Elena learned quickly that in the Moretti estate, rules weren't suggestions. They weren't flexible. They weren't negotiable.
She discovered this on the third morning after the silent drives, when Luca finally spoke—not casually, not in passing—but deliberately, like a lesson being etched into stone.
"You will follow the rules," he said, voice low, measured, carrying the weight of command.
She raised an eyebrow. "Which rules?"
"All of them," he replied. "The ones you can see, the ones you cannot. The ones in writing. The ones in action."
Elena's hands flexed, brushing against the black steel ring at her finger. The ring had already become a constant reminder of her position here. It was not jewelry. It was a warning.
"The first rule," Luca continued, "is awareness. You will notice everything. Men outside, men inside, what they say, what they leave unsaid. Nothing escapes me, and nothing should escape you."
She said nothing. She had learned that silence was often safer than argument, though it did not mean submission.
"The second rule," he said, stepping closer, dark eyes scanning her like a predator assessing prey, "is obedience to boundaries. You do not leave the estate without permission. You do not speak when spoken to unless it is necessary. You do not test the patience of men who could kill you in a heartbeat."
"I can handle myself," Elena said, sharp, defiant.
He smiled faintly. Not approval. Not amusement. Measurement. "We shall see. Control is not about strength. It's about knowing when strength is irrelevant."
She flushed, anger and pride mixing. She was not used to being told she could not act. She had lived her life on her own terms—until now.
"The third rule," he said, "is visibility. Everything you do is observed. The guards, the men, the city—they watch. You will not let them see weakness. You will not let them see hesitation. You will not let them see fear."
Elena's throat tightened. "And if I do?"
Luca's jaw tightened, his voice low and steady. "Then you learn the consequences before anyone else does. That is the fourth rule: lessons are immediate."
She looked away, swallowing hard. The weight of his gaze pressed into her chest. The rules weren't meant to protect. They were meant to shape, to break, to forge.
"The fifth rule," he said, softer now, almost dangerously intimate, "is this: never forget whose world you are in. Do not mistake leniency for freedom. Do not mistake attention for affection. And never, ever mistake power for mercy."
Elena met his eyes finally. There was no room for argument. Only acceptance.
"I understand," she said, her voice low but firm.
"Good," he said. "You will repeat these rules until they are instinct. Until you can navigate the estate blindfolded and untouched by error. Until you understand that obedience is not weakness, and defiance is not rebellion. Everything here has consequences. Everything here is measured. Everything here is real."
He paused, letting the words settle, letting her feel the weight of them.
"Do you accept these rules?" he asked.
"Yes," she said quietly.
He nodded once. "Then we begin."
The first lesson started immediately. Guards followed her silently as she walked the corridors, every step cataloged. Servants moved in choreographed silence. Even the shadows seemed deliberate.
Elena's chest ached—not from fear, not from fatigue—but from the suffocating awareness that her life had changed completely. She was no longer free. She was observed. She was measured. She was part of the game, a piece on a board ruled by a man who knew every move before it happened.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, a spark ignited.
The rules were steel.
And she intended to bend them without breaking.