RUTHLESS VOW

Chapter Four: Rules of Engagement

The summons came on my fourth morning.

I was sitting by the window in my room, watching the guards make their rounds below, when a knock sounded at my door. Greta stood in the hallway, her expression as unreadable as ever.

"Mr. Moretti will see you now."

Four words. No explanation, no preparation, no hint of what to expect. Just a command wrapped in politeness.

I stood, smoothing down the silk blouse I'd chosen from the closet that morning. Navy blue, professional, armor against whatever was coming. My fingers found the necklace at my throat—that nervous habit again. I'd been waiting for this moment for days, dreading it and craving it in equal measure. The uncertainty had been its own kind of torture.

At least now I would know.

Greta led me through the labyrinth of hallways, deeper into the house than I'd yet explored. We passed rooms I hadn't seen before—a formal dining room with a table long enough to seat thirty, a sitting room decorated in deep reds and golds, a hallway lined with portraits of dark-eyed men and women who must have been Morettis from generational. The family legacy, staring down from the walls.

Security cameras at every intersection, their red lights blinking like watchful eyes. How many times had Dante watched me through these cameras? How many of my moments alone had actually been observed?

The thought made my skin prickle.

Finally, we stopped before a heavy wooden door. Greta knocked once, waited for the low voice that said "Enter," then stepped aside.

"Good luck, Miss Russo," she murmured, and something in her tone made me think I'd need it.

I pushed the door open and stepped into Dante Moretti's study.

The room was designed to intimidate, and it succeeded. Dark wood paneling swallowed the light from tall windows. Built-in bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked more like weapons than literature. A cold, unused fireplace dominated one walls. And at the center of it all, behind a desk the size of a small car, sat the man who owned me.

Dante didn't look up when I entered.

He was writing, his pen moving across paper with precise, unhurried strokes. Morning light caught his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the cruel perfection of his mouth. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle. No suit jacket, no tie. As if he couldn't be bothered to dress formally for me.

I stood in silence, waiting.

Seconds stretched into minutes. My legs ached. My pride began to burn from being ignored. I knew it these was a test—but knowing didn't make it easier.

Finally, when I was moments from speaking just to break the silence, Dante set down his pen.

He looked up.

His eyes struck me like a physical blow. Dark as midnight, cold as a frozen lake, They swept over me, slow and deliberate, assessing, everything. But beneath the coldness was something else—heat. Something that made my breath hitch despite myself.

His gaze lingered on the necklace at my throat.

Just for a moment.

Then his eyes returned to my face, intense and unsettlingly possessive.

I lifted my chin and refused to look away.

Something flickered across his expression. Gone before I could name it. He gestured to the chair opposite him.

"Sit."

A command, not an invitation.

I sat, spine straight hands folded neatly in my lap. Composed. Controlled. Two could play at this game.

"Miss Russo."He leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "I trust you've found your accommodations acceptable."

"The cage is very comfortable."

The words escaped before I could stop them. I watched his face for anger, for threat, for any sign that I'd pushed too far.

Instead, his mouth curved. Not quite a smile, but close. Dangerous.

"You have a sharp tongue."

"It's been remarked upon."

"By whom?"

"Your sister. Your right hand. Various people who underestimated me." I met his gaze. "Would you like to add your name to the list?"

The almost-smile deepened. "I don't underestimate anyone, Miss Russo. That’s how I've stayed alive."

He opened a folder on his desk and flipped it open. I caught a glimpse of pages, Photos, Documents. I couldn't read from distance. But I saw the label.

My name.

"Let's discuss the terms of your arrangement," he said, his voice shifting into something cooler, more businesslike. "You'll serve as my personal assistant for one year. You'll manage my schedule, coordinate staff, handle sensitive correspondence, and accompany me to events where a companion is expected."

"A companion." The word tasted bitter. "You mean arm candy."

"I mean a representative of this household." His eyes flashed. "When you're seen with me, you represent the Moretti name. You'll dress appropriately, speak appropriately, and conduct yourself with the grace expected of someone in my circle. Is that understood?"

"And if I refuse?"

"Then our arrangement ends, and I pursue your father's debt through other means." He said it casually, like he was discussing the weather. "Your mother's home will be seized by week’s end. Her medical care becomes your responsibility—an expense I suspect you cannot afford. And you'll spend the rest of your life running from collectors who are far less civilized than I am."

The threat landed exactly as intended. My stomach clenched, but I kept my expression neutral.

"You've made your point."

"Have I?" His gaze sharpened. "I want to be certain we understand each other, Elena."

The sound of my name in his voice sent an unwanted shiver through me.

He'd been calling me Miss Russo since I arrived, maintaining that professional distance. Hearing my name in his voice—low and rough, almost intimate—felt like a boundary being crossed.

"You're not a prisoner here," he continued. "You're free to leave whenever you choose. But choices have consequences. I'm offering a solution. One year of your time and your cooperation."

"All you ask." I said. "You make it sound generous."

"It is." " He rose from his chair and moved around the desk.

I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, and I hated how small it made me feel. But I refused to look away, refused to give him the satisfaction of my fear.

He was close now. Too close. That I could smell his cologne—cedar and something darker, richer, that made my pulse jump despite myself. Close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his eyes, the scar near his brow, the tension in his jaw.

"What are the boundaries?" I asked.

"Boundaries?"

"What’s expected of me. And what isn’t".

Something shifted. "You'll have access to most of the house and grounds. Certain areas are restricted for your own safety—Greta will provide a map. You'll work standard hours unless an event requires otherwise. You'll have one day off per week, which you may use to visit your mother or attend to personal matters. A car and driver will be provided."

"And what about..." I hesitated, hating that I had to ask. "What about other expectations? Beyond work?"

The air between us changed. Heavy with something I didn't want to name.

Dante's eyes dropped to my mouth for just a moment. A fraction of a second. Then they returned to my face, and his expression was ice once more.

"I don't force women into my bed, if that's what you're asking." His voice was low, rough. "Whatever happens between us—if anything happens—will be your choice. Always.

Relief washed through me.

And beneath it—something reckless and unwanted.

I may be a monster, Miss Russo, he added but I'm not that kind of monster."

"Then I think we understand each other," I said.

"Do we?" His fingers brushed my necklace, light and deliberate Electricity raced across my skin. "A gift from your father?"

"Yes. His last gift before he died."

"He had good taste." Dante's fingers lingered for just a moment longer, his eyes searching my face. "It suits you. You should wear it always." Then he stepped back.

"We begin tomorrow," "Greta will brief you on the week's schedule. I expect you in this office at eight AM sharp."

Dismissed.

I stood and walked to the door, His voice stopped me.

"Elena."

I looked back. He stood exactly where I'd left him, hands in his pockets, watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "your father used to fold the moment anyone challenged him. You're nothing like him. You're stronger. Braver." His eyes locked onto mine. "More dangerous to me than he ever was."

"Dangerous how?" I whispered.

For a moment, I thought he might answer. Might finally say whatever he'd been holding back.

Instead, he turned away and moved to the window, dismissing me without another word.

I left with my heart racing

Dante braced himself against the window once the door closed.

He'd lied. Manufactured a debt. Hidden documents proving her father had paid everything before he died.

And he'd do it again.

Because she was already under his skin.

The game had begun.

And despite everything—despite the fear and the resentment and the impossible situation—some part of me was already playing.

God help me.