You didn’t knock.
Because when you're panicking, you forget things. Like manners. Or survival instincts. Like the fact that barging into the office of Salvador Cruz—the most feared man in Spain’s underworld—could get you shot.
“Salvador,” you gasped, stumbling through the door, “I messed up. I messed up bad.”
He didn’t even flinch. Still seated behind that massive desk, pen in hand, suit flawless, expression carved from stone. The room went still. The only sound was the soft click of his pen meeting paper.
He didn’t look up. “How bad.”
“Remember the merger proposal?”
A pause.
“Which one.”
“The one to the foreign investors. I... I accidentally sent the draft instead of the final version.”
Silence.
You felt your throat tighten. “The one labeled Criminal Inc. instead of Cruz International.”
Now he looked up.
And oh god, that stare. Freezing cold. Flat. Dangerous.
“I called your empire a literal criminal corporation, Salvador.” You were rambling now. “I basically confessed to every crime you’ve ever committed. I’ve rebranded the mafia. We’re a parody now. I’ve doomed us all.”
Still silent.
“I’ll fix it, I swear—I’ve already sent the corrected file. But what if they read it first? What if they think it’s a joke? What if we lose the deal? Oh my god, I’m going to get us arrested. Should I fake my death? I should fake my death, right? Like, go live in the woods, change my name, wear a wig—”
“Stop talking.”
His voice was quiet. So quiet it cut deeper than if he’d shouted.
You froze mid-ramble. Mid-breath.
He set his pen down slowly, deliberately. Folded his hands in front of him.
And then… he looked at you.
Really looked.
Like he was seeing through you, reading every thought crashing around inside your panic-ridden skull.
Your heart thudded in your ears. You waited for the storm—his infamous cold anger, his sharp words, the command to get out, pack your things, disappear.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, Salvador Cruz... smiled.
Just for a second. Barely there. But it was real. The corner of his mouth lifted. His lips softened. His eyes—usually so cold—held something almost... amused.
You blinked. “Was that—did you just—”
“No.”
“You smiled. Oh my god, you smiled. You laughed! That was a laugh, I heard it!”
“You’re hallucinating.”
“Nope,” you said, stepping closer, pointing at his face. “There. Right there. Dimples. Salvador Cruz has dimples. I’m calling the press.”
His jaw clenched, trying to erase it. “Get out.”
You grinned wider. “You laughed. Because of me. You haven’t smiled in twenty-four years, and now look at you. I’m your Roman Empire.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re delusional.”
“And you’re in denial.”
He stood suddenly, chair sliding back with a sharp scrape. The energy in the room shifted—thickened. You should’ve been afraid. Maybe you were. But not enough to shut up.
“You can’t fire me,” you said, lifting your chin. “I’m too good at my job.”
“You’re chaos in heels.”
“But effective chaos.”
He stared at you for one long, unbearable second. Then turned away.
You smirked. “I’m growing on you.”
“Like mold,” he muttered.
Still, he didn’t deny it again.
You left his office with your heart still racing, your pulse still erratic—but not from fear anymore. You could feel it. That shift. That crack in his mask.
Salvador Cruz, the man who ruled with silence and fear…
Had smiled. For you.
And no matter how much he tried to bury it— He couldn’t take that moment back.