Chapter 17
Alina
The library welcomes me with warmth and the familiar scent of leather and wood smoke.
Just like most other nights, Raffaele reclines on the couch with a glass of amber liquid dangling from his fingers like a man who owns this corner of the world.
Tonight, he’s dressed in a black suit. The pants hug his thighs in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His white button-up shirt hangs completely open, revealing the sculpted torso that haunted my dreams. His tie is undone around his neck, which just adds to the rumpled appeal.
The contrast of formal and undone makes him look dangerous in a completely new way—like violence interrupted rather than finished.
His green eyes find mine immediately, tracking my entrance with the focus of a predator.
I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest, to hide myself from that penetrating gaze.
Instead, I let my arms hang at my sides, forcing myself to stand straight despite the vulnerability creeping up my spine.
“There you are,” he says, his voice low and smooth like the whiskey in his glass.
“Here I am,” I reply, proud of how steady I sound.
He gestures to the space across from him—the same arrangement as the other times, with the chessboard positioned on the table between us.
“Have a seat,” he rumbles, the words carrying the quiet expectation of obedience.
Now that I’m here, I no longer feel nearly as courageous. I still don’t understand why a man like this wants me.
The question burns in my mind as I take my seat across from him. He could have anyone. Models, actresses, women whose bodies don’t stretch the seams of their clothes. Women who know how to move in the world without apologizing for the space they take up. Why pick me?
What isn’t he telling me?
“Have you made your decision?” he asks, setting down his glass and leaning forward. The movement causes his shirt to fall open further, revealing more of the inked skin beneath. My eyes follow the movement before I can stop myself.
I clear my throat. “I have a counter-proposal,” I say, surprised by my own boldness.
One dark eyebrow arches upward. “I’m listening.”
I gesture to the chessboard between us. “Another game. If you win, I’ll marry you. If I win, I’ll remain your captive, but I get to return to the bakery, regardless.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes hardens. “That’s not how this works, Alina,” he says, the words landing like a verdict.
“Why not?” I challenge. “You’ve never seemed like you minded playing for answers before.”
“Because marriage isn’t a game,” he says, his tone colder now. “This is your life. Our lives. I want you to make this decision, not put it on me.”
The intensity in his gaze makes me want to look away, but I force myself to hold it. “I’m trying to negotiate.”
“No,” he says flatly. “You’re trying to avoid responsibility. If I win, you can tell yourself you had no choice. If you win, you get what you want without giving anything up.” He leans back, his expression unreadable. “I’m not interested in either scenario.”
His assessment stings because there’s truth in it. Part of me wants to completely avoid responsibility like it’s the plague. To let fate or luck or Raffaele’s superior chess skills make this impossible choice for me.
“Fine,” I say, trying to mask my frustration. “But I still want to play.”
“For what stakes?”
I hesitate, then say the first thing that comes to mind. “If I win, you tell me why you really want to marry me. The whole truth.”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or reluctant respect. “And if I win?”
“Then I’ll give you my answer.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “If you insist.”
“I do,” I confirm.
Shrugging, he points at the board, silently telling me to move.
I stare at the board, trying to remember which pawn the book said to use for a power opening. After a moment’s hesitation, I move one of my pawns forward two squares.
Raffaele doesn’t even pause to think. He immediately moves a pawn of his own, placing it in a position that seems random to my untrained eye. I frown, studying the board. Nothing obvious stands out as a threat, so I move another pawn, opening up a path for one of my more powerful pieces.
Again, Raffaele moves without hesitation. This time, his queen slides across the board to rest just a few spaces away from my king. His eyes meet mine over the board, something almost pitying in his gaze.
“Scacco matto.” His green eyes gleam with quiet, ruthless satisfaction. “Checkmate,” he smirks.
I blink, looking between him and the board in confusion. “What? How?”
“It’s called Fool’s Mate,” he explains, his voice matter-of-fact. “The fastest possible checkmate in chess. Two moves.” He points to the position of his pieces. “Your moves opened a direct path to your king. Game over.”
Embarrassment burns in my cheeks as I realize how easily he’s defeated me. Not just in chess, but in my attempt to avoid making this decision myself.
“That’s not fair,” I protest weakly. “I barely know how to play.”
“Life isn’t fair,” he says with a shrug. “Neither is chess.” He leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine. “Now, your answer, Alina. No more games.”
The finality in his tone makes my stomach clench. This is it. The moment of truth.
I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. “Before I answer,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Tell me one thing. Why marriage? Why not just keep me here as your… whatever I am now? Your captive?”
Raffaele’s eyes darken, and for a moment, I think he might refuse to answer. Then he says, “My dad is getting re-married.”
The response is so unexpected that I almost laugh. “What?”
“My dad,” he repeats, jaw tightening. “Is getting married. And he’s very… insistent I get a wife and children, too. The last time we spoke, I may have implied that I was already getting married.”
Understanding dawns, slow and incredulous. “So you need a fake wife.” The pieces click into place. “And I’m convenient.”
“Not convenient,” he corrects. “Available.”
The distinction feels meaningless, but I don’t argue. “So this is temporary? Just for show?”
Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, perhaps, or impatience. “No, Alina, you misunderstand me.”
Raffaele is silent for a long beat, the kind of silence that feels deliberate. He reaches for his glass, taking a slow, measured sip of the whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine. The amber liquid catches the light, reflecting the predatory glint in his stare.
“My dad’s demands were the catalyst, yes,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning rougher, edged with something dangerous. “But the marriage isn’t just permanent, it’s real. There’ll be no divorce and no pretending. We’ll live together like a real husband and wife,” he explains.
The air in the library suddenly feels too thin, the weight of his word—real—crushing the oxygen from the room. My mind reels, snagging on the implications like silk on a jagged nail.
“Real,” I repeat, the word tasting like ash.
I don’t give him the yes or no he’s demanding.
Instead, I lean forward. “A real marriage involves more than just sharing a last name and a house, Raffaele. You’re a man who doesn’t do anything without a purpose.
If it’s real, then you expect… everything. ”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Do I?”
“Don’t you?” I ask, hating that he’s turning this back on me.
“And what do you expect?” he croons. “Your two biggest dreams are to work in your family’s bakery and become a mom. Do you want me to fill your pussy with my seed until you conceive?”
Oh… God. This got real fast, and I don’t know what to say. My mouth becomes dry and I feel sweat beading near my hairline.
He isn’t wrong, and we both know it. Those are the dreams I confessed to him. So if our marriage is forever, yeah, I’ll want that. Eventually. Ah, who am I kidding? If I believed he really wanted the same—wanted me—I’d be open to discussing it.
“Do you even want me that way?” I ask, my voice embarrassingly small. It’s more like a squeak than anything else. I’m aware my cheeks are burning with humiliation, yet I don’t let it stop me. I have to know.
“Why are you asking me that?” he growls. “Have I not proven that already?”
I scrunch up my nose in confusion. When would he have proven that? Does he think bringing me to orgasm and grinding me on his… penis proves he wants me? God, I hope not. Because that’s not enough for me.
“N-no,” I stammer.
The smile that spreads across his features is downright sinful. Nothing like the cruel or arrogant smirks I know too well by now. No, this is real. Instead of answering me with words, he gets up from the couch and casually kicks the table between us aside. Sending the chess pieces scattering.
“What are you…” I trail off when he positions himself between my spread legs and sinks to his knees in front of me. “Raffaele,” I breathe.
Taking my hand, he laces his fingers through mine. His other hand comes up to my face, his thumb grazing my lower lip with a pressure that feels both like a caress and a claim. He’s so close his scent fills my senses, making my head spin.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I see the pupils of his eyes blow wide until they are nearly black. “Ever heard the expression ‘the lips can lie, but a kiss tells the truth’?” he rasps.
I shake my head.
“My kisses don’t lie,” he snarls, sounding genuinely offended by the insinuation. “And neither do I. But since you don’t believe me, I’ll have to convince you another way.”
At his words, my brain short-circuits. Raffaele Russo wants to convince me. But it’s his husky tenor that makes my insides clench deliciously. “O-okay,” I breathe.
I let out a startled yelp when he palms my hips and lifts me off the chair. With hurried movements, he moves us so we’re both standing in front of the fireplace.