Chapter 2 – The Beast's Proposal
Valentina Cruz
There's a strange calm that settles in when your fate's already been decided for you.
Like, once you know you're toast, you stop panicking and start mentally buttering yourself.
That's how I felt the next morning — standing in front of our rusty bathroom mirror, trying to decide if mascara was worth the effort for what might be my own kidnapping.
"Make yourself presentable," my dad had muttered earlier, handing me a wrinkled dress that still had the thrift store tag hanging off the sleeve.
As if Rafael D'Amico was going to rate me on Yelp.
I wore the dress anyway — black, tight at the waist, and barely long enough to cover the last shreds of my dignity. If I was going to sell my soul to the devil, I might as well look like sin.
⸻
At exactly 10 a.m., a matte black SUV pulled up in front of our building.
It didn't honk.
It didn't need to.
Three men got out — tall, expressionless, all wearing black suits and dark sunglasses like they were auditioning for The Godfather: Gen Z Edition.
One of them knocked on our door.
My father opened it. "She's ready."
Gee, thanks, Dad. Love you too.
⸻
I didn't say goodbye. I didn't look back. I just climbed into the car and pretended I was going on a field trip to hell.
No one spoke during the drive. Not the driver. Not the guy with the scar across his chin. Not the one who kept glancing at me in the rearview like he expected me to bolt.
I didn't. Mostly because I had nowhere to go. And also because the child locks were on.
We drove for nearly an hour — out of the city, through iron gates, up a winding driveway lined with security cameras and thorny rose bushes that looked like they'd bite.
Finally, we stopped in front of a mansion that looked like Dracula's summer home.
Columns. Statues. Gargoyles. Because of course there were gargoyles.
"This way," Scarface grunted.
⸻
Inside was worse. Silent, polished floors that echoed with every step. A chandelier so big it probably had its own insurance policy. Hallways that whispered of secrets and blood.
I was led into a study, where sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows and landed on leather-bound books, expensive whiskey, and the man himself.
Rafael D'Amico.
He was seated behind a mahogany desk, looking like a carved statue come to life. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. A suit that cost more than my tuition and probably had bloodstains no one dared to dry-clean.
He didn't look up when I entered.
He just said, "Sit."
No hello. No how are you. No hey, sorry my guys threatened your dad into selling you like a pawn at a poker table.
I sat.
He finally glanced up.
Our eyes locked.
And for one horrifying moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Because yes, he was terrifying.
But he was also—
Okay, I'll say it—
Stupidly attractive.
Like, punch-you-in-the-throat level hot.
Which was deeply inconvenient, considering I wanted to strangle him.
⸻
"You understand why you're here?" he asked.
His voice was low. Gravelly. Like he gargled with secrets and threats.
I crossed my arms. "Let me guess. You're tired of Tinder and want a wife with a working uterus and a halfway decent GPA?"
His eyes narrowed. "You think this is a joke?"
"No," I said. "I think this is a dystopian arranged-marriage fantasy written by a sadistic author."
He stood.
Walked slowly around the desk.
Stood in front of me — too close — and looked down like I was a puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.
"You have spirit," he said.
"Yeah, and I plan on keeping it. Along with my last name and whatever's left of my dignity."
"You'll take my name."
"Will not."
"You'll live here."
"Says who?"
"You'll marry me."
And there it was.
No proposal. No ring. Just a declaration.
"You can't be serious," I whispered.
"I'm never anything but."
He turned, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and added — like it was no big deal — "The wedding is in two weeks. Consider this your engagement notice."
⸻
I stood.
"Let's get one thing straight, Don Corleone," I snapped. "I'm not your property. I didn't agree to this. And if you think I'm going to play mafia Barbie while you run your empire of crime, you're out of your cold, well-tailored mind."
He didn't flinch. "Then don't play. Be the queen instead."
That shut me up.
He walked toward me again, slow and deliberate.
"I don't need a doll," he said. "I need someone who can survive this world. And you? You're fire. That's why I chose you."
My heart was pounding. My brain was screaming. And somewhere, deep in my gut, a terrifying truth was starting to whisper.
I wasn't entirely sure I hated it.
⸻
He handed me a phone. "You'll stay here. Your room is upstairs. You'll be assigned protection. And if you try to run, there will be consequences."
I snatched the phone. "You gonna microchip me too?"
"Don't tempt me."
He turned and walked back to his desk.
Dismissed.
Like I was a meeting he'd checked off his calendar.
⸻
I stormed out of the study, my heels clicking like gunshots on the marble floor.
A maid appeared out of nowhere to escort me upstairs.
As she led me to a room the size of my entire apartment, with a bed I could swim in and a view of the gardens that probably hid bodies, I had one thought:
This was not a fairy tale.
This was war.
And if Rafael D'Amico thought I'd fall at his feet like all the other pretty things he'd collected?
He was about to learn that Beauty bites.