Chapter 2 - The Deal with the Devil

Valentina’s POV

I stood before the ornate mirror in the guest suite, studying my reflection with critical eyes.

The woman staring back wore a silk emerald green A-line dress with a cowl neckline and short puffy sleeves—feminine, elegant, disarming.

Around my neck hung a delicate emerald necklace with matching earrings—Raffaele’s “gift.”

“You’re decent enough,” came his voice from the doorway.

I turned slowly, finding him leaning against the frame, immaculate in charcoal gray, his expression unreadable.

Those dark eyes made my stomach surge. I couldn’t look away.

“You exceed expectations,” I replied coolly, adjusting the necklace. “Another chain to bind me?”

Something flashed in his eyes—amusement? Irritation? “Symbolic, perhaps. But necessary for appearances.”

“Like everything else about this arrangement.”

He checked his watch. “The lawyers are waiting. Shall we?”

The conference room felt sterile—glass and polished wood.

Two family attorneys sat opposite each other, documents spread like a battlefield.

Raffaele’s lawyer, a hawk-faced woman named Alessandra Moretti, pushed the first stack toward me.

“The prenuptial agreement,” she said with her voice clipped. “Mr. Ricchezza has been… generous.”

I took my time reading, ignoring their impatience. Page after page—restricting my access to funds, dictating my behavior, outlining my “duties” as Mrs. Valentina Ricchezza.

“I need access to the library,” I said finally.

Raffaele raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“I need unrestricted access to your research facilities. My work doesn’t stop because of our arrangement.”

“Your archaeology hobby?” Alessandra Moretti scoffed.

I met Raffaele’s gaze. “My profession. The same one that made me valuable enough for you to… acquire.”

A tense silence stretched. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded. “Make the changes, Alessandra.”

Her surprise mirrored mine. “Mr. Ricchezza—”

“Do it.” His tone left no room for argument.

An hour later, I signed my name beside his. It felt weird.

As Alessandra Moretti gathered the papers, Raffaele leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “Your first test begins tonight. The engagement announcement. Don’t disappoint me.”

I smiled tightly. “I never do.”

The ballroom of the Grand Babylon Hotel glittered with Baghdad’s elite—politicians, oil magnates, socialites dripping in jewels. Cameras flashed as we entered, his hand firm against the small of my back.

“Smile,” he murmured. “You look like you’re walking to your execution.”

“Aren’t I?” I whispered through gritted teeth.

His laugh sounded genuine enough to fool everyone but me. “Perhaps. But what a magnificent death it will be.”

We moved through the crowd seamlessly. I played my part—the charming, accomplished fiancée, laughing at the right moments, touching his arm with practiced affection.

“Valentina,” a man greeted warmly. “Finally, I meet the woman who’s tamed my grandson.”

His handshake was firm, his smile genuine. This man couldn’t be more different from Raffaele.

“Mr. Ricchezza, it’s a pleasure—”

“Call me Domenico. Come, sit. You’re even more beautiful than in the photos.”

I blushed automatically, letting the role wrap around me like silk. “I’ve heard about your work. Archaeology, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Ancient civilizations, mostly Mesopotamian.”

“A woman with brains and purpose. Finally!” he said, chuckling. “I worried Raffaele would settle for some empty-headed heiress.”

“I suppose I’m a different kind of acquisition,” I said with a teasing smile.

He laughed harder. “And honest. I like that.”

He poured tea into porcelain cups. “Now, tell me—do you want children?”

He nodded seriously. “The Ricchezza name needs a future.”

“I’ve always imagined having three,” I said smoothly. “A small tribe.”

Domenico beamed. “Three! You hear that, Raffaele?”

“I heard.” His tone was unreadable.

“Good girl,” Domenico said, patting my hand.

“You signed the prenup without a fuss. A woman who’s not after money is rare in our world. Don’t worry, my dear. Raffaele and I will spoil you and your future children properly.”

I smiled, heart pounding. I didn’t want children. Not with Raffaele. But I nodded like any dutiful bride would.

“Excuse us, grandfather,” Raffaele said quietly. “It’s time for the toast.”

He led me to the center of the room, champagne flutes in hand. The crowd hushed as he raised his glass.

“To my future wife, Valentina,” he announced, voice carrying effortlessly. “Who brings brilliance and beauty into my life when I least expected it.”

All eyes turned to me. My moment.

I lifted my glass, meeting his gaze. “To Raffaele,” I said in a steady voice, “who reminded me that sometimes the most valuable treasures are those destined by fate.”

I let my smile turn intimate. “Though as an archaeologist, I can’t help but dig beneath the surface.”

A ripple of appreciative laughter. His eyes darkened slightly—challenge accepted.

He leaned in, his soft lips brushing mine for the cameras. A perfect performance. And my lips tingled with anticipation, my mind spiraled out of control as my body betrayed me.

“Convincing,” he whispered against my mouth.

I only nodded, unable to speak.

The car passed through towering gates and wound its way up a tree-lined drive toward a sprawling Mediterranean-style villa.

My phone buzzed nonstop, notifications flooding in. #XRicchezzaRomance was everywhere—headlines spun a fairytale of my engagement to Raffaele.

I scrolled through the texts, disgust creeping in. The media twisted every glance and touch into something it wasn’t.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Valentina Ricchezza,” Raffaele said as the car stopped.

The housekeeper, Elena, showed me to "my" wing—a suite of rooms larger than my entire apartment. She was efficient, polite, but I caught the suspicion in her eyes.

The only familiar items were my books and research notes, carefully arranged on shelves. And my father's journal. Stamped with the red flower.

"I'm here, father," I whispered. "I'll find out the truth and get our revenge."

I ventured out to explore. The house was quiet—perfect for what I needed.

The eastern wing housed Raffaele’s offices and library, now accessible thanks to my negotiated terms. I tried the door—unlocked.

The library took my breath away. Two stories of books, ancient maps framed on walls, climate-controlled cases containing artifacts.

I moved through the space carefully, examining titles. Art history. Archaeology. Mesopotamian mythology. Unexpected for an oil tycoon.

A glass case against the far wall drew me closer. Inside lay a clay tablet, cuneiform markings clearly visible—Sumerian, from the Uruk period.

“It’s authentic.”

I whirled around. Raffaele stood in the doorway, watching me with those piercing eyes.

“Third dynasty,” I said, recovering quickly. “A fragment from the Epic of Gilgamesh.”

He approached, standing beside me to view the tablet. “The flood story. One of the first acquisitions in my collection.”

“Your collection?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “You’re actually interested in archaeology for real?”

“I’m interested in many things, Valentina.” His voice dropped slightly. “Including what my new wife is doing”

He stepped too close, his cologne, his breath on my skin, making my pulse quicken.

“Why so breathless, Valentina? Are you suddenly out of words?” he said, smirking as he released me.

“Getting acquainted with my surroundings,” I said, trying to steady my breath. “As any good archaeologist would.”

He gestured around the room. “Feel free to use my resources.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “There’s a charity gala tomorrow night. Your first official appearance as my wife. The maid will help you prepare.”

“I don’t need help dressing.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, studying me for a moment longer. “Goodnight, Valentina.”

After he left, I returned to the tablet and my mind racing.

I scanned the shelves until one report caught my eye—Ricchezza Oil’s logo embossed on the cover. His collection wasn’t just a rich man’s hobby. The Ricchezza family’s connection to my father’s death felt more complex than I’d imagined.

I opened it, heart thudding. A bookmarked page listed “orichalcum knowledge—2003.” Me and my father’s obsession.

A note in Raffaele’s sharp script: “Bianchi’s data incomplete. Pursue source.”

Footsteps echoed outside. I shoved the report back, pulse hammering, and slipped into the hall just as a shadow crossed the doorway.

The next morning, I escaped to the gardens, needing air. The grounds were immaculate—Mediterranean cypress trees, stone fountains, hidden alcoves.

A rustle startled me. An older woman stood near a rose trellis, struggling with a shawl caught on thorns.

“Let me help,” I said, stepping forward.

She looked up, eyes widening. “Valentina Bianchi?”

“Do I know you?” I asked, suddenly realizing it was Monica Buccella.

“I was your mother Graziella’s friend. I’m here to see Domenico’s wife Giuliana.”

Her gaze dropped to my engagement ring. “Raffaele Ricchezza? My God, what are you doing with him?”

“It’s complicated, Monica.”

She lowered her voice. “Be careful, Valentina. Whatever you’re after, trust no one here.”

I pulled her into a tight hug. “You knew my father’s work. Orichalcum. Gilgamesh—if you hear anything—”

“I’ll try,” she said, eyes darting to the villa. “But watch your back. Someone’s always watching.”

She slipped away, leaving me in the garden.

This wasn’t just a deal with the devil. It was a dance with a viper.

And I’d strike first.