Chapter 7
Raffaele
The woman beside me is so tense I can practically hear her muscles straining. She’s pressed herself against the passenger door like she’s trying to melt through it, putting as much distance between us as the confines of my car will allow.
Her pale blue eyes remain fixed on the snow-covered streets outside, watching Cleveland’s lights blur past the window. The cat in her lap—Onyx, she calls it—stares at me with unblinking yellow eyes, as if calculating whether I’m a threat to his mistress.
Smart animal.
February’s brutal chill has emptied most of Cleveland’s streets, leaving them eerily silent under a fresh layer of snow. The heater purrs quietly, but Alina still trembles slightly. From cold or fear, I can’t tell. Probably both, considering the tatty excuse for a coat she’s wearing.
A stoplight catches us, the red glow painting her pale skin in blood-tinted shadows. I take the opportunity to study her properly. Even in profile, with her face half-hidden by that curtain of red hair, there’s no denying Alina Brewer is beautiful.
Not in the fake as fuck Instagram-ready way of her sister, but in a way that’s so real it feels like it’s pulling you in.
Her lower lip trembles slightly before she bites down on it. The simple action sends an unexpected surge of heat through me that I immediately suppress.
The light changes. I accelerate smoothly, watching as we leave the crowded downtown streets behind, moving toward the more exclusive neighborhoods that ring the city. Houses grow larger, spaces between them wider, as old money gives way to new.
“Where would your sister go?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road now.
Alina’s head turns slightly, the first reaction I’ve gotten since putting her in the car. “I don’t know.” Her voice is so soft I almost miss it over the engine’s purr. “I didn’t even know she was planning to leave.”
“If you’re covering for her, there’s no need,” I reply, not bothering to hide my skepticism. “You were the one your mom gave up as collateral, not Sabrina. I have no interest in her.”
Alina shakes her head slowly. “No, I really don’t know. We’re not close,” she explains, and there’s a raw edge to her voice that catches my attention. “And she… she destroyed all my things before she left.”
That explains the wrecked bedroom. I’d wondered if it was a break-in, but the targeted destruction and painted message on the walls told a different story.
“Perché mai farebbe una cosa simile?” I mutter under my breath.
Louder, I repeat the question in English for her benefit.
“Why the hell would she do something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Alina whispers. “I… I don’t know anything. Why would my mom…” That’s it. She just stops talking, never completing the sentence.
I shoot her another glance. The woman beside me is nothing like the shrieking, flailing creature who tried to fight me off in that apartment. This one is quiet, defeated, her fire banked beneath layers of exhaustion and shock.
It’s disappointing. I expected more fight.
I turn onto the winding road that leads to Seven Hills.
We drive in silence through the exclusive neighborhood where I live.
Unlike Matteo and Enzo, I don’t live in an apartment.
I value my privacy too much for that. Here, surrounded by old trees and protected by the best security money can buy, I answer to no one but myself.
The wrought-iron gate appears in my headlights, ornate and imposing against the snowy backdrop. I slow as we approach, pressing my thumb to the sensor beside the steering wheel. The gate recognizes me instantly, swinging open with a soft mechanical hum.
As we pass through, I feel Alina’s eyes on me for the first time since we left the city. I turn slightly, catching her gaze before she can look away. There’s fear there, yes, but something else too—calculation. She’s trying to figure me out, measure the danger, find an angle.
Good. The defeated act she displayed through the drive was starting to bore me.
The driveway curves through snow-laden pines before opening to reveal my home—ten thousand square feet of stone and glass. From the way her breath catches, I know the impact is exactly what I want it to be when people see my home.
Power, wealth, and absolute control.
“You live here?” she asks, wonder lilting her words.
“I do. And now you do too.” I kill the engine in front of the main entrance.
When I open her door, she doesn’t immediately move, her eyes darting between me and the sprawling house behind me.
“Either get out willingly or I’ll carry you,” I say coldly. “Your choice.”
She slides out awkwardly, trying to keep hold of the cat while maintaining as much distance from me as possible. I place my hand at the small of her back to guide her toward the entrance, feeling her stiffen at my touch. The brave creature in her arms hisses, sensing her distress.
Alina’s steps falter for just a moment before she continues walking, her back rigid under my palm. Above us, security cameras track our movements, recording every angle of our approach.
As I usher her over the threshold, her face lifts to take in the soaring entryway with its modern chandelier. The realization seems to settle over her like the snow outside—silent, cold, and inescapable.
This massive stone structure isn’t just my home. It’s her cage. And I’m the only one with the key.
The heavy front door closes behind us with a solid thud, sealing us inside the warmth of my home. Alina still clutches her cat like it’s a shield, her knuckles white against his black fur.
Her eyes dart around the expansive entryway, taking in the high ceilings and the sleek furniture with the wide-eyed wariness of prey that’s suddenly found itself in a predator’s den. She’s not wrong.
“This way,” I tell her, not bothering with a tour.
I lead her across the marble floor, past the living area with its wall of windows overlooking the snow-covered hillside. The cat’s supplies—a small bundle of blankets, food, and what looks like a stuffed mouse—feel ridiculously light in my hands.
These pitiful items and the teddy bear tucked under her arm are all she has now. I’d feel sorry for her if I were the kind of man who allowed himself that weakness.
Her footsteps behind me are hesitant, almost silent.
When I glance back, she’s following at a careful distance, her blue eyes scanning over everything as if memorizing escape routes.
Smart, but pointless. Knowing where to get out won’t help her.
This house was designed with security in mind—no one enters or leaves without my knowledge.
At the staircase, I gesture for her to go ahead of me. She pauses, uncertainty flashing across her face before she starts climbing, her movements stiff with tension. The stairs give me the perfect vantage point to appreciate the curve of her ass in those worn jeans.
Even exhausted and terrified, she moves with an unconscious sensuality that makes my mouth go dry.
“Second door on the right,” I instruct when we reach the landing.
She follows my directions, pushing open the door to reveal the guest room I’ve had prepared. It’s spacious but sparse.
The adjoining bathroom door stands partially open, revealing gleaming tile and glass. The walls are a cool gray, unadorned except for a single abstract painting that adds a splash of blue. No personality, no warmth. Just like my business transactions.
“You can put the cat down,” I say, placing his supplies on the floor near the dresser. “This is where you’ll be staying. At least for now.”
Alina finally loosens her grip on Onyx, setting him gently on the bed. The cat immediately begins exploring, limping slightly as he investigates the unfamiliar territory. She watches him with naked concern, even uselessly reaching for him when he loses his balance for a moment.
Clearing my throat, I continue. “The bathroom is through there.” I nod toward the partially open door.
“There are towels in the cabinet and probably a few basic toiletries as well. The dresser is empty. Not that you have much to put in it. And there are extra blankets in the closet if you get cold.”
Her hand drifts to the teddy bear she’s still clutching. It almost looks like she’s… I don’t know. Padding it down or feeling for something?
“Do you want something to eat?” I’m not sure why I even bother offering since I’m not her fucking host. If anything, I’m her captor.
She shakes her head as she sits down on the edge of the mattress next to her cat, who’s now perched there. Then she speaks for the first time since entering my home. “I’m not hungry.” Her voice is soft but steady, surprising me.
I study her for a moment, taking in the exhaustion etched into every line of her body, the way she stretches her legs and rolls her ankles as if her feet hurt.
The faint smudges of flour still visible on her arms tell the story of a long day at the bakery before I collected her.
Despite everything, she has a quiet dignity that’s hard not to admire.
The small handbag hanging from her wrist catches my eye. I didn’t see her pack that one, but I’m pretty sure her phone’s in there. I close the distance and reach for it. She reacts immediately, leaning back to avoid me.
It’s too much, too fast. Her balance slips, and she topples backward onto the mattress, the cat darting out of the way. I step forward before she can recover, planting myself between her legs as she half-sits, half-lies there.
“D-don’t come any c-closer,” she stutters.
Instead of answering, I take another step. This sends her scrambling backward up the mattress, palms dragging against the sheets, breath coming shallow and uneven. The more she retreats, the more space she gives me to enter.
The headboard meets her shoulders. “Nowhere left to go now,” I growl.
I brace a knee on the mattress and lean over her—not touching—just close enough that she has to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes. My shadow falls over her.
She goes completely still. Even her breathing falters, like she’s afraid the sound of it will provoke me. “P-please don’t hurt me,” she begs, her voice weak as she curls in on herself as if trying to make herself smaller.
I pause, something uncomfortable slithering through my gut at her response. I’m many things—violent when necessary, ruthless when crossed—but I don’t hit women and I certainly don’t force myself on them.
“I won’t hurt you,” I say, moderating my tone. “But I need to check what you’re bringing into my home.”
Her breath stutters. “It’s just some money and my ID.” She swallows thickly. “Nothing that would interest you.”
I resist the urge to laugh at that assessment. She’s saying that her money isn’t of interest to me. The fucking Debt Collector. The irony is too much.
I reach for the strap around her wrist, slow on purpose. My fingers brush her skin. She flinches, but she doesn’t fight. “Relax,” I say as I take it from her.
I study her for a moment, noting the pallor beneath her freckles and the exhaustion dragging at the corners of her eyes.
Her wide eyes track me as I retreat, restoring distance between us.
The small purse weighs almost nothing. I open it, finding exactly what she claimed; her ID, about sixty dollars in cash that I leave alone, and, as I suspected, her phone.
“You won’t be needing this,” I say, pocketing the device. “No communication with the outside world unless I approve it.”
“What happens now?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. The teddy bear is crushed against her chest, her knuckles white around its worn body.
Fuck me, the way her eyes continue to widen and her grasping the bear like that makes her look like a girl instead of a woman. She might only be twenty-three, but the way she’s infantilizing herself is ridiculous.
The questions hang between us, loaded with all the fears she’s not voicing. I’m sure she’s afraid I’ll demand her body as payment for Sophia’s debt. That I’ll force her. It’s written in the way she holds herself, in the distance she’s careful to maintain.
Forcing people isn’t the only way to get what you want. And victory tastes so much sweeter when people submit on their own.
“Now, you’re mine. I always collect what I’m owed, one way or another.” I let the statement sit, watching as understanding dawns in her eyes. “You’re not a guest here, Alina. You’re my payment for Sophia’s debt.”
She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. “What will happen to the bakery?” she asks after a moment. “Who will run it with me gone?”
The question surprises me. After everything that’s happened, her concern is for the business? I expected tears, pleas, maybe even another attempt at fighting back. Not this practical worry about bread and pastries.
“That’s not my problem,” I lie.
It’s very much my fucking problem. Why? Because Remus will make it so. And, if I’m honest, he’d be right to. The bakery is more than a fixture in Little Italy. It’s a potential income that’s now half mine.
I turn toward the door, satisfied that she understands her position. “Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll establish the rules.”
“Raffaele.” My name on her lips stops me at the threshold. It’s the first time she’s used it, and there’s something about her soft pronunciation that makes my skin tighten.
When I turn back, she’s standing, her chin lifted slightly despite the fear still evident in her eyes. “Thank you for letting me bring Onyx.”
I nod once, uncomfortable with her gratitude. Then I step into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind me.
As I walk away, the image of her standing there—small and defiant despite everything—stays with me. Most people I collect break immediately, begging and bargaining before I’ve even outlined their options. But Alina Brewer thanked me for a small kindness instead.
Interesting. Very interesting indeed.