Chapter 4 – Rules of Engagement
Valentina Cruz
There are bad ideas.
Then there are stupid ideas.
And then there's barging into a mafia boss's office unannounced while wearing fuzzy pink slippers and holding a protein bar like it's a weapon.
Guess which one I was doing at 10 a.m. sharp?
The guard outside Rafael's door raised an eyebrow when I marched up.
"Miss Cruz," he said slowly. "He's in a meeting—"
"Great. I'm crashing it."
I didn't wait for permission. I shoved the door open and walked into the lion's den like I owned the place — which, technically, I sort of did now, if you counted forced marriage as a form of real estate.
⸻
Rafael D'Amico sat behind his massive desk, dressed in another all-black suit, looking like a villain who'd skipped the monologue and gone straight to murder.
He didn't blink when I stormed in.
Didn't even look surprised.
Two men in suits — mid-conversation with him — turned to gape at me.
One of them started to say something, but Rafael raised a hand.
"Leave us," he said.
Just two words. Calm. Flat.
The men got up and left so fast I think they left their souls behind.
⸻
I planted myself in the middle of the room and crossed my arms.
"We need to talk."
He leaned back slowly, fingers steepled under his chin. "I gathered."
"Don't give me that look."
"What look?"
"That smug, 'I-own-everything' look."
"I do own everything."
"Well, not me," I snapped. "And if you think I'm going to parade around this mansion like some mute trophy, you've clearly mistaken me for someone who likes being handled."
His lips twitched.
Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of amusement.
"There it is again," I pointed. "That smirk. Lose it."
He stood.
And okay, look — I'm not easily intimidated. I've faced midterms, rent, and a bathroom sink that exploded during finals week. But when Rafael rises to his full height, you feel it in your spine.
The room gets colder.
Your thoughts get slower.
And part of you — a small, traitorous part — leans in.
He walked toward me, slow and deliberate, until we were only a breath apart.
"You want rules?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I want a list of what's expected of me, what's off limits, and how exactly this… ridiculous arrangement is supposed to work."
His voice dropped to a near whisper. "You're here because of your father."
"Correction: I'm here because of you."
"You agreed."
"I was coerced!"
"Still counts."
I stared at him, jaw clenched.
He didn't flinch.
Finally, he said, "Very well. Rule one: you do not leave the estate without my permission."
"I'm not a prisoner."
He raised a brow. "You're not free, either."
I ignored the way that sentence felt like a slap.
"Rule two," he continued, "You will not interfere in my business."
"I don't even know what your business is."
"And you won't."
I rolled my eyes. "God, you're such a control freak."
He tilted his head. "And you're reckless."
"Better than heartless."
Our gazes locked. Tension buzzed like electricity. I could hear my own pulse thudding behind my ears.
Then I added, "Fine. My rules."
He blinked, like that concept had never occurred to him.
"One," I said. "You speak to me with respect. No commands, no threats, and definitely no using me as a pawn."
He gave a slow nod. "Two?"
"I want access to my education. You kidnapped me, not my ambition."
A pause. "Fine. Online classes."
"Three," I said. "If I find out you've hurt my family, I swear I'll poison your coffee."
Now he did smile. Just a little.
"You assume I drink coffee."
"Oh, you do," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Only a caffeine addict could be this soulless before noon."
He chuckled — actually chuckled — and stepped back.
"You're unlike anyone I've ever met."
"Good," I said. "Then I'll be the last one who survives you."
⸻
We stood there for a beat, silence pulsing like a second heartbeat in the room.
I should've felt triumphant.
Instead, I felt… unsteady.
Like something between us had shifted. Just slightly.
Then he turned, walked to the desk, and slid open a drawer. From it, he pulled out a small velvet box.
My stomach dropped.
"Is that what I think it is?" I asked.
He opened it.
Inside was a ring.
Not delicate.
Not romantic.
Heavy. Black diamond. Set in a thick gold band engraved with something in Latin.
A symbol.
A collar disguised as a crown.
"Put it on," he said.
I stared at him.
He didn't blink.
Neither did I.
And then — very slowly — I took the ring from the box and slid it onto my finger.
Not because he told me to.
But because it was war.
And I planned to win.