Chapter 9 – Ghosts Don't Knock
Valentina Cruz
There's something cruel about morning light.
It shines on everything you did the night before — no shadows to hide behind, no excuses to mumble. Just truth in all its blinding clarity.
And the truth was… I slept with Rafael D'Amico.
Willingly.
Passionately.
Stupidly?
I wasn't sure yet.
All I knew was that when I woke up wrapped in silk sheets and his arm around my waist, I didn't hate it.
I didn't hate him.
And that scared the hell out of me.
⸻
I tried to slip out of bed without waking him.
I failed.
"Where are you going?" he asked, voice low, sleepy.
"To think."
"Dangerous habit," he murmured, eyes still closed.
I rolled mine. "Says the man with a murder file on his fiancée."
He cracked one eye open. "You're not my fiancée."
I smirked. "Then what am I?"
He didn't answer.
That silence again.
That damn silence.
I left him in the bed and made my way to the kitchen.
And that's when everything went to hell.
⸻
There was a man at the counter.
Bald. Big. Scar on his lip like a punctuation mark that said you're already too late.
He was holding a mug.
Drinking Rafael's coffee.
Like he owned the place.
I froze.
He smiled.
"Good morning, Mrs. D'Amico."
That voice?
Ice. Rusted iron. Trouble.
⸻
"Who are you?" I asked.
He took another sip. "Name's Mauro. Old friend of your husband's."
"You don't look like a friend."
He chuckled. "Because I'm not. I'm a reminder."
"Of what?"
"That no matter how far he runs, the ghosts still knock."
Then he pulled something from his coat.
A knife.
Not raised. Not threatening.
Just placed gently on the marble counter between us.
"It's time Rafael remembered who he is," he said.
And then, like this was the most casual breakfast meeting in the world, he added:
"Tell him he has 48 hours. Or next time, I bring something sharper."
⸻
By the time Rafael stormed into the kitchen, Mauro was gone.
Only the knife remained — cold, gleaming, and personal.
He looked at it like it was an old friend who'd betrayed him.
"Why was he here?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Liar."
He looked up, eyes wild, voice sharp. "You don't know what you're asking."
"Then tell me!" I shouted. "I've been kidnapped, forced to marry you, nearly drowned in blood, and now apparently we have coffee with killers in the morning. If I'm going to keep playing this game, I deserve to know the rules!"
He stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides.
"You want the truth?" he growled.
"Yes."
"You were never supposed to matter."
That stung more than it should have.
"But now you do," he added. "Which means I can't keep lying. And I can't protect you unless you're ready to stop being innocent."
I swallowed hard.
"Then stop protecting me," I said. "Start preparing me."
⸻
He stared at me.
Something shifted in his expression — something lethal… and proud.
"Alright," he said.
"Lesson one: Never trust a man who smiles while giving you a knife."
And just like that, my world changed again.