Chapter 10
Raffaele
The whiskey burns a path down my throat, settling in my stomach with a familiar warmth that does nothing to thaw the ice in my veins.
My dad’s face on the laptop screen is a study in controlled arrogance. An expression he’s worn for my entire fucking life. It’s been six months since my mom died, and he’s already acting like she was nothing more than a footnote in the grand story of Andrea Russo.
“You look tired, Raffaele.” His voice cuts through the silence of my office, his Italian accent thicker after years of living in Rome. “Is the business keeping you up at night?”
I take another slow pull from my cigar, letting the smoke curl around me before answering. Instead of telling him that he’s currently the one keeping me up, I reply, “I’m fine.”
Absentmindedly, I look out the window to where my land is buried under another layer of February snow. Inside my office, another kind of cold permeates the air between dad and son.
“I hear you’re handling collections personally these days.” His beady eyes assess me through the screen. “Is that wise? You have men for that.”
Forcing a yawn, I give him a bored stare. “Are you having me followed now?”
“Hardly. People talk, Raffaele,” he scoffs. “Don’t forget I was the Debt Collector before you.”
Ignoring him, I shift on the couch, adjusting my laptop. “You didn’t need to call to tell me you’re disappointed,” I drawl. “An email will suffice next time.”
He lifts a crystal tumbler into view, the amber liquid catching the light. Even though it’s morning in Rome, he’s already drinking. “To my beloved Beatrice,” he announces, completely changing the subject while raising the glass in a toast. “It’s been half a year since she left this mortal coil.”
My fingers tighten around my own glass. Cancer, time, and death are the primordial enemies no one can fight. I understand that. What really fucking gets me is him acting like he wasn’t halfway across the world while she withered away in a hospice bed.
“To Mom,” I echo, the words tasting bitter as I take a drink.
“She would have wanted you settled by now,” he continues, setting his glass down with a precise click. “You’re thirty-four years old, Raffaele. No wife, no children. The Russo line doesn’t extend itself.”
And there it is—the real purpose of this call. I lean back, crossing one leg over the other, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me react. “Is that what this is about? My lack of kids?”
“Heirs,” he corrects, as though I don’t have firsthand knowledge of what it means to be his offspring.
“It’s about responsibility. Your position in the family comes with expectations.
Beatrice, God bless her soul, understood that better than most. She raised you to accept your role like she did hers. ”
“Her role?” I repeat, the words cutting like razors. “You mean being your doting wife while you fucked your way through half the world? Is that the role you’re talking about?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, the only sign that my words have landed. “Mind your tone. I respected my wife.”
“Spare me,” I growl, my patience running dangerously low.
While I’ve had the privilege of watching Enzo and Matteo fall in love, I’ve always known that wasn’t in the cards for me. Since I was old enough to hold a gun and pull the trigger, Dad drilled into me that love is pointless.
Power is what matters. Power is absolute.
That he wants me to marry is no surprise; he mentions it at every chance he gets. He’s even provided me with plenty of suggestions over the years. All of them would further his own agenda more than mine.
“Eventually Remus is going to insist on it.” He sighs, a practiced sound designed to make me feel childish. “I’ve built something that will outlast us all, Raffaele. The Russo name means something because I helped make it so. You think this empire runs on sentiment?”
“I think it runs on blood,” I reply coldly. “Some of it spilled, some of it shared.”
“Poetic.” His lips curl slightly. “Perhaps that’s why you’re still alone. Women don’t want poetry from men like us. They want strength. Security.”
Minimizing the window, I double-click the security feed for Alina’s room. Watching her while listening to my dad makes it more bearable.
“Do you hear me, Raffaele?” he snaps.
I allow a cold smile to tug at my lips. “Who says I’m alone?” I question to show him I was listening. And fuck, I love the surprised look on his face. “Who says I’m not engaged and about to get married soon? Or that I’m not already married?”
“Are you?” he demands.
“Whether I am or not is none of your business,” I retort with a shrug.
“If my position as Collector depends on marriage, I’m sure Remus will let me know.
If it’s about you wanting to secure our branch of the family tree for generations to come, you should have thought about that before you forced Mom to get sterilized after only having me.
” The last part comes out as an angry growl.
My dad just sighs. “Enough with the dramatics,” he clips. “Are you getting married or not?”
“One day,” I smirk.
“Raffaele.”
“Andrea,” I parrot, fighting the urge to laugh when I notice his hands clenching into fists.
He lets out a condescending scoff. “I should never have let Beatrice raise you. She filled your head with useless nonsense—”
Something in me snaps at his tone and the fact he’s blaming Mom. And to add insult to injury, he’s doing it after earlier saying she raised me a certain way. Fucking bastard.
“Yes,” I snarl. “The answer is fucking yes. I’m getting married. And just so we’re crystal fucking clear, you’re not invited to the wedding.”
I know it’s childish to provoke him. But considering I live my life in control ninety-nine percent of the time, I’ve earned said childish behavior. Besides, it really brings me joy to piss him off and let him know exactly how little he matters.
Just. Like. He. Did. To. Mom.
“I should have had more kids,” he sighs, like I didn’t just say the same thing not too long ago. He pauses, a light entering his eyes. “But congratulations. And speaking of which, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
Oh, fuck no… surely he’s not going to… the frame shifts as he beckons someone over. A woman slides into view beside him, and my stomach turns.
She can’t be more than twenty-five, with overdrawn lips painted a garish red and eyeshadow so heavy it makes her look bruised. Her dress, if you can call that scrap of fabric a dress, reveals more than it conceals, and her smile holds all the sincerity of a shark’s.
“This is Valentina,” my dad announces, his hand settling possessively on her shoulder. “My fiancée.”
The word hit me like a physical blow. I don’t move, don’t blink, my expression frozen in place as my mind races to process what I’m hearing.
“Ciao, Raffaele,” she purrs, her voice dripping with practiced seduction. “Your papà has told me so much about you.” She leans closer to him, her breasts threatening to spill from her neckline. “You’re even more handsome than he said.”
I say nothing, watching as my dad’s hand slides lower on her back, proprietary and smug. The whiskey in my glass trembles slightly as my grip tightens.
“We’re thinking of a May wedding,” he continues, as if my silence is acceptance. “In Rome, of course. It’ll probably be at the villa.”
Something inside me cracks. The villa. The fucking place Mom begged him to take her to one last time before the cancer made travel impossible. He denied her wish because he was too busy.
“Disgustoso maile,” I spit out, the Italian flowing more naturally than English in this moment. Disgusting pig.
My dad’s eyes narrow. “Careful, son.”
“Traditore,” I continue, not caring that Valentina is watching, wide-eyed at my outburst. I’m not wrong. My dad’s a fucking traitor. “Mom’s barely even cold in her grave and you’re already replacing her.” My tone drops lower with each word.
“It’s been six months,” he counters, his voice hardening. “Life continues, Raffaele. And your mom would want me to be happy.”
“Don’t you dare presume to know what she would want.” The control I pride myself on is slipping, rage rising like floodwater against a failing dam. “You didn’t know her. You were never there.”
“I built everything we have.” His composure cracks for the first time, real anger flashing in his eyes. “While you were learning to tie your shoes, I was building an empire that would keep you all safe, keep you powerful. Your mother understood sacrifice.”
“Her sacrifice. Always hers.” My knuckles are white against the edge of my desk, where I’ve reached forward to grip it. “And now what? You parade this… this child around in clothes my mom wouldn’t use to wash her car, and expect me to call her what? Mamma?”
Valentina gasps, offended, but my dad’s hand on her thigh silences whatever protest she was about to make.
“You will show respect, Raffaele,” he warns, his voice dropping to a dangerous register I recognize all too well. “To me, and to my future wife. Whatever your feelings, she will be family.”
“She will never be my family.” The words are quiet but final. “And you? You’re nothing to me.”
I slam the laptop shut with enough force that the screen might have cracked. I don’t care. The silence that follows is broken only by my harsh breathing.
My cigar has burned down to ash in the crystal tray beside me. The whiskey in my glass is warm now, unpalatable. I toss it back anyway, welcoming the burn as punishment for losing control.
Right now, with my mom’s memory desecrated by that woman’s presence in her home, I’m feeling like the son who couldn’t protect her in life, and apparently not even her memory in death.
The rage simmers just beneath my skin, threatening to spill over in ways that would make even Matteo pause. I need to move to burn off this energy before I do something I might regret.
I take the stairs two at a time, rage driving every step. The whiskey’s warmth has turned to fire in my veins, fueling each step as I reach the second floor of my home. My bedroom door bangs against the wall as I shove it open.
As soon as I’m inside, I yank my tie loose, the silk hissing against my collar before I throw it onto the bed. My jacket follows, landing in a heap of expensive fabric that would normally be carefully hung.
“Figlio di puttana,” I mutter, the Italian curse feeling more satisfying than its English equivalent. Son of a bitch.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Cursing my dad while insulting my grandmother, a woman I never met but who likely deserved better than the son she raised.
My shirt buttons surrender to my fingers, one by one, until I can shrug the garment off my shoulders. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps across my chest and arms where the wolf tattoo wraps around my ribcage—matching the ones my cousins wear.
Family. Blood. Loyalty. Concepts my dad pretends to honor while making a mockery of every single one.
Striding over to the dresser, I grab black sweatpants and a white t-shirt, the fabric soft but sturdy. Practical. Nothing like the flashy, fragile nonsense that woman was barely wearing. The clothing my mom chose was always elegant but understated. Quality over display. Substance over spectacle.
While getting changed, I do my best not to think about my dad and his child-bride. Fucking ridiculous.
Dressed in my workout clothes, I head toward the gym in my basement. But I only make it a couple of steps before I hear Alina whimpering. Curiosity compels me to sneak into her room.
Like last night, I sit down in the chair at the end of the bed, fascinated by the sight of whatever ghosts plague her.
There’s something almost hypnotic about watching her this way—seeing beneath the guarded exterior she presents while awake. In her nightmares, she’s raw, exposed, real in a way few people ever allow themselves to be.
Tonight, her nightmare seems different. Less terror, more grief. She doesn’t thrash or cry out. Instead, tears stream silently down her face, her lips forming words I can’t quite catch. One hand reaches out repeatedly, grasping at empty air before falling back to the mattress.
“Mom,” she whispers, the word clear and heartbreaking in its simplicity. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
When the nightmare finally subsides, I find myself leaning forward, studying the features now relaxed in sleep.
The freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.
The slight dimple in her chin. The fullness of her lips.
With a soft snore, she turns and the movement causes the cover to slip down her body.
Even in her sleep, her stomach growls for food. Alina’s been here for five days, and so far, all she’s eaten are a few slices of toast and some fruit. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who’s doing it to lose weight, so it has to be some kind of martyr complex.
Fucking ridiculous.
Standing, I check the closet and the drawers in the dresser. She hasn’t even bothered hanging or unpacking the new clothes.
This feels like her final act of defiance against a situation she can’t control. I understand the tactics. I don’t respect it though. And I definitely won’t indulge it.
I stand, moving closer to the bed. In sleep, her face holds none of the wariness that tightens her features when awake. Despite the tears, despite the pain evident in her expression, there’s a softness there that catches something in my chest.
“Enough, Alina,” I murmur, knowing she can’t hear me.
Her only response is a soft exhalation, her body turning slightly toward the sound of my voice before settling again. The cat watches me from the foot of the bed, its tail twitching warily.
I’ve been patient. I’ve given her space. But I didn’t bring her here to watch her waste away. I brought her here as payment.