Chapter 15
Raffaele
Blood coats my hands as I step into my car. The metallic smell fills the cabin until I crack the window. The blood isn’t mine, and it pisses me off it’s staining my car.
The man who thought he could withhold payment from the Russo family won’t be making that mistake again. Not only is he not alive to bother me again, he paid for keeping me out so fucking late.
For the first time since Mom died, I’m not reveling in spilling blood and teaching lessons to those who need it. No, I’d much rather be home playing chess with Alina. See the way she chews on her bottom lip when she’s deep in concentration.
I wipe my hands on a black handkerchief and toss it into the glove compartment.
Another debt collected.
As I drive home, I call Ian and ask him to get my car fully cleaned tomorrow. Driving around with other people’s DNA in your car is just begging for trouble. Although we own Cleveland PD, one should never get sloppy.
The dashboard clock reads two seventeen in the morning. I’ve been working for twenty straight hours, overseeing shipments at the docks and handling a particularly stubborn debtor who required personal attention.
My muscles ache for rest, but my mind is already racing home. To her.
The gates to my property slide open as I approach, recognizing the car. As I pull into the garage, I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the tension from the day. The house is quiet when I enter through the side door.
I don’t need to check the cameras to know Alina’s already waiting in the library. Even though she doesn’t know my comings or goings, I know from the security cameras she walks into the library around midnight every night.
I have no idea how she can tell the time, but she’s usually pretty punctual. And I join her as soon as I can. It’s shaping up to be a damn good tradition. Not only because I get to ask her questions, but she also seems less anxious around me.
Which is perfect. I don’t want my future wife to fear me.
Once inside the house, I make my way upstairs first, taking a quick shower to wash away the blood and grime of the day. The hot water pounds against my skin, and I close my eyes, allowing myself just a few minutes of stillness before I seek her out.
Clean and dressed, I head toward the library. But before I make it there, I bump into Susan as she leaves the kitchen.
“Mr. Russo,” she greets me.
“What are you doing up this late?” I ask, but then I notice the shaking in her hands. “Is the pain keeping you up?”
Scoffing, she rolls her eyes. “You should worry more about the girl than me,” she huffs. “For the past two days she’s kept asking where you are and why you aren’t eating with her. You can’t keep avoiding her if you really mean to make her your wife.”
Grinning, I tell Susan goodnight and suggest she sleeps in tomorrow. I’ve already told her my plans, just as she knows why I’m not joining Alina for meals even when I’m in the house. The decision needs to be hers. And if I crowd her, I’ll end up deciding for her.
Reaching the library, the crackling fire greets me with its familiar snap and pop. And there she is. She’s sleeping on the sofa, her red hair spilling across the cushion in copper waves. She’s clutching a book to her chest.
Not just any book, a chess strategy guide from my collection.
The fire casts her skin in amber light, softening the worry lines that typically crease her forehead. Her lips are slightly parted, and I find myself staring at them, remembering their softness and hunger.
I move closer, studying her while she can’t guard herself against my gaze. The freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks stand out against her pale skin, like dots I want to trace with my fingertips.
Her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks, and the shirt she arrived in has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone.
My fingers itch to touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin. Part of me wants to let her sleep, to preserve this rare moment of tranquility. But a stronger part wants her awake. Wants her eyes on me. Wants to watch her mind work as she plots her moves on the chessboard.
I reach out, my hand hovering over her shoulder for a brief moment before I make contact. Her skin is warm beneath my palm as I squeeze gently.
“Alina,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Wake up, Piccola.”
She startles awake, the book tumbling to the floor as she bolts upright. Her eyes, wide and disoriented, dart around the room before settling on me. Recognition floods her face, followed by a flash of something else.
“Raffaele,” she breathes. “I was waiting for you.”
I retrieve the chess book from the floor, my fingers brushing against hers as I hand it back. “Studying my weaknesses?” I grin, tapping the book’s cover.
A blush spreads across her cheeks, turning them a delicious pink. “Trying to,” she admits, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not that I’ve found any yet.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Everyone has weaknesses, Alina. Even me.”
She looks skeptical but says nothing, just shifts on the couch to make room for me.
“Are you up for another game?” I ask, nodding toward the chessboard already set up on the table between us. “I’m thinking we should make it more interesting tonight.”
She tilts her head, wariness creeping back into her expression. “Interesting how?”
“New stakes,” I explain, settling into the chair opposite her. “If you win, you get to ask me three questions. Anything you want, and I’ll answer honestly. If I win…” I pause, watching her tense up. “I get to ask you three questions. Same rules apply.”
Alina’s teeth catch her bottom lip as she considers my offer, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. I can practically see the calculations running behind those blue eyes—weighing risks against rewards, trying to determine if this is some kind of trap.
“I’ve never won against you before,” she finally says, her voice small but not defeated.
“Then you have nothing to lose, do you?” I counter, already setting up the pieces. “Unless you’re afraid of what I might ask.”
The challenge hangs between us, and I watch her spine straighten ever so slightly. There’s a fire in her I’ve glimpsed only in flashes, buried beneath layers of caution and fear. I want to see it burn brighter.
“Fine,” she agrees, lifting her chin with a determination that makes my blood heat.
I hide my satisfaction as I finish arranging the pieces. “White moves—”
“First,” she finishes while moving into the chair opposite me. “I know.”
Her first move is textbook. Pawn to e4. Her fingers linger on the piece after setting it down, as if unsure she’s made the right choice. I counter with my own pawn.
Tonight, I’m playing a different kind of game. One where losing is winning, where every captured piece brings me closer to what I really want—her questions.
I watch her study the board, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’s been reading, learning. The chess book wasn’t just for show. She moves her bishop out next, a decent early development that tells me she’s absorbed at least some basics from her studies.
Or maybe it’s from our many games. It’s been almost a week of nightly games by now. And while she’s not advanced by any means, she learns from every mistake and tries new ways of attack with each game.
Alina captures more of my pieces, and before long, she says, “Check.”
I feign surprise, moving my king out of danger with an exaggerated sigh. Inside, I’m counting moves, calculating exactly how long to draw this out before allowing her the victory I’ve already decided to give her.
Six moves later, she’s taken my queen and my two knights. Real confidence blooms on her face, caution giving way to focused determination. She sits straighter, leans forward more eagerly. I find myself fascinated by the transformation.
“You seem distracted tonight,” she observes, her voice neutral but her eyes sharp. “Long day?”
I capture her bishop, a move that appears aggressive but actually opens a path for her to corner my king. “You could say that.”
“Is it…” she hesitates, moving her rook precisely where I want it. “Is it something I should be worried about?”
“Worried that I’ve lost my edge?” I ask, purposefully misunderstanding her question about my work. “Maybe you’ve just improved.”
She shakes her head slightly, unconvinced but unwilling to challenge me further. Three moves later, she slides her queen across the board and looks up at me with wide eyes.
“Checkmate,” she whispers, almost like she can’t believe it herself.
I study the board with a show of surprise, then lean back in my chair with a low chuckle. “So it is,” I concede, watching her reaction carefully. “Well played.”
The smile that spreads across her face starts small, hesitant. Then deepens until those dimples carve into her cheeks like something claimed. It changes her. Softens her. Makes her look open in a way she doesn’t realize.
For a second, I forget the strategy. Forget the plan. I just want to see how easily I can make her do it again.
“I believe you’ve earned your three questions,” I say, pouring us each a glass of whiskey from the decanter on the side table. I hand her one, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “Ask away.”
She takes a small sip, clearly gathering her thoughts. When she finally speaks, her voice is steady.
“Why did you take me instead of just seizing the bakery?”
A direct question. I appreciate that. “Sophia didn’t put the bakery up as collateral,” I reply truthfully, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “She put your name on the contract, Alina.”
I can see the sadness and hurt swimming in her pale blue eyes, and it makes me want to fucking hurt something.
“When your mom asked for the loan, she kept saying she would repay the money before the ten years were up,” I explain, wanting to comfort her. “Obviously, this was way before she was diagnosed with aggressive ALS—”
Alina gasps. “You knew?”