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his beauty, his beast

Rodiat_Lateef
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Synopsis
Valentina Cruz, a poor but defiant college student, is thrown into a deadly world of mafia politics after her estranged father gambles with her life to pay his debt. In a cruel twist of fate, she is forced to marry Rafael D’Amico, the cold-blooded heir of a brutal mafia dynasty known as The Beast. At first, their hatred is mutual. But as danger closes in, secrets unravel — including Rafael’s tragic past love, Valentina’s buried rage, and a passion betweValentina Cruz, a poor but defiant college student, is thrown into a deadly world of mafia politics after her estranged father gambles with her life to pay his debt. In a cruel twist of fate, she is forced to marry Rafael D’Amico, the cold-blooded heir of a brutal mafia dynasty known as The Beast. At first, their hatred is mutual. But as danger closes in, secrets unravel — including Rafael’s tragic past love, Valentina’s buried rage, and a passion between them that refuses to die. In a world ruled by violence, can love survive betrayal? Or will it be buried beneath blood and bulen them that refuses to die. In a world ruled by violence, can love survive betrayal? Or will it be buried beneath blood and bul
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Chapter 1 - chapter 1

Chapter 1 – Debt in Blood

Valentina Cruz

If hell had a lobby, it would smell exactly like my apartment: fried onions, cheap perfume, and the scent of crushed dreams.

I was halfway through writing a literature essay on feminist rage in Jane Eyre — ironic, really — when the front door slammed so hard the cracked picture frame of baby Jesus tilted off the wall. That's how I knew it was my father. Nobody else entered like a hurricane.

I didn't even look up.

"Bathroom's down the hall. Grab a bandage and a lie while you're at it."

He stumbled past the couch, one hand clutched over his nose, which was leaking blood like a bad faucet. His shirt was ripped. His eye was starting to swell. He looked like a man who'd lost a fight with a bat. Or possibly a bear. A bear named Regret.

"Val… baby girl…" he slurred.

I set my laptop aside with the kind of sigh usually reserved for Shakespearean death scenes. "If this is about money again, I swear to God, I'm going to sell your kidneys on Facebook Marketplace."

"I made a mistake," he said.

"You've made a lot. Narrow it down."

He dropped into the busted recliner like his bones were tired of carrying him. "I just needed a little help to get back on my feet."

"That's what you said the last time. And the time before that. And the time you bet my tuition on a cockfight in Tijuana."

His eyes flicked away like he couldn't bear to see the disappointment blooming in mine. That used to work on me. Not anymore.

"What did you do?" I asked flatly.

Silence.

Then, like a guilty toddler caught with a stolen cookie, he mumbled, "I borrowed some money."

I froze. "From who?"

More silence.

"Dad. From who?"

When he didn't answer, I grabbed the throw pillow and screamed into it like a war widow.

"Don't panic," he said.

"Don't panic?" I pulled the pillow away and threw it at him. "Do I look like I'm panicking? No. This is the face of someone calculating whether five years in prison for patricide is worth the peace and quiet."

"Valentina—"

"How much?"

He looked up. His eyes were watery, and not from the broken nose. "Fifty."

"Fifty… hundred?"

He swallowed.

"Thousand?! Are you clinically insane?"

"It wasn't all at once," he whispered.

"Who?" I demanded. "Who would lend you fifty thousand dollars knowing you're basically a raccoon in a human suit?"

He didn't answer.

The air changed. I felt it before he said the name.

"The D'Amico family."

Time stopped.

Outside, a dog barked. A baby cried. Somewhere down the hall, the neighbor's TV blared a soap opera where someone shouted in Spanish about betrayal. Inside me, a cold numbness crept up my spine like a snake.

"You… borrowed money from the mafia?"

He looked ashamed. "I was gonna pay it back. I had a plan—"

"Your last plan was buying fake Bitcoin from a guy named El Pepe on Instagram."

"I didn't know who they really were," he muttered. "They said they were investors."

"They're not investors, they're murderers!"

I stood, my head spinning.

Rafael D'Amico.

I'd heard the name whispered in alleys and shouted in headlines. The heir to the D'Amico crime empire. A man who'd burned down a rival's mansion while people were still inside. A man who once shot his own cousin in the kneecap for disrespecting his name.

That was who my father owed money to?

I didn't know whether to cry or vomit.

"Why are you still here?" I snapped. "Aren't they coming to collect?"

He looked down.

Oh God.

"They already came?" I asked.

He nodded. "An hour ago."

"And I'm still breathing… why?"

He didn't answer.

My chest tightened. "Dad, what did you give them?"

He wouldn't look at me.

"What did you give them?"

Then he said it.

"I gave them you."

He explained it in fits and starts. How Rafael's men offered to wipe the slate clean — if my father offered something more "valuable." How they knew Rafael was looking for a wife to fulfill some sort of mafia obligation. How I, poor, stubborn, inconvenient me, was perfect for the role.

"I'm not perfect," I whispered. "I'm sarcastic, broke, and allergic to authority."

"You're beautiful," he said miserably. "And they said… he wanted fire."

"Well, set me on fire and call it a wedding."

He flinched.

I turned away and stared at the cracked window, where the neon flicker of our neighborhood liquor store blinked like a dying star. I felt hollow. Like my body was still standing, but my spirit had packed a bag and left for Canada.

"When?" I asked, voice dry.

"They're coming tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"To… pick you up."

"Like a pizza?"

He didn't answer.

Later that night, as I lay on my broken bed with springs stabbing my back and fear pressing against my lungs, I thought about freedom. How it had never really belonged to me. Not as a girl. Not as a Cruz. Not as a product of this cursed family tree.

But I swore one thing:

If Rafael D'Amico thought I was going to be his obedient little mafia wife, he had another thing coming.

I'd go. Because I had no choice.

But I wasn't going quietly.

I was going loud, dressed in red, with claws bared and a plan forming.

Because if I was marrying the Beast…

Then I'd make sure he knew exactly what kind of Beauty he'd chained.

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.

Chapter 3 – Caged Roses

Valentina Cruz

If you've ever wondered what it feels like to be kidnapped politely and given a luxury suite in hell, let me tell you: the room smells like lavender, the sheets have a thread count in the thousands, and the doorknob is made of pure gold.

Also, it doesn't open from the inside.

So yeah. Prison, but make it fashion.

Day one in the House of D'Amico was like waking up in a movie where I was the only one who hadn't read the script. A maid brought breakfast that could've fed a village. I ignored it. My stomach had staged a protest.

I checked the phone Rafael gave me. No messages. No apps. Just a blank screen, a list of emergency numbers, and one contact saved as "The Beast".

Funny.

I typed "Get bent" and almost hit send.

Almost.

Instead, I chucked the phone across the bed and paced like a lioness who'd just realized her cage had velvet bars.

That's when she knocked.

A soft tap. Then the door opened, and in walked the kind of woman who made you instinctively sit up straighter. Petite, stylish, a few years older than me — probably in her late twenties — with a clipboard in one hand and a gun holstered casually at her waist like it was lipstick.

"Good morning," she said. "I'm Camilla. Rafael's assistant."

"Let me guess," I muttered. "You're here to schedule my next breakdown?"

She smiled. "Close. I'm here to explain your new life."

Camilla gave me the tour like we were in some twisted version of MTV Cribs: Mafia Bride Edition.

"This is the solarium, where you can read or have tea. Here's the dining room — dinner is at 7 sharp unless someone's been assassinated. And this is the east wing, which is off-limits unless you enjoy being shot."

"Charming," I said. "And what happens if I decide I'd rather be anywhere else?"

She didn't flinch. "You won't get far."

Her voice was polite. Almost kind. But her eyes were pure steel.

I hated how calm she was. How controlled. I wanted to scream, throw a vase, maybe set the whole mansion on fire just to make a point.

Instead, I asked, "What exactly does Rafael expect from me?"

She stopped walking. "He expects loyalty. And strength."

I scoffed. "He buys women now and expects loyalty?"

"You weren't bought," she said, folding her arms. "You were chosen."

My laugh was hollow. "Great. I've been selected like a cursed Disney princess."

Camilla's expression softened for a second, then hardened again.

"You'll find your way here," she said quietly. "Or you'll break."

The rest of the day passed in a strange haze. I met a few of the staff — silent guards with neck tattoos, an older cook named Nonna Lucia who insisted I eat "or I'll get skinny and die ugly," and a tall, broad-shouldered guy named Nico who introduced himself as my new "shadow."

Translation: personal bodyguard / babysitter / potential executioner.

Nico was quiet. Observant. Always five steps behind me, even when I went to the garden just to breathe.

The garden, by the way, was full of roses.

Black ones.

Poetic, really.

Caged roses. Just like me.

That night, I sat on the balcony outside my suite, staring at the moon and pretending I wasn't plotting an escape I knew was impossible.

I thought of school. Of my professors, my part-time job at the café, my best friend Lila who still thought I'd gone on a "family trip."

I thought of my dad — somewhere out there, probably drunk, probably gambling again.

And then I thought of Rafael.

Of his eyes like dark smoke.

His calm voice.

The way he looked at me like I was fire and he didn't mind getting burned.

What kind of man chooses a wife like you'd choose a weapon?

A dangerous one.

But I'd be damned if I let him win.

I pulled out the phone again.

Typed:

You're still a jerk. Just so we're clear.

Paused.

Then I deleted it.

Instead, I wrote:

Tomorrow, I'm coming to your office. We need rules.

Sent.

Three minutes later, a reply lit up the screen:

"Looking forward to it, Beauty."

I threw the phone again.

But this time, I smiled.

Just a little.

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.

Chapter 5 – The Blood & The Ballroom

Valentina Cruz

I was raised to believe there were only two kinds of fancy events in life: weddings and funerals.

Turns out, the mafia likes to combine the vibes of both.

The ballroom was massive — all chandeliers, velvet drapes, and gold trim so sharp it looked like it could cut skin. Bodies moved like shadows under low lighting, dressed in tailored suits and gowns that probably cost more than my student loans. And the music? Low, brooding, the kind that made your spine straighten whether you wanted to or not.

I stood at the top of the staircase, fingers twitching at the sides of the blood-red satin dress I'd been forced into.

It fit perfectly.

Of course it did.

Rafael didn't do accidents.

"Don't trip," came a deep voice at my shoulder.

I turned to see Rafael beside me — tall, elegant in his signature black-on-black, and looking for all the world like the devil on the cover of GQ.

"You're late," I said coolly.

"You're early," he replied.

"I wanted time to plan my escape route."

His lip twitched. "Charming."

"Are you actually bringing me into your world?" I asked. "Or am I just arm candy tonight?"

He looked down at me, his gaze lingering a half-second too long on the bare curve of my shoulder.

"You're my wife," he said. "Tonight, that means everything."

We descended the stairs together — and I swear, every neck in the room turned like a horror movie scene. Faces stared. Whispered. Judged.

Some of them smiled. But the kind of smile people give before they shoot.

I plastered on the same one I used during oral presentations — please like me, please don't kill me — and let Rafael's hand rest lightly on the small of my back.

It burned like a brand.

Camilla appeared like a shadow beside us, dressed in emerald silk and holding a glass of champagne.

"I warned you," she murmured. "You look edible."

I gave her a sideways glare. "Are all of his enemies here?"

"Most of them," she replied. "Some even brought dates."

"And I'm guessing the safe word isn't 'pineapple.'"

She smiled, sipped her drink, and vanished into the crowd.

As the evening dragged on, I played my role.

Smiled politely.

Spoke when spoken to.

Laughed at a joke I didn't understand because the man telling it had a scar running from his temple to his jaw and I wasn't trying to die tonight.

Then, from across the room, I saw her.

The ex.

Of course there was an ex.

She looked like an assassin and a runway model had a baby — raven hair, blood-red lips, and a dress that looked spray-painted on. Her eyes locked on mine, then on Rafael, and her smirk said "I've been in his bed and you're just keeping it warm."

I turned to Rafael. "Who's that?"

"Elena," he said simply. "We used to be… aligned."

"Politically or horizontally?"

His jaw tightened. "Both."

"Charming."

"She doesn't matter."

"Neither do I," I said flatly. "Remember?"

He looked at me then. Really looked.

And in that moment, with all hell dressed in satin around us, he reached for my hand.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Possessive.

His fingers brushed mine like he was asking — not taking.

I should've pulled away.

But I didn't.

Later, during the dance, he led me to the center of the ballroom.

No escape.

Just spotlights and silence as a violinist began to play something slow and haunting.

His hand slid to my waist.

I tensed.

"I don't know how to dance," I whispered.

"Yes, you do," he replied. "You just forgot you're not powerless."

That hit deeper than it should've.

So I lifted my chin, placed my hand in his, and let him lead.

One step.

Two.

A spin that stole my breath and landed me against his chest.

His breath was warm against my ear when he said, "You're doing well."

"Not my first hostage situation," I muttered.

He chuckled. Quiet and low.

And suddenly, the danger in the room wasn't outside us anymore.

It was between us.

Crackling. Rising. Unspoken.

When the dance ended, he leaned down and brushed his lips just above my cheekbone.

Not quite a kiss.

But enough to short-circuit my brain.

And when I looked up at him — ready to fire off something smart — I saw him already staring.

Not like a man who owned me.

But like a man who recognized me.

It scared the hell out of me.

Chapter 6 – The First Cut

Valentina Cruz

I woke up to screaming.

Not mine.

This time.

It was early. Barely light out. The air had that heavy, dead kind of silence — like the world was holding its breath.

I threw on a hoodie over Rafael's oversized shirt — don't judge me, the man has disturbingly good cotton — and followed the sound down the hallway, barefoot and braless, because trauma doesn't wait for underwire.

Camilla met me halfway, breathless.

"There's something you need to see."

I hate when people say that. It's never an avocado tree or a surprise puppy.

We walked outside to the front gates.

There was a crowd of Rafael's men already gathered, weapons holstered, radios crackling.

And there, hanging on the iron bars of the gate, was a message.

Not in ink.

Not in paint.

In blood.

A crude heart symbol, dripping and dark. And inside it, a single name:

VALENTINA.

Yeah.

Me.

"What the hell…" I whispered.

Camilla stood beside me, arms crossed. "Welcome to the family."

"Whose blood is that?"

"We're running tests."

"Tests? Like CSI?"

She didn't answer.

Instead, Rafael appeared behind us like a shadow — all sharp lines and silent fury. His jaw was clenched so hard it could've cracked steel.

"Inside," he barked. "Now."

But I didn't move.

"Who would do this?" I asked.

He didn't reply.

So I stepped in front of him.

"Who."

His eyes met mine. Cold. But under that — fury. No, panic. A quiet storm he was keeping on a tight leash.

"This is why I have rules," he said. "This is why you don't wander."

"Don't turn this on me."

"You're the reason they came to my gate."

"Oh, I'm the bait now?"

"You've always been the bait," he said. "You just didn't know it."

That stung more than I wanted to admit.

I folded my arms. "So what now? Do we run? Hide? Pretend none of this happened?"

He stepped closer. "We hunt."

Later, Camilla cornered me in the hallway.

"You really don't get it, do you?" she said.

"Get what?"

"This man," she said, motioning to the marble floors, the guards, the freaking fortress we lived in. "He kills people for looking at him the wrong way. But he let you yell at him in front of twenty witnesses last night."

"So?"

"So that makes you the most dangerous person in this house."

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I stared at the ring on my finger — the mafia's version of a leash — and thought about how quickly everything had flipped. From library late nights to blood on gates. From ramen dinners to silent bodyguards outside my bedroom door.

I told myself I hated him.

I reminded myself this wasn't love.

It was survival.

But as I lay there in his bed, with the faint smell of gunpowder and cologne still lingering in the sheets, I realized something worse than fear had crept in.

Curiosity.

Who was Rafael D'Amico before the blood?

Before the empire?

Before the beast?

And why did I want to find out?

Chapter 7 – A Knife Between Us

Valentina Cruz

There's a difference between silence and stillness.

Silence is peaceful. Stillness… is what happens before something explodes.

The mansion had gone still.

No footsteps. No whispers. No slamming doors or Camilla humming Lana Del Rey in the kitchen like some sadistic fairy godmother.

I should've felt safe. Instead, I felt like a candle in a room full of dynamite.

I padded down the hall in Rafael's hoodie and fuzzy socks I'd stolen from Camilla (don't judge — I earn my petty victories), and followed the same hallway I wasn't supposed to go down.

The one with a door that always stayed locked.

Except now…

It wasn't.

I should've turned back. Should've remembered all those horror movie rules — don't open strange doors, don't follow the blood trail, don't date a mafia boss no matter how good his jawline is.

But I was already pushing it open before I realized my hand was shaking.

Inside?

Darkness.

And then — click.

A row of lights buzzed to life, revealing a room that didn't belong in a palace.

It was cold. Clinical.

Metal file cabinets. Surveillance monitors. A giant corkboard littered with photos, maps, scribbled notes.

And in the center of it all, like a secret confession left behind:

A photo of me.

Taken months before I ever met Rafael.

I was walking to class. Backpack, headphones, mid-bite of a sandwich.

A red circle was drawn around my head.

My heart stopped.

My legs didn't.

I was already storming toward the board, fingers trembling as I scanned the rest — names I didn't recognize, surveillance on my family, even a transcript of a call I made to my mom.

"I'm okay, Mama. I swear. He's just… complicated."

I hadn't known anyone else heard that.

Now I did.

"What the hell is this?" I whispered.

"Classified," came the voice behind me.

I spun.

Rafael stood in the doorway. Not angry.

Worse.

Calm.

"You were watching me before the wedding," I said. "Before the debt."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He walked into the room like it didn't haunt him — like the files weren't filled with proof that I was never a choice. Just a plan.

"You were useful."

"Oh, well thank you, my liege," I snapped. "I was wondering if my life's purpose was to decorate your war wall."

He said nothing.

And that silence? That was worse than yelling.

I stepped forward.

"So what now?" I asked. "You lock me in here next? Add another red circle to the board?"

He looked at me.

Like really looked.

And I hated that I couldn't tell if it was guilt or pride in his eyes.

"You're not on the board anymore," he said softly. "Because you're not a target. You're mine."

"That's not romantic," I said. "That's the plot of a hostage documentary."

Still — a small part of me. The broken, battered, exhausted part — wanted to believe him.

A phone buzzed.

He answered, eyes never leaving mine.

Then he cursed in Italian.

"What is it?" I asked.

"We have to leave," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere no one will find us."

"You mean like… a romantic death trap?"

He actually smirked. The smallest crack in the steel mask.

"You'll like this one. No blood. Just the ocean."

And before I could argue, deny, or pack actual underwear, I was being whisked away in a black SUV with bulletproof windows and enough tension to make a priest sweat.

The villa was remote. Cliffside. The kind of place where secrets go to tan and sins get buried under roses.

And for the first time in weeks, there was no one else.

No guards.

No Camilla.

Just me.

And the beast.

Chapter 8 – The Fire We Feed

Valentina Cruz

The storm came at night.

Not the loud, dramatic kind that thunders its way through your dreams.

This one crept in slow.

Whispers of wind. A distant roll. A sky that couldn't decide whether to cry or just threaten.

It matched my mood perfectly.

The villa was beautiful — the kind of place you see on Pinterest boards with captions like Live. Laugh. Love. Except here, it was more like Lie. Lust. Leave no witnesses.

Rafael had barely said ten words since we arrived.

I should've been relieved.

Instead, it pissed me off.

I didn't care how tragic his backstory was, how many enemies wanted his blood, or how tight his shirts were when he folded his sleeves.

The man owed me answers.

And I was done waiting for polite weather to ask.

I found him on the balcony.

He was leaning on the stone railing, sleeves rolled up, staring out at the crashing waves like they owed him rent.

"You're brooding again," I said.

He didn't turn.

"I like the sound of the ocean," he replied.

"Of course you do. It's dramatic, endless, and emotionally distant. Just like you."

He glanced over, expression unreadable.

"You always this charming at midnight?"

"Only when I've been kidnapped and emotionally whiplashed by a mafia king who keeps forgetting I'm not a chess piece."

He didn't laugh. But he didn't walk away either.

Progress?

I stepped beside him.

The wind tugged at my hoodie. Salt clung to my skin. Somewhere far below, the sea smashed itself against the rocks like it was tired of pretending to be soft.

"Why me?" I asked.

Rafael didn't answer right away.

So I asked again. Louder.

"Why me? Why target me? You had a thousand other ways to repay a debt. Why drag me into your bloody empire?"

His jaw clenched.

Then, finally, he said:

"Because you were untouched."

My stomach turned. "What does that mean?"

He looked at me — really looked at me.

"Innocent," he said. "Smart. Clean. No enemies. No secrets. You were the one piece I could place on the board that wouldn't betray me."

"So I was your… safe bet?"

He hesitated.

"No. You were my last chance."

Silence. Heavy. Real.

Then came the lightning — a white flash over the sea that lit up his face like something ancient and mythic.

I should've walked away.

But I didn't.

Instead, I stepped closer.

"Do you regret it?"

"Yes," he said. "Every day."

Then — softer — "But not because I took you. Because I don't want to let you go."

And just like that, the breath I didn't know I was holding shattered in my chest.

The rain hit seconds later.

Fast. Hard. Freezing.

We both flinched — then laughed. Genuinely. Like idiots.

He reached out, brushed wet hair from my face.

His fingers lingered on my cheek.

I didn't pull away.

And when he kissed me…

It wasn't soft.

It was desperate.

Like he needed to prove he still felt something. Like I was the only proof he had left.

And God help me… I kissed him back.

We didn't make it to the bedroom.

Clothes hit the hallway floor like declarations.

His hands memorized me like a blueprint.

Mine trembled — not from fear, but from how deeply I wanted him to break.

Not just my rules.

But his own.

Later, tangled in sheets and silence, I asked:

"What happens now?"

He stared at the ceiling.

And said:

"Now you either save me… or destroy me."

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.

Chapter 10 – Blood Lessons

Valentina Cruz

"Grip the handle like it's the only thing keeping you alive."

Rafael's voice was calm. Instructive. Like he was teaching a cooking class instead of how to slice a man open.

I stared at the knife in my hand. Same one Mauro left behind. Same one that now had my fingerprints on it.

I wanted to throw it across the room. Maybe at Rafael's face.

Instead, I curled my fingers tighter.

"Good," he said. "Now—stab me."

I blinked. "What?"

"Stab me."

"Are you insane?"

He shrugged. "Probably. But if you don't learn to fight back, you'll end up dead. Or worse — used."

"Used like… a pawn?"

His expression tightened. Gotcha.

He stepped forward. "Go ahead. Right here." He tapped his stomach. "I won't move."

"You won't have to," I muttered. "I've never stabbed anyone before."

He smirked. "That's the point of practice, baby."

I lunged.

He caught my wrist mid-air, spun me around, and the next second I was on the floor.

Breathless.

Annoyed.

Slightly turned on.

"Again," he said.

"No."

"Valentina—"

"I said no."

I stood up, brushing dust from my knees. "I'm not doing this until you tell me everything."

He paused. "Everything?"

"Yes. Your past. Mauro. Why the mafia wants your blood. And why—despite having the emotional range of a houseplant—you keep looking at me like I'm something you lost."

Silence.

He turned away.

I grabbed his arm. "I'm not a toy. I'm not your prisoner anymore. I'm your wife, remember?"

His eyes snapped to mine. "You don't get to say that like it means something."

"Well maybe it should."

The air sizzled between us. If tension could kill, we'd both be ashes.

Finally, he said, "Mauro was once my best friend. Then he betrayed me. Got my sister killed. Took a piece of our territory. And now he's back to remind me that nothing I build will ever last if he wants to destroy it."

"And me?"

"You," he said quietly, "are the one thing I didn't plan for."

Later that night, he took me to the underground training room.

Weapons lined the walls. Not just knives — guns, ropes, fake IDs, ledgers full of names crossed out in red ink.

I stared.

"I wasn't supposed to see this, was I?"

"No," he said. "But if you're going to survive me, you might as well understand what I am."

"And what's that?"

He walked up behind me. Pressed his hand to the base of my spine.

"The devil they call when angels fail."

Lesson One: Knives don't kill people. Cowards do.

Lesson Two: Always smile before you shoot. It confuses them.

Lesson Three: Never trust someone who calls you family in this world. They're the first ones to put a bullet in your back.

I trained until my arms shook.

Until my palms blistered.

Until Rafael said, "Enough."

We were both sweating. Breathing heavy. Eyes locked.

He stepped close. "You're a fast learner."

I smirked. "Told you I wasn't just a pretty face."

Then, without thinking, I added, "When do I get to stab someone for real?"

Rafael stared at me.

And for the first time in days… he laughed.

Not a cruel laugh. Not the dry smirk he gave enemies.

A real, deep laugh.

Then he said:

"When you stop asking permission."

Chapter 11

Valentina Cruz

I never thought I'd wear a bulletproof vest under a silk dress.

But hey — here I was. Thursday night, armed and anxious, at a charity gala hosted by arms dealers in Versace tuxedos.

Rafael said it was "just a public appearance."

I said he was full of crap.

He didn't disagree.

"Smile," he whispered in my ear as we walked past a chandelier made of bones and God knows what.

"Why?" I asked.

"So they underestimate you."

I gave him a sugary grin.

"Oh good," he said. "Now you look like a serial killer in stilettos."

The room was dripping with money and menace.

Every man in here had blood on his hands.

And I was pretending to be one of their wives — all glitter, giggles, and silent suffering.

Except this wife had a knife strapped to her thigh.

And a plan.

About halfway through Rafael's conversation with a slick bastard named Viktor Kolesnikov — who smiled like he'd skinned kittens as a child — I felt it.

A shift.

A look exchanged behind a champagne flute.

A whisper passed too quickly.

I tugged Rafael's hand. "Something's wrong."

His eyes flicked to mine. "What did you see?"

"That guy in the red tie just slipped a message to the waiter."

He blinked. Just once.

Then all hell broke loose.

Gunshots cracked like fireworks.

The lights went out.

Screams sliced through the air like blades.

"Stay down!" Rafael shouted, pushing me behind a table just as bullets shattered the vase above our heads.

My ears rang. My heart pounded. My heels were useless.

So I kicked them off, pulled the knife from my thigh, and crawled through the chaos.

Someone grabbed my hair.

Bad move.

I spun, drove the blade into his leg, and kept moving.

Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

By the time I found Rafael again, he had one arm bleeding and the other aiming a gun like a damned action hero.

"Hey," I called.

He turned. Relief flickered in his face — quickly masked by fury.

"Why the hell are you standing? Get down!"

I ducked beside him.

"We're surrounded," he said, reloading. "Kolesnikov double-crossed us."

I smirked. "Told you that smile meant kitten-murder."

He actually snorted.

"Valentina, I swear to God—"

"Save it for after we survive."

We fought side by side.

My first real kill?

Ugly. Bloody. Honest.

And disturbingly satisfying.

The man lunged at Rafael from behind, and I didn't think — I just acted.

Steel met flesh.

He fell.

I didn't.

Later, when the police sirens finally wailed in the distance, and the enemy was either dead or gone, Rafael turned to me.

His jaw was tight. His shirt stained with blood.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I killed someone," I said.

"I saw."

He reached out and gently took the knife from my hand, setting it aside like a parent with a dangerous toy.

"You didn't flinch," he added.

"I'll flinch later."

He looked at me.

Long and hard.

And then, quietly, with something dangerously close to pride:

"Brava, mia belva."

I didn't know what it meant.

But it sounded like the kind of thing you only said to someone who survived fire and came out sharpened.

Chapter 12 – The Girl with the Stained Hands

Valentina Cruz

Blood has a smell.

It's metallic, thick, and clings to your nose like smoke from a kitchen fire.

Even after I showered three times and scrubbed until my skin burned, I could still feel it under my fingernails.

It didn't wash off.

And I wasn't sure I wanted it to.

Rafael sat on the couch, his arm stitched up, shirtless, calm — like he hadn't just survived a literal gunfight.

He looked at me like he was waiting for something.

Me to cry.

Me to collapse.

Me to fall back into the soft little cage I came from.

But I didn't.

I walked into the room wearing one of his black shirts, oversized and loose, hair wet, face clean.

And I said the one thing I hadn't said since it happened.

"I killed someone."

He nodded. "You did."

"No 'it was self-defense'? No 'you had no choice'?"

He tilted his head. "Would you believe it if I said those things?"

I sat across from him and tucked my knees up under my chin.

"I thought I'd be scared," I said. "Or sick."

"Are you?"

"No."

There was silence.

Then I whispered, "Does that make me a bad person?"

"No," he said. "It makes you honest."

Rafael poured whiskey into two glasses and slid one across the table.

I stared at it.

"I thought you didn't drink," I said.

"I don't."

"So why—?"

"For moments like this," he said. "You don't forget your first kill. Might as well toast to it."

I stared at him.

Then downed the shot in one gulp.

It burned.

So did everything else.

"You were supposed to hate this life," he said quietly. "You were supposed to fight against it."

I looked him dead in the eyes.

"Maybe I still will."

That surprised him.

But not as much as what I said next.

"But right now? I want to know everything. I want to know who tried to kill us. I want to know how many more there are. And I want to know what I have to become so no one ever sees me as weak again."

He stared at me like I was an earthquake happening right in front of him.

"Valentina…"

"I'm not the same girl you kidnapped, Rafael."

"No," he said. "You're not."

I didn't smile.

He didn't either.

But something passed between us in that moment — not love, not lust… something darker.

A recognition.

I was no longer just in his world.

I was beginning to belong to it.

That night, I lay in bed beside him, eyes wide open in the dark.

He was asleep.

I wasn't.

I thought of the man I killed.

His eyes. His hand reaching out. The shock when I drove the blade into his gut.

I didn't even know his name.

But he knew mine.

He had whispered it right before he died.

"Cruz…"

Like a warning.

Or a curse.

Chapter 13 – All the Pretty Monsters

Valentina Cruz

I used to think monsters were men like Rafael.

The ones with cold eyes and blood on their hands.

The ones who made threats sound like lullabies.

But I was wrong.

Sometimes, monsters look like your mother.

Or your favorite uncle.

Or the quiet family friend who always brought tamales to Sunday dinner and once taught you how to tie your shoes.

Sometimes, monsters smile.

The day after the ambush, Rafael handed me a file.

Thick. Heavy.

Old, worn pages tucked inside a black leather folder that smelled like secrets and cigarettes.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Your family," he said.

My stomach twisted. "I know my family."

He gave me a look. "Not like this, you don't."

I opened the folder.

And everything I thought I knew crumbled like paper in a storm.

My grandfather, Mateo Cruz — the sweet old man who used to call me mi estrella and sneak me candy when Mom wasn't looking?

He used to run guns for the Calderón cartel.

Not low-level stuff either — he was second in command before "retiring" to Florida.

My father?

He'd once helped launder money through a chain of "Christian bookstores."

And my uncle Emilio — who disappeared when I was twelve?

Rafael slid a photo across the table.

A surveillance shot.

Emilio. With Mauro.

My blood ran cold.

I looked up at Rafael, heart pounding. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because sooner or later, they'll come for you too. And I won't always be there to catch the knives."

I sank into the chair, reeling.

"You knew… all this time?"

"I suspected. But I don't make moves without proof."

"You think Mauro's going to use them?"

Rafael leaned forward.

"I think he already has."

That night, I called my mom.

She answered on the third ring, her voice sweet and tired.

"Valentina, mija! I was just about to—"

"Were you ever going to tell me about Grandpa Mateo?"

Silence.

Flat. Heavy.

"Valentina…"

"I know he was Calderón's man."

Another silence. Longer.

Then: "I wanted to keep you safe."

"You kept me stupid."

"Your father didn't want—"

"I'm not asking about Dad. I'm asking you."

Her voice cracked. "I didn't want this for you. I didn't want his world touching you."

"Well, too late," I said. "I'm already covered in blood."

After I hung up, I didn't cry.

I sat in the dark with Rafael, sipping wine like it could quiet the noise in my head.

"You okay?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Depends. You ever find out your whole life was built on mob money?"

He smirked. "Once or twice."

I gave him a half-smile. "Tell me a joke."

He blinked. "A joke?"

"I need to laugh or I'll scream."

He thought for a second. "Okay. Why don't mobsters play hide and seek?"

"Why?"

"Because good luck hiding when your shoes squeak from all the blood."

I groaned. "That's terrible."

"You smiled though."

And I had.

By midnight, I was curled against him. Not for safety.

For sanity.

And maybe, just maybe, something else I didn't want to name yet.

He traced a finger down my spine. "You're stronger than you know."

"Don't romanticize it," I said. "I'm not strong. I'm just running out of people to trust."

"Sometimes," he said, "that's when you finally become dangerous."

Chapter 14 – A House Full of Knives

Valentina Cruz

Mafia mansions aren't like what you see in the movies.

There are no dramatic staircases or velvet walls.

No cigar smoke curling through chandelier light while men discuss "business."

It's quieter.

Colder.

More… calculated.

Like living inside a wolf's ribcage and pretending it's a home.

By day three after the ambush, the tension in the house was a living, breathing thing.

Everyone was polite — too polite.

Doors were closed more than they were open.

Loyalty was suddenly a whisper, not a vow.

And Rafael's second-in-command, Marco, had developed the habit of disappearing.

At first, Rafael brushed it off. "He's handling logistics."

But logistics don't usually involve encrypted phone calls at 2 a.m. and blood on your shirt collar at breakfast.

"Something's off," I said one morning, sipping burnt espresso in the sunroom.

Rafael leaned against the doorway, tie undone, eyes shadowed with lack of sleep.

"You've said that every morning this week."

"Maybe it's because every morning I'm right."

He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You want to tell me who I should fire?"

I looked out at the garden. Marco was walking the perimeter, talking into his phone.

"Fire? No. Follow. And fast."

Later that night, Rafael did exactly that.

He tailed Marco to a run-down butcher shop on the edge of town — the kind of place where no meat was ever sold, but bodies were sometimes stored.

I waited in the car.

Sweaty palms.

Knife strapped under my dress again.

The usual.

When Rafael came back, his expression was carved from stone.

"Well?" I asked.

His jaw ticked. "He's talking to someone on Mauro's payroll."

"Should I say 'told you so' now or later?"

He gave me a look. "Now would be fine."

"Told you so."

When we got back to the mansion, the knives were out.

Not the literal ones.

The social ones.

Dinner was served like we were one big happy family.

Marco sat across from me, smiling.

Too much teeth. Not enough soul.

I played nice.

Passed the salt. Complimented the chicken.

Waited.

Rafael waited too.

Until dessert.

"Marco," Rafael said, slicing into tiramisu with deadly calm. "Where were you two nights ago at 3 a.m.?"

Marco blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You told Arturo you were home sick."

"I was—"

"Funny," Rafael cut in, "because I followed you to a butcher shop on Calle Sombra."

The room froze.

Marco paled. "You… what?"

Rafael stood. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a storm stretching its legs.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice? That you could sell pieces of me to Mauro without me smelling the rot?"

"I didn't—"

"You did," I said. "I saw the blood on your cuff this morning."

His eyes flicked to me, and for just a second, the charm cracked.

Then he ran.

It wasn't a long chase.

Rafael caught him in the hall.

A punch to the jaw.

A thud against the marble.

A knife pressed to his throat.

"Why?" Rafael hissed. "After everything?"

Marco spat blood. "Because you forgot what this life costs."

Rafael's voice dropped to ice. "Then let me remind you."

He didn't kill him. Not then.

But when Marco was dragged away to the basement?

Let's just say he wouldn't be walking straight for a long, long time.

That night, Rafael sat beside me, staring into the fire.

"He was like a brother."

"I know."

"He held me up when my father died. When I was bleeding out in Madrid, he dragged me to safety."

"So why did he do it?"

He didn't answer for a long time.

Then finally: "Because love fades. Power tempts. And money screams louder than loyalty."

I put my head on his shoulder.

"I won't betray you," I said.

His arm wrapped around me — slow, firm, real.

"I know."

And for the first time in days, I believed him.

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.

Chapter 16 – The Echo of Her Name

Valentina Cruz

If passion was fire, then doubt was ice.

And waking up in Rafael's bed the morning after that kiss felt like being caught between both — seared and frozen.

He wasn't there when I opened my eyes.

Only the smell of espresso lingered, and the echo of what we'd done — or started to do — was painted across the sheets.

I wrapped myself in one of his shirts and went searching.

I found him in the garden.

Not brooding.

Not training.

But smiling.

At her.

She was tall. Blonde. Stunning in that terrifying runway-model-meets-assassin way.

Her black boots crunched against the gravel as she leaned into Rafael's space like she owned it — like she used to.

I paused behind the hedge like a stalker in a telenovela.

"What are you doing here, Celia?" Rafael asked, voice cold but not cutting.

Celia.

Even her name sounded like the clink of a wine glass before betrayal.

"I heard about Marco. And the ambush." Her voice was silk-wrapped poison. "I came to check on you."

He raised a brow. "You never check on people unless they're bleeding money or secrets."

She smiled. "Or unless I miss them."

Something twisted in my stomach — not quite jealousy.

No, this was older. Uglier.

Like every pretty girl from every high school hallway had walked into my life and whispered, "You'll never be her."

I stepped into view before I could stop myself.

Rafael saw me first. His eyes softened — just a flicker, but enough.

Celia's lips curved.

"You must be the wife," she said, like wife was a charity title.

"I must be," I said, giving her a smile that was all teeth.

She looked me up and down, taking in the oversized shirt, bare legs, and bruised collarbone.

So I did the same to her — from designer boots to the smug tilt of her head.

"You're cute," she added. "In that rescue-puppy kind of way."

"And you're beautiful," I said sweetly. "In that scorpion-wearing-a-dress kind of way."

Rafael choked on his coffee.

After she left — with a wink and a warning — I turned to Rafael.

"How many exes do I need to keep a gun loaded for?"

"Just her."

"She doesn't seem like an ex."

"She is."

"Sure. And I'm the Queen of England."

He sighed. "Valentina—"

"Forget it," I snapped. "You don't owe me anything. We're just a business deal, remember?"

He grabbed my wrist before I could storm off. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it?"

A pause.

Then softly, "I don't know."

And maybe that hurt worse than if he'd said nothing at all.

Later that night, I sat in the bathtub, staring at the tiles.

I wanted to cry.

But crying felt like giving her power.

So I plotted instead.

I wouldn't be some wounded puppy she could laugh at.

I'd become the damn wolf.

Chapter 17 – Beauty Learns to Bite

Valentina Cruz

There comes a moment in every girl's life when she realizes no one's coming to save her.

For me, it was somewhere between Celia's wink and Rafael's silence.

So I decided to stop waiting.

And start preparing.

"Tell me how to kill someone," I said to Mateo over breakfast.

He nearly choked on his toast.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Mateo glanced at Rafael, who looked up from his newspaper like I'd asked for more syrup instead of a murder tutorial.

"She's serious," Rafael muttered.

"Damn right I am." I stood, hands on hips, wearing a pair of jeans so tight they could've been a weapon. "I'm tired of being the girl people threaten. I want to be the girl they fear."

Mateo whistled. "She's finally becoming one of us."

"I'm not one of you," I said. "But I'm done being prey."

That afternoon, I put on my game face — which in my case was mostly mascara and a little Chapstick because self-respect, okay?

I met Rosa, Rafael's weapons specialist, in the armory.

She looked me up and down like she was deciding whether to train me or toss me in the trash.

"You ever held a butterfly knife?"

"I can barely open scissors."

She smirked. "Perfect. Let's begin."

By the end of the day, I had:

• Dropped a blade on my foot

• Nearly tasered myself

• Sweated through my sports bra

• And learned that pepper spray has zero chill

But I also learned:

• How to disarm someone three times my size

• The difference between intimidation and aggression

• And how to fake confidence until it feels real

Rosa handed me a curved blade. "Name it."

"What?"

"You want to make it yours? Name it. Every blade is a woman. This one's loyal, quiet, and will gut a man in two seconds flat."

I looked at the knife in my hand.

"Celia," I said.

Rosa cackled. "Now we're talking, chica."

By nightfall, I stumbled back to my room, sore in places I didn't know existed, smelling like gun oil and girl power.

Rafael was sitting in the armchair, watching me like I was a new animal in his kingdom.

"Tired?"

"Exhausted."

"Regrets?"

"Only that I didn't start sooner."

A pause.

Then, "You've changed."

I tossed the blade on the dresser. "No. I'm just finally becoming who I should've been before the world tried to make me small."

He stood, walked over, and brushed my sweaty hair back from my face.

"I like her," he said softly. "The real you."

His lips touched mine — tender this time, not warlike.

And I let myself lean in.

Because maybe this time, I didn't need saving.

Just someone strong enough to stand beside me.

Chapter 18 – A Queen Among Wolves

Valentina Cruz

There are two kinds of women at a mafia gala.

The kind draped over a man's arm like a glittering accessory.

And the kind who walk in alone and make the room stop breathing.

I intended to be the latter.

Rosa helped me pick the dress.

It was black. Of course it was black.

But this wasn't funeral black — this was vengeance black.

Silk that hugged me like sin.

A slit that threatened reputations.

And a neckline that could've caused accidents in five different countries.

My makeup?

Sharp brows, red lips, and eyeliner so bold it could've cut glass.

When I stepped into the foyer, Rafael looked up — and for the first time, his jaw actually dropped.

"Say something," I teased, spinning slowly.

"If I say what I'm thinking," he said hoarsely, "we'll be very, very late."

I smirked. "Good. Let them wait."

The gala was held in a marble mansion on the outskirts of the city — the kind of place with chandeliers the size of cars and security guards who smiled like snakes.

Everyone there was dangerous.

And everyone was watching.

But for the first time since this nightmare began, so was I.

I saw how men tilted their heads when I passed.

How women glanced, then whispered.

I wasn't the poor college girl anymore.

I was his wife. And I walked like it.

Celia, of course, was there.

She wore emerald — the color of envy, which was fitting — and sipped champagne like it was gossip.

She spotted me and smiled, as fake as her cheekbones.

"Darling," she purred. "You clean up nice."

I took her hand and leaned in with a kiss to her cheek — mafia-style.

Then I whispered, "Careful, Celia. I bite now."

Her smile twitched.

I walked away before she could reply.

Behind me, Rafael chuckled under his breath. "You're enjoying this."

I grinned. "Is it that obvious?"

The night was a blur of music, menace, and too many glasses of sparkling things I couldn't pronounce.

Then came the real moment.

The toast.

Rafael stepped onto the small platform, lifting his glass.

"Tonight," he said, voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous, "we celebrate more than territory. We celebrate power. Power that isn't just held, but shared."

He turned, reaching for me.

My breath caught as he extended his hand — not as a master to a trophy…

But as a king to his queen.

I joined him, and together we raised our glasses.

"To new alliances," he said.

"To new beginnings," I added, voice steady.

Celia looked like she wanted to choke on her drink.

That night, as we returned to the mansion, Rafael pulled me into the hallway before the guards could even finish locking the door.

"You were magnificent," he whispered, pressing me against the wall.

"I was me," I corrected.

He kissed me like he couldn't help himself — hungry, proud, desperate.

And maybe that's what we were now.

Not just husband and wife.

But two broken people learning how to become something more — together.

Chapter 19 – Bloodlines and Bombshells

Valentina Cruz

If fairy tales were real, this would be the part where the curse broke.

Where the monster turned into a prince and the girl found her happily ever after.

But I wasn't that lucky.

And Rafael D'Amico?

He wasn't cursed.

He was created.

By blood.

By betrayal.

And now — by a secret that shattered everything I thought I knew.

It started with a letter.

Delivered by a silent courier in a gray suit with eyes like a corpse.

Rafael took one look at the envelope and froze.

Not flinched. Not frowned.

Froze — like a statue made of rage and history.

"Who's it from?" I asked, watching him from across the room.

He didn't answer.

Just left.

I found him two hours later, in the wine cellar — sitting on the floor like a man who'd just realized his throne was made of bones.

I sat beside him. "You going to tell me what's in that letter?"

He said nothing. Just handed me a single sheet of paper.

Typed. Signed. Dated.

Subject: Luca De Rossi

Status: Alive.

I blinked.

"Who's Luca?"

He rubbed his face with both hands like he was trying to scrub off the truth.

"My brother."

The silence that followed wasn't empty — it was heavy.

Like the air before a bomb goes off.

I didn't know Rafael had a brother.

Correction: I didn't know Rafael had a living brother.

He told me Luca had died when they were kids — caught in crossfire between rival families. It was the tragedy that made him ruthless. That turned him into the cold, calculating beast who now ruled a criminal empire.

But now…

"He faked his death," Rafael said. "Joined the De Rossi family. My father's enemies. My enemies."

"And now he's back?"

Rafael laughed. But it wasn't joy. It was fury wrapped in disbelief.

"He never left. He's been working in the shadows. Undermining me. Setting traps. Manipulating allies. Watching."

I felt my stomach twist. "Why now?"

Rafael turned to me, eyes dark as an executioner's hood.

"Because he knows I've found something he can use against me."

His hand brushed mine.

Me.

Later that night, I was in the hallway when I heard voices.

Low. Urgent. Familiar.

Celia.

Of course it was Celia.

"Are you sure it's her he cares about?" she whispered.

"He'd burn this empire for her," someone else said. "Which means she's our perfect target."

I backed away slowly. Quietly. Every inch of me trembling.

But not with fear.

With fire.

Because if they thought I was still the naïve little girl sold off to a monster…

They hadn't met the woman who could make monsters kneel.

Back in our room, I found Rafael sitting at the edge of the bed.

"They're going to come for me," I said quietly.

He didn't flinch.

"I know."

"And you'll try to stop them."

"Yes."

"But what if I don't want to be saved?"

He turned to me slowly, eyes burning.

"Then what do you want to be, Valentina?"

I stepped closer.

"A weapon," I whispered. "For once… I want to strike first."

His expression didn't change. But something in him cracked.

"You're not who I married," he said.

"No," I agreed. "I'm better."

And that night, we didn't make love.

We planned war.

Chapter 20 – The Rift

Valentina Cruz

You'd think after surviving betrayal, forced marriage, and a shootout in a Gucci dress, I'd be unshakable.

Turns out, all it takes is one whispered lie to snap the string holding your world together.

And the worst part?

Sometimes that lie comes from the person you love most.

Rafael had always been a fortress — cold, tall, made of secrets. But lately, he was… something else.

Quiet in a way that made my skin itch.

He stared at his phone like it owed him answers. Snapped at his men. Barely touched his coffee. And when he held me, it was with arms that felt more like armor than affection.

So when I found the burner phone hidden in the drawer beneath his gun safe, I didn't feel guilty.

I felt validated.

One number. One name on the screen.

Luca.

I didn't know what hurt more — that he was talking to his brother…

Or that he hadn't told me.

I stormed into his office like a woman on fire.

"You want to explain why you've been texting the same man who wants me dead?"

He looked up from his laptop, unfazed.

"I told you I'd handle it."

"You said we were in this together."

"We are."

"Then why the hell are you keeping secrets again?"

He stood slowly, jaw tight. "Because not everything in this world is black and white, Valentina."

"Bullshit. That's the excuse men like you use to justify every betrayal."

"I'm trying to end this war without bloodshed."

I stared at him like I didn't recognize the man in front of me. "Since when do you care about bloodshed?"

He looked away. And that silence? It was the loudest answer of all.

That night, I packed a bag.

Not because I wanted to leave.

But because I had to know who I was without him.

I'd spent months becoming stronger, sharper, more dangerous — but somehow, I'd still let my heart be his hostage.

Not anymore.

Rosa caught me by the door.

"You think running will make it hurt less?"

I shook my head. "No. But staying might make me forget who I am."

I didn't go far.

Just to a safehouse Rafael didn't know about — one of the few secrets I owned.

I curled up on the couch, stared at the ceiling, and tried not to cry.

And failed.

Because the truth was simple:

I didn't hate Rafael for talking to his brother.

I hated that I'd let myself believe love would be enough.

The next morning, a note slipped under the door.

No name. No return address.

Just six words.

"You left him. Now you die."

Chapter 21 – The Trap

Valentina Cruz

Rule number one when running from the mafia: never trust quiet streets.

Rule number two: don't ignore your instincts when your skin starts to itch and your heartbeat suddenly sounds too loud.

I broke both rules before breakfast.

So yeah — the kidnapping? That's on me.

It started with a knock.

A soft one.

One of those gentle, I'm-not-a-threat knocks that feel too polite for the world I lived in now.

I peeked through the peephole.

Just a pizza box. No delivery guy in sight.

Weird.

But not weird enough to stop me from opening the door — like an idiot in a horror movie.

Two steps. That's all I took.

Two steps before the world spun sideways and something heavy slammed into the back of my head.

I woke up to blood in my mouth, ropes around my wrists, and a migraine that could end empires.

Dim light.

Concrete floor.

The metallic stench of rust and something worse — fear.

"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty wakes."

That voice.

Smooth. Calm. Deadly.

Luca.

So that's what Rafael's brother looked like up close.

He had Rafael's eyes, but none of his darkness.

No, Luca's was colder. Smiling darkness.

"You're probably wondering why you're here," he said, crouching beside me like we were on a coffee date and not in a dungeon.

"I'm going to guess… girl scout meeting?"

He grinned. "Feisty. He always liked that about you."

I spat blood at his boots. "If you're trying to impress him by kidnapping his wife, I think you missed the 'flowers and chocolates' memo."

His smile thinned.

"Oh, I'm not trying to impress him, darling. I'm trying to break him."

Apparently, I was the pressure point.

The crack in Rafael's armor.

And Luca?

He intended to exploit every inch of it.

"You should've stayed obedient," he whispered, brushing a bloody strand of hair from my face. "This world doesn't reward women with backbones."

I looked him dead in the eye. "No, but it fears them."

He laughed. "We'll see how brave you are when Rafael comes crawling for you."

I was alone for hours after that.

Rope burns on my wrists. Head pounding. Hands numb.

And yet…

There was no fear left in me.

Just fire.

Because Rafael might've broken my heart…

But I'd be damned if I let anyone break me.

Not Luca.

Not fate.

Not even the monster I'd married.

I wasn't just his wife anymore.

I was a weapon.

And the moment I got free?

Someone was going to bleed.

Chapter 22 – The Beast's War

Rafael D'Amico

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

Too quiet.

No phone call. No text. Not even a sarcastic sticky note on the espresso machine.

She always left something.

Even when she hated me — especially when she hated me — Valentina made sure I remembered she was here.

This morning? Nothing.

That's when the dread started to crawl up my spine.

By noon, dread turned into certainty.

By 12:17 p.m., I knew:

She was gone.

And something inside me… snapped.

"Find her," I growled, storming into the war room.

Cruz, my most loyal enforcer, glanced up from the monitors. "You sure she didn't just take space, boss? She's got a temper."

"So do I," I said flatly. "And if anyone had touched you, I'd already have five corpses in a river."

He nodded. "We'll pull traffic cams, trace her burner, check the safehouse logs—"

"Don't check," I interrupted, eyes blazing. "Burn through them. I want results, not reports."

It didn't take long.

The note was delivered with a red ribbon.

Because of course Luca had a flair for the dramatic.

"You took everything from me, brother. So I'm taking her."

—L

No threats.

No demands.

Just war.

I crushed the paper in my fist and whispered something I hadn't said in years.

"May God have mercy on you, Luca."

Because I wouldn't.

The next 48 hours were a blur of bullets and blood.

My men spread across the city like wildfire. Safehouses were raided. Allies bribed. Enemies tortured. My lawyers worked overtime hiding the bodies — while my heart beat like a war drum.

She was out there.

Scared or angry.

Bleeding or worse.

And it was my fault.

Not because I didn't protect her.

But because I made the mistake of loving her too late.

By the third day, we got a location.

An abandoned train depot on the outskirts of Naples.

Cruz handed me the file. "It's a trap."

"I know."

He raised an eyebrow. "Still going?"

I looked him dead in the eye.

"She's my wife."

And no one takes what's mine and lives.

I didn't bring an army.

Just two men.

My most lethal.

We didn't sneak in. We didn't whisper.

We kicked the damn door down.

Gunfire erupted immediately — Luca's men were waiting, just like we knew they'd be. But it didn't matter.

I was a hurricane in human form.

Two headshots. One knife to the throat. A bullet to the knee of a man who begged too late.

I carved my way through them like death on a deadline.

Then I saw her.

She was chained to a chair.

Face bloodied. Lip cracked.

But eyes?

Blazing.

The moment she saw me, she didn't cry. Didn't gasp.

She smirked.

"Took you long enough, Beast."

God, I loved her.

I took out the last two guards with barely a breath and ran to her.

Her voice shook. "You came."

I pulled her into my arms, chains and all. "Of course I did."

Then I kissed her like the world was on fire.

Because it was.

And I'd burn every last piece of it… for her.

Chapter 23 – Uncrowned

Valentina Cruz

They say near-death changes you.

What they don't say is that almost losing someone might wreck you worse.

I didn't cry when Rafael held me.

Didn't collapse or scream.

I held on to him like he was both the trigger and the safety. And maybe he was.

But I knew the truth: Luca wouldn't stop.

Not until one of them was dead.

And if Rafael thought he could keep me tucked away during the war…

He clearly hadn't learned a damn thing.

"Absolutely not," he said, twenty minutes later, standing like some granite god at the edge of our bed.

"You don't even know what I was going to say," I replied, toweling blood from my face like it was an ordinary Tuesday.

"You want to be part of the hit. It's not happening."

"I've held a gun, Rafael."

He crossed his arms. "You've also been kidnapped. Twice."

"Only once, technically."

He glared. I grinned. A small, battle-worn smile.

But I didn't back down.

"You trained me," I said, stepping closer. "You made sure I knew how to shoot, fight, read people. Was that all for nothing?"

"It was for protection. Not war."

"And this isn't war?"

He stayed silent.

So I pressed on. "You think I'm going to sit on some velvet couch while you risk your life for me? That's not love. That's cowardice."

His nostrils flared.

Good.

I wasn't asking permission.

I was telling him: I'm all in.

Later, in the strategy room, Cruz laid out the map of Luca's last stronghold: an old Roman villa in the hills. Isolated. Guarded. Surrounded by thick forest.

"Booby traps?" I asked.

"Probably."

"Snipers?"

"Definitely."

Rafael studied the layout in silence, eyes like stone. Then he spoke.

"Luca's expecting a king."

Cruz nodded. "So?"

A muscle jumped in Rafael's jaw.

"Let's send him the queen."

The next day was our quiet before the storm.

Rafael and I didn't talk about what came after.

We didn't whisper promises we couldn't keep.

Instead, we sat on the balcony in silence, his fingers twined with mine, my head on his shoulder.

The city glittered below us.

"I used to think love was weakness," he said softly.

"And now?"

He turned to look at me — those midnight eyes finally stripped of cruelty and calculation.

"Now I know it's war."

I leaned in and kissed him slow.

For luck.

For love.

For tomorrow.

Chapter 24 – The Villa Burns

Rafael D'Amico

I wore black to war.

Not because it was tactical.

Because it was a funeral.

And I planned to bury my brother before dawn.

The drive to Luca's villa was silent.

Cruz sat beside me, checking weapons. Valentina sat in the back, her eyes sharp, hair tied up, sleeves rolled. My wife looked like vengeance wrapped in soft skin and stubborn will.

And I was in love with her.

Violently.

Irrevocably.

"You ready?" I asked, not looking back.

Her voice was steady. "Let's kill your past so we can have a future."

Damn.

If I survived this, I was going to build her a palace.

We split at the ridge.

Two teams.

Cruz and the others would flank the side wall.

Valentina and I? Straight through the front gate.

Because sometimes the boldest move is the one your enemy won't expect.

We scaled the outer fence, cut the lights, and were on the gravel path before the first alarm blared.

Then all hell broke loose.

Gunfire lit up the garden like a sick fireworks show.

I dropped two guards with clean headshots and shoved Valentina behind a stone lion statue.

"Stay down!" I shouted.

She popped back up, fired twice, and dropped another one. "You were saying?"

God, I loved her.

We ducked into the hallway, stepping over bodies. The villa was old — dusty wood, oil paintings, iron chandeliers.

Beautiful.

Until we turned it into a battleground.

Luca waited for us in the study.

Of course he did.

Standing like a ghost in front of our father's old desk. Same scarred wood. Same smell of old leather and spilled whiskey.

"You brought her?" he asked, amused. "How romantic."

"Put down the gun," I said.

He cocked his head. "Still trying to be the better brother?"

"No," I said. "I've stopped trying."

He raised his pistol.

I shot first.

But the bastard moved. Bullet grazed his arm — he returned fire, grazing my side.

Pain exploded through my ribs. I stumbled. Valentina screamed.

And then she stepped in front of me.

Valentina Cruz, five-foot-nothing, covered in bruises and fire, pointed her gun at Luca like she'd done it a thousand times.

"Drop it," she said.

He laughed. "You're bluffing."

"I'm broke, orphaned, and married to a monster. I have nothing to lose."

She fired.

Hit his leg.

He dropped.

I rose.

And ended it.

Two bullets.

One for the lies.

One for the blood.

Neither out of mercy.

When it was over, we stood in the smoking ruin of the villa.

Breathing.

Bleeding.

Free.

"You're hit," she whispered, tearing off a piece of her shirt to patch my side.

"So are you," I said.

She looked up at me, tears streaked with soot.

I cupped her face.

"No more running," I said.

"No more cages," she replied.

And then we kissed.

Not like lovers.

Like survivors.