Chapter 12
Raffaele
The words hang between us like smoke from my cigar, heavy with possibility. Her pale blue eyes widen slightly as she processes what I’ve just offered. A game for her freedom. A simple proposition with complex stakes.
I watch her face carefully, cataloging each flicker of emotion that crosses her features—hope, doubt, fear, determination. Her teeth catch her bottom lip, worrying the soft flesh in a way that makes my cock twitch against my sweatpants.
“And what do you want if you win?” Alina asks shrewdly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I take a long drag from my cigar, letting her question simmer between us like whiskey over ice.
The ember glows bright orange in the dim room as I inhale, casting momentary shadows across the mahogany chess table.
The rich tobacco smoke curls around us, a possessive fog that gives me time to appreciate how she looks wrapped in my blanket, wearing my shirt.
The thin white cotton might as well be transparent; her nipples straining against the fabric as if they’re begging for my touch, the full weight of her breasts visible in excruciating detail. Every breath she takes is torture—the rise and fall drawing my eyes like a predator tracking prey.
Does she have any fucking idea what she’s doing to me? My blood is rushing south so fast it’s getting hard to think straight.
Her red hair hangs loose down her back and around her shoulders. It catches the firelight, transforming into liquid copper that I suddenly want to wrap around my fist while I kiss that uncertain expression off her face.
Fuck, she’s a vision—all soft curves and wide, innocent eyes that somehow still manage to challenge me.
“If I win,” I finally answer, blowing a smoke ring toward the ceiling, “I get to ask you three questions. And you answer with complete honesty.”
Her eyebrows knit together, confusion clear on her face. “That’s all?”
“That’s all,” I confirm, taking another sip of whiskey. The burn matches the heat coiling in my gut.
Alina’s eyes drop to the chess set between us. Her fingers reach out hesitantly, hovering over a pawn as if she might touch it, then withdraw.
“I have one condition,” she counters, surprising me with her boldness. “No questions about Sabrina or my family. That’s off-limits.”
Interesting. Is she protecting the sister who abandoned her without a second thought? If so, I almost admire the loyalty, despite knowing it’s misplaced. Or maybe there’s another reason.
“Fine,” I agree, extending my hand to seal the deal. “Three questions, none about your sister.”
“Or my family at all,” she corrects.
I can’t help smirking at that. “Good girl,” I murmur. “Always make sure you set the expectations straight before entering into a deal.” If she notices that I never agreed to her correction, she doesn’t let on.
“Especially when it’s with the devil,” she mumbles as she slides her hand into mine, small and soft against my palm.
I engulf her fingers completely, feeling the slight tremor she tries to hide. The contact sends a jolt of heat through me. “Especially then.” I hold on a second too long before releasing her.
Placing the cigar in the ashtray, I pour more whiskey for us both and slide the glass back to her. “To our first game,” I toast, raising my glass.
She mimics me, then takes a sip. The alcohol hits her immediately; she coughs, her eyes watering as she tries to maintain composure. The blush that spreads across her cheeks and down her neck makes me wonder how far it extends beneath my shirt.
“Are you ready to learn?” I ask, my voice gravelly.
“Yes.”
“Each piece moves differently.” I point to the pawns. “The pawn moves forward one square, except on its first move when it can advance two squares. It captures diagonally, one square at a time.”
I demonstrate with one of the black pawns, moving it across the board before returning it to its starting position. She watches intently, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“The rook moves horizontally and vertically, as many squares as it wants. The bishop moves diagonally.” I continue explaining each piece, showing her the possible movements. “The queen is the most powerful piece, combining the movements of both the rook and bishop.”
“What about the king?” Alina asks, her eyes following the movement of my hands.
“Vulnerable,” I reply. “He can only move one square at a time. The entire game revolves around protecting him.”
Her lips part slightly as she processes this. I’m struck by their fullness, the lower one plumper than the top. What would they taste like? Feel like against mine? I shake the thought away.
“And the knight?” She reaches out to touch the horse-shaped piece.
“The knight moves in an L-shape—two squares horizontally then one vertically, or two vertically then one horizontally. It’s the only piece that can jump over others.”
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I track the movement, imagining how that tongue would feel against mine, against my skin, wrapped around my…
“Okay,” she breathes. “Let the game begin.”
Raising my glass, I echo her words. “Let the game begin.” I take a sip, relishing the taste. “You’ll play white, and white always moves first.”
The game begins with her moving a pawn forward two spaces—the most common opening move. I respond with calculated restraint, advancing my own pawn just one square.
Her brow furrows as she studies the board, clearly trying to remember the rules I’ve just explained. After a moment’s consideration, she moves her knight out.
I purposefully hold back, playing well below the level I’m capable of. I make basic moves, leaving obvious openings that she doesn’t yet recognize.
The flush of pleasure that crosses her face when she captures one of my pawns is worth the minor sacrifice. Her confidence grows with each move, her body language shifting from tense anxiety to cautious engagement.
The fire crackles and spits as we play, casting dancing shadows across the board and her face. I find myself more interested in reading her expressions than the positions on the board.
The way her eyes narrow when she’s thinking. How she unconsciously touches her bottom lip with her index finger when contemplating a move. The slight parting of her lips when she realizes she’s made a mistake.
But it’s more than that. There’s something in her determination, the way she studies the board with complete focus despite having no real chance of winning. The way she refuses to give up even when the odds are insurmountable.
“Knight to e5,” I suggest when she hesitates over her next move. Our fingers brush as I show her where to place the piece, and I feel her pulse jump beneath my touch.
I could end this game in very few moves. Instead, I draw it out, prolonging our time together. Each piece I take is another excuse to lean into her space.
“Check,” I say, moving my bishop into position. She’s getting better, already recognizing some basic defenses. She’s a quick study.
“Like this?” she asks, moving her king away from danger. Our eyes meet across the board, and something electric passes between us.
“Just like that,” I confirm, my voice low and husky.
As we play, I notice the way her eyes linger on my hands, my throat, the muscles of my chest when I lean forward to move a piece. Each glance sends a pulse of satisfaction through me. She’s not immune to me, despite her fear, despite her situation.
“Your move, Alina,” I remind her when she’s been staring at the board too long.
She looks up, catching me watching her, and the blush returns in full force. “I’m thinking,” she defends.
“Take your time.” I lean back, deliberately stretching to give her a better view. “We have all night.”
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning she clearly understands. Her breath catches, her pupils dilating slightly before she forces her attention back to the game.
Fuck, the things I could do to her. Every time she blushes for no reason at all, I wonder how she’d react if I gave her one. Would she rise to the challenge? Or would she run away and hide in her room?
The fact I don’t know is half the allure. But fuck, what I wouldn’t give to feel her body pressed against me, and see if she’s as responsive everywhere as she is to the slightest brush of my fingers over hers.
“Checkmate,” I say quietly as I slide my knight into position.
I watch her reaction, the slight slump of her shoulders as she realizes there’s no escape for her king. No escape for her.
“That’s it?” she asks, studying the board with a frown. “I’m trapped?”
“Completely.” I lean back, allowing myself to fully observe her.
The defeat shows in the slump of her shoulders, but when she looks up, there’s a determination in her eyes that surprises me.
“That was… educational,” she says, trying to keep her voice light despite the tension thrumming between us. “So, you win. Three questions with complete honesty.”
Taking a moment, I ponder the questions I could ask her. But I don’t want any of the stuff you can find online in two seconds flat. I want to know the stuff that require a conversation to find out. The info that isn’t in the folder compiled about this collateral.
“My first question,” I say, watching her brace herself like she’s expecting a physical blow rather than words. “What are your three biggest dreams in life?”
It’s not what she was expecting. That much is clear from the way her shoulders relax slightly, though wariness still shadows her eyes. I’m not sure what kind of monster she thinks I am, what kinds of questions she was preparing herself to answer, but her relief is palpable.
She shifts on her seat, the blanket still wrapped tightly around her lower half. “My dreams?” she repeats, as if the concept is foreign to her.
“Yes, Piccola. Your dreams. The things you want most in this world.” My tone is patient but firm. “And remember, complete honesty was our agreement.”
She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear, her eyes dropping to her lap where her fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket. “I suppose my first dream would be to keep the bakery going,” she says softly. “Not just keep it open, but to make it thrive. To honor what my mom built.”
The way her voice catches when she mentions Sophia tells me this is more than a business aspiration—it’s a promise to the dead. Interesting.
“And your second dream?” I prompt when she falls silent.
Her cheeks flush a deeper pink. “I’ve always wanted children,” she admits, the words coming out in a rush, as if she’s embarrassed by the admission. “A family of my own. A home where everyone feels… safe and loved. So loved.”
There’s something in the way she emphasizes that last word that hints at deeper wounds. A history of not feeling those things herself, perhaps. I file this information away for later examination.
“When I was little,” she continues after a moment, “I used to play with these old dolls my mom found at garage sales. They weren’t much.
Some were missing limbs, others had marker stains or chopped hair.
But I loved them.” A small smile curves her lips, transforming her face.
“I’d create these elaborate families. Each doll had its own baby to care for.
I’d make tiny blankets out of scraps of fabric, little beds out of shoeboxes. ”
She pauses, her smile fading slightly. “Sabrina thought it was stupid. She was always into makeup and clothes, even then. But I just wanted to take care of something. Someone.”
There’s a vulnerability in her expression that catches me off guard. Something in my chest tightens at the image of a young Alina, creating families from broken dolls, already preparing for a role life hasn’t yet granted her.
I should say something to reassure her, but no words come to mind. What the fuck do you say to any of that?
“That’s two,” I remind her, deciding on getting us back on track. “What’s your third greatest dream?”
Alina bites her lower lip. “I’m not sure I have a third one,” she finally says. “Just those two have always been enough.”
Simple dreams. Attainable dreams. Nothing like the women who usually orbit my world.