude.
In that unspoken ceremony, mafia prince and silent bride sealed a bond stronger than fear or vengeance.
That evening, the Pratama family gathered for Maghrib prayer in the garden. Torches flickered as Miko led the du'a. Reyhan and Alya knelt side by side, their silhouettes blending under the starlit sky.
As they rose from sujood, Reyhan whispered in her ear: "We'll face tomorrow together."
Alya looked up, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She nodded—no words needed.
Behind them, the empire's foundations trembled under Victor's advance. But within their circle of prayer, a new power arose: an unspoken vow to protect each other, come what may.
---
In a world where silence once meant weakness, Reyhan had learned it could also be strength. And for Alya—her silent resilience had reshaped the heart of a man who ruled in shadows.
As the night deepened, they walked back to the mansion hand in hand—two heirs of different worlds, bound now by trust, faith, and a love that needed no words.