Chapter 15 – A Lesson in Fire
Valentina Cruz
Rule number one of being married to a mafia boss:
Never look weak in front of his men.
Rule number two?
If you bleed, bleed like a goddamn queen.
And rule number three… I was about to learn the hard way.
⸻
I stood in the training room, holding a gun I didn't want to touch.
It was heavier than I expected — cold steel that didn't care how terrified I was.
Rafael stood a few feet away, arms crossed, wearing black tactical gear like he was born in it.
He looked every inch the mafia king — dark, unreadable, and carved from war.
"Finger off the trigger," he said, nodding toward my hand.
"I know that," I snapped.
"You're holding it like it's a wet fish, Valentina."
"Maybe because I don't want to be holding it!"
He stepped closer. "You want to survive, or not?"
"I didn't sign up to become a female John Wick, Rafa!"
"No," he said, voice low. "You signed up to be my wife. And my enemies don't care that you were once just a girl with college dreams and broken shoes. They will kill you just the same."
That shut me up.
⸻
He walked behind me, reached around, and adjusted my grip.
His hand was warm over mine — calloused, steady.
His voice dropped near my ear. "Breathe in. Focus. Squeeze, don't yank."
I aimed at the paper silhouette across the room.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Squeeze.
Bang.
The bullet missed the head by two inches.
"Not bad," Rafael said.
"Liar."
"Okay, trash. But sexy trash."
I barked a laugh.
"See?" he smirked. "That's how you learn. Shoot, miss, laugh, repeat."
⸻
Two hours later, I was sweating like a sinner in church and my arms felt like spaghetti.
I managed to land a few decent shots — one square in the chest. Of the target, thank you very much.
"You've got potential," he said, handing me a water bottle.
"Oh wow," I said, gulping. "My mafia husband thinks I'm adequate. Should I hang it on the fridge?"
He chuckled. "Don't get cocky. Next up is close-combat."
I groaned. "Why do I feel like that involves pain?"
"Because it does."
⸻
Turns out, Rafael had a special definition of "training."
It involved being thrown on the mat.
Repeatedly.
"Use your hip!" he barked. "Get under my center of gravity!"
"You are gravity!" I yelled, trying not to cry. "And my hip is made of sadness and noodles!"
He laughed. Actually laughed.
It was rare and beautiful and completely annoying.
I tried again, lunging forward, and managed to hook his leg.
He didn't fall — but I did.
And landed hard.
I let out a yelp as I hit the floor, my head smacking the mat.
He was beside me in seconds. "Shit. Are you—?"
I opened one eye. "Do I look dead?"
He didn't smile.
Instead, he cupped my face, his thumb brushing the edge of my cheekbone.
His brows were drawn, eyes dark with something I couldn't name.
"Don't ever scare me like that again."
My throat went dry.
And suddenly, I realized he wasn't talking about the fall.
⸻
Silence stretched between us.
Hot. Tense.
Like a string pulled so tight it might snap.
"Rafael," I whispered.
He didn't answer.
Just leaned down.
And kissed me.
⸻
It wasn't gentle.
It was war.
A clash of tongues and teeth and too many buried things.
Anger. Fear. Longing.
Desperation, wrapped in lust and laced with guilt.
When we broke apart, my lips were swollen and my heart was racing.
"I hate you," I whispered.
"Liar," he whispered back.
⸻
We didn't sleep that night.
Not because of passion — but because the lines had finally blurred.
And neither of us knew what came next.