Chapter 8
Raffaele
Ifind Susan, my housekeeper, in the kitchen where she’s busy organizing something I don’t care about. She’s been with me for years, and she’s one of the few people I trust completely. She looks up as I enter, her experienced eyes missing nothing.
“Good evening, Mr. Russo,” she says, her hands never pausing in their work. “If you’re here to check on dinner—”
“I’m not,” I interrupt as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “And it’s Rafe. Or Raffaele.” I don’t know why I keep reminding her. She’s old enough to be stuck in her ways and not going to change when I remind her for the millionth time.
Susan huffs. “If you’d let me finish, Mr. Russo, you would have heard me tell you it’ll be ready in an hour.” Her stern expression turns smug. She always loves it when she has the upper hand. “I figured you’d want to eat late tonight.”
The smell of rosemary and garlic filling the air promises a delicious meal I don’t want to rush. “That’s fine,” I grunt, loosening my tie slightly.
“Anything else?” she asks, her tone making it clear she isn’t happy about being interrupted.
Smirking, I lean against the island. “I need food sent up to the guest room.”
“Tells me to clean the guest room and put fresh linen on the bed, but thinks I’m too old to realize it means he has company and that company likes to eat,” Susan mumbles. She has a talent for doing it so low she can pretend I wasn’t meant to hear, yet loud enough there’s no way I’d miss it.
This woman is fucking amazing. No wonder she used to be friends with my mom before my parents retired to Rome.
Ignoring her ramble, I continue, “And she’ll need food and water bowls for her cat. I don’t want the thing yowling all night.”
Susan’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Did you just say cat?” she questions, sounding so incredulous I can’t help smiling.
“I did,” I confirm, amusement coating my words. “And a litter tray.”
Huffing, Susan starts rummaging in the cupboard under the sink. She looks downright triumphant when she fishes out a blue plastic washing-up bowl.
“I’ll line this with some… paper, I guess. It should do until I can go shopping tomorrow.” She moves around the kitchen while talking.
Nodding, I pull out my wallet and retrieve my black credit card, immediately placing it on the counter. “Get her some clothes and whatever she needs as well.”
“What size?”
The question makes me pause. I have no fucking idea what size clothing she wears. “Just ask her when you bring the food up,” I conclude. I notice there’s a slight hesitation in her movement that I haven’t seen before. “Are you okay, Susan?”
She seems surprised by the question. “I’m just a bit tired. Nothing to worry about.”
I lean against the counter, noticing the pill bottle tucked half-behind the olive oil. Arthritis medication. I’ve known about her arthritis for a while, but this is the first time I’ve seen her keep her pills this close in the open.
“Are your hands bothering you?” I ask.
A flash of discomfort crosses her face before she masks it. “It’s nothing, Mr. Russo. Winter makes them ache a bit. That’s all.”
I don’t press. Instead, I reach for my phone, making a quick note. “I’ll have the heating system adjusted in your room. And find someone to handle the heavy lifting in the pantry from now on.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“It is.” My tone leaves no room for argument, but it’s not unkind. “I expect excellence, Susan. That requires proper working conditions.”
Something that might be gratitude flickers in her eyes, but she’s too professional to make an emotional scene. Instead, she simply nods. “If you insist.”
“I do.” Pointing at the black credit card. “After you get some clothes for Alina, take the rest of tomorrow off. Get some rest and a massage.”
“But—”
“It’s an order,” I cut her off. “The house won’t fall apart in a day.” At least I hope it won’t.
A small smile crosses her face. “Thank you, Mr. Russo.” Then she laughs softly. “It might, though. Please don’t make me come back to a mess.”
I chuckle because I know damn well Susan will be back at work tomorrow. In the years, I’ve only ever once convinced her to take the entire day off. And since she lives here, it’s not like I can ban the woman from the kitchen.
Three hours later, Susan finds me in my office, sorting through emails with a glass of whiskey at my elbow.
“She hasn’t touched the food, Mr. Russo,” Susan reports. “The cat ate, though.”
I look up, setting aside my laptop. “She hasn’t eaten anything at all?”
“No, sir.” She shakes her head emphatically. “And she wasn’t happy to see me until I told her I was bringing stuff for her cat. Those she took and even thanked me. I left her to it, but when I came back to collect the tray and empty plates, they were still full.”
I wonder if she didn’t like the food.
“And she said it wasn’t the food,” Susan continues, answering my unvoiced thoughts. “But she just… didn’t want any. And she didn’t want to tell me her clothing size. In fact, she was offended by the question, even when I explained why.”
Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Fucking stubborn woman. “Thank you for trying, Susan.”
The woman smiles slyly. “Of course, I don’t actually need to know her size to know what will fit,” she informs me. “I did your mom’s shopping for years. I know how to dress other people. So leave it with me.”
Considering she’s the one who buys everything in this house, I should have known better. Susan’s attention to detail is unparalleled, so I know she’ll get exactly what Alina needs.
“Thank you,” I call after her when she’s already halfway out of my office.
“I’ll buy myself a gift of appreciation tomorrow.”
There’s no need to answer. Susan always buys herself what she needs, which includes presents. The only thing I personally buy her is flowers on her birthday and Mother’s Day. Her son was thirty-four, my age, when he died while working for my dad. That was six years ago.
But as Susan always says, just because she no longer has a child doesn’t mean she isn’t still a mom. So I make it a point to give her a big bouquet twice a year.
I drain the last of my whiskey, groaning and rolling my neck to crack it. My shoulders feel tight, tension building at the base of my skull. Nothing a good workout won’t fix. But that’ll have to wait until I’ve met with Ian and Colin.
My phone beckons me from where it lies on the desk. It would be all too easy to open the security feed and check on Alina. But it’s her first night here. I should give her time to settle and trust that she’ll eat when she’s ready.
There’s a knock on my door, signaling my men are here. “Come in,” I call.
“Got that situation with Malone handled,” Ian reports as soon as he’s through the door. “He paid in full, plus the extra ten percent for making us hunt him down.”
“Any trouble?” I ask, pouring three glasses of whiskey and sliding two across the desk to where they’ve sat down.
Colin shakes his head. “Nothing serious. Got a little mouthy at first, but…” He shrugs, the implication clear.
“Good.” I sit back down. “What about the Kendrick property?”
“Signed over this morning,” Ian says. “Clean transfer, no loose ends.”
We spend the next hour going through business matters; who’s paid, who’s late, who needs a reminder that the Russo family doesn’t extend credit indefinitely. It’s routine, familiar. The work I was raised to do.
“One more thing,” I say when they look like they’re ready to leave. “I went to collect the Brewer debt today.”
They both straighten in their seats as I explain I have Alina Brewer here and that her sister had left, seemingly without telling anyone.
“Damn,” Colin whistles.
“That’s fucked up,” Ian growls.
“I want every inch of not just Cleveland, but all of fucking Ohio scoured for her,” I order. “Use every fucking resource we have available.”
There’s no logical reason for me to hunt down Sabrina since she was never the collateral. But the way she left and destroyed Alina’s things doesn’t sit right with me. Maybe I’ll charge her for that since I have to replace the clothes unless I want Alina walking around my home naked.
Hmm, I wouldn’t mind that, actually.
Colin nods slowly. “She’s the influencer chick, right?”
“She is,” I confirm.
“We could contact the social media platform,” Ian suggests. “We might not be able to pull strengths with the big ones. But the local ones, like… what’s that one called again?”
“LakeEffect,” Colin answers.
“Yeah, man. That’s the one.” Ian looks downright giddy now. “It’s this weird thing that popped up last year. Basically, it’s a Cleveland-only app that combines reels, event discovery, and local clout metrics.”
While he talks, I download the app onto my phone and create a burner account. It doesn’t take long to look through the features, which cover Shoreline Stories, restaurant tagging with influencer score, weekly trending neighborhoods, and even a verified local badge.
It doesn’t take more than five taps to find Sabrina Brewer, or @SabrinaLux as she’s called. “Looks like she’s still in Cleveland,” I observe, turning my phone around to show them her latest check-in.
They both laugh.
“Gotta love social media,” Colin chortles.
“What a dumb bitch,” Ian guffaws while rolling his eyes.
Noticing the time, I instruct them both to keep an eye on Sabrina. “I don’t want anyone to corner her or even threaten her. I just need to make sure she doesn’t disappear.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Absolutely.”
“One more thing,” I say, looking straight at Colin. “Is your half-sister Allie still unemployed?”
“She is.”
That makes me smile at how perfect the timing is. “Tell her she just got promoted to help run the Brewer Family Bakery.”
Colin doesn’t ask follow-up questions. Just gets his phone out and calls his half-sister right away. Luckily, she’s glad for the opportunity, and since she knows the bakery really well, she has no problem turning up tomorrow morning.
“Call me if there are any issues,” I say. “I want everything handled smoothly and without violence. Oh, and tell her she’s not allowed to fire or hire anyone without my approval.”
By the time they leave, it’s almost two in the morning. But instead of heading to bed, I finally give in to the temptation and open the security feed from Alina’s room on my laptop.
The lights are still on, and she paces like a caged animal. Her cat watches from the bed, tail twitching with each pass.
I switch to the audio feed, listening to her rapid breathing, the occasional muttered word I can’t quite make out. Her hair hangs loose around her face, partially hiding her features, but I can see the tear tracks on her cheeks, the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides.
What’s interesting is that she never tries the door or the windows. Both are unlocked, yet she never even tests them.
Eventually, she collapses onto the bed, curling into herself like a wounded animal. The cat immediately moves closer, pressing against her side. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, her face buried in the pillow to muffle the sound.
I watch as she cries herself to sleep, the lights still blazing, her body still clothed. The cat settles beside her head, one paw resting on her hair as if in comfort.
Only when her breathing evens out do I turn my attention to the small bag I took from her and take her phone out. Pouring more whiskey, I pull out a cigar and reach for the silver cigar cutter on my table.
The ritual of preparation is a momentary distraction from the storm brewing inside me. The snip of the blade is clean and precise. I roll the Cuban between my fingers before placing it between my lips, lighting it with practiced efficiency.
Smoke curls around me, creating a gray veil through which I continue to watch. On screen, Alina shifts in her sleep, her hair spilling across the pillow.
I blow a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling as I palm her phone, turning it over in my hand. The lock screen glows with a photo of her cat.
When I swipe away from the picture, the phone asks for her code. Six digits. I try her birthday first, but that’s incorrect. Then I use her mom’s, also incorrect. On my third and last try, I use the date Sophia died, and the phone unlocks.
I’m almost disappointed at how easy it was. No matter how complex tech companies make it to break into phones and alarms, people keep making the technology unsafe with their sentimentality.
A quick scan of her device reveals almost nothing of interest. Her photo gallery is sparse; pictures of her cat, a few of the bakery, several of Sophia, and some of Alina with Sophia. No friends. No boyfriend.
Her messages are equally barren. A few texts with suppliers for the bakery and some communications with employees about scheduling.
Shaking my head, I finish off the whiskey and the cigar. Then I leave my office and head toward my master bedroom, only two doors from Alina.
I’m halfway down the hallway when I hear a strangled cry that cuts through the silence of the house like a blade. Alina. I freeze, listening. Another sound follows, not quite a scream but something close to it, muffled by walls and distance. It’s coming from her room.
My first instinct is to ignore it. Whatever demons chase her in her sleep aren’t my concern. But curiosity—something I’ve learned can be both useful and dangerous in equal measure—pushes me forward to her door.
I push the door open just enough to slip inside, leaving it cracked behind me. Alina thrashes on the bed, the sheets twisted around her legs like restraints. Her cat has retreated to the windowsill, watching with yellow eyes.
“No, please,” she whimpers, her head turning sharply to one side. “I can’t… Mom, I can’t…”
I pull the chair from the corner and position it near the bed, just out of reach should she suddenly wake. Then I sit, watching. Her face contorts with some invisible pain, tears leaking from beneath her closed eyelids.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps, back arching as if in physical pain. “I didn’t mean to…”
What nightmare grips her like this? What memory? I lean forward, oddly fascinated by this unguarded version of Alina. In sleep, she can’t hide behind silence or avoidance. Whatever haunts her is on full display.
She twists again, one arm flailing outward. Her t-shirt rides up with the movement, revealing a slice of pale skin at her waist, the soft curve of her stomach. I find my eyes lingering there, on the vulnerability of exposed flesh, before forcing my gaze back to her face.
The nightmare seems to ease, her breathing gradually steadying.
I should leave. There’s no practical reason to stay, nothing to gain from watching her sleep.
Yet I remain seated, watching the way her red hair spreads across the pillow, the steady rise and fall of her chest as her body finally relaxes.
Half an hour passes before I finally rise, slipping out as silently as I entered.