Chapter 21
Raffaele
Susan has outdone herself tonight with a meal that should make Alina moan with pleasure, but all I can focus on is the fact that she’s still not wearing her new clothes.
Instead of covering her body, they hang untouched in the guestroom, and my patience with her is wearing dangerously thin.
Every time I think we’re moving forward, that she’s accepting the situation she chose, she proves me fucking wrong.
Reaching for the wine, I take a large swig.
I intended to confront her about it immediately after leaving the lawyer’s office. But just as we walked back into my mansion, I got a call from a furious Remus.
Apparently, the product shipment from Mikhail wasn’t picked up at the dock. He waited only a couple of hours, and then the Russian had it rerouted in the name of safety protocol.
Fuck’s sake.
When I left Alina, I said I’d be back for dinner. That was two days ago, and I only just came home an hour ago. I didn’t even sleep here, which she took to mean she could go back to the guest room.
Normally, a situation like the one with Mikhail would only take a couple of hours to set right. But this time, it took a lot longer to smooth out than I thought it would.
People like him who are not only proud but also wealthy and powerful, are the hardest to entice to do something they don’t want to do. When he turned down my first three offers to rectify our fuck-up, I had to ask for time.
Time to research the man and find something only I could get him.
In the end, it took more than I liked, but not more than what was reasonable. Not when it’s about carrying on a good business relationship. Since I’m usually the one dealing with the Russian, Remus gave me complete carte blanche to handle the situation.
After promising Mikhail two favors from Matteo—one of which included getting one of their assassins out of federal prison on a misdemeanor, the other open-ended—the man was intrigued.
When I tagged on that I’d forgive the debt his brother owed, Mikhail finally agreed to re-route to Mexico where Ian and Colin met him for the pickup.
That wasn’t enough for Mikhail. Upon seeing my men, he demanded I come in person, which I then did.
Fucking nightmare.
I swear, my fucking cousin better have an excuse that doesn’t involve getting his dick wet. Ever since meeting Raven, that seems to be the one he uses ninety percent of the time. He’s always been unpredictable, a loose cannon. But not sloppy like now.
“Is… umm… is everything okay?”
Alina’s soft voice penetrates my angry thoughts, and I’m immediately transported back to the present with the rich aroma of garlic and herbs filling the dining room.
I clear my throat. “It’s fine.” I don’t bother softening my tone.
It’s not fucking fine. I’m running on fumes and no more than a few hours of sleep. I know my headspace isn’t the best for dealing with her tonight. But I also know that won’t stop me.
She shoots me a nervous glance, and I know we both feel the palpable tension. It’s practically a living thing stretching across the polished wood surface separating me from her.
“O-okay,” she stammers.
I watch her take small, careful bites, her gaze fixed on her plate as if the roasted chicken holds the secrets of the universe.
“Why aren’t you wearing your new clothes?” I finally ask, my voice deceptively calm as I take another sip of my wine.
Alina’s fork pauses midway to her mouth, and those blue eyes flick up to meet mine briefly before darting away again. “I don’t need them,” she says softly, setting her fork down.
“That wasn’t my question,” I snap, setting my glass down with controlled precision. “Do they not fit?”
She shifts in her chair, a small movement that draws my attention to the way her shirt hugs her breasts. “They fit,” she admits reluctantly.
“Then why,” I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table, “are you still wearing the dirty clothes you arrived in?”
Her fingers twist in her lap, and I imagine them twisting in my sheets, pinned beneath mine. The thought sends heat coursing through me, and I clench my jaw against it.
Several moments pass before she straightens her spine and lifts her chin. “They’re not dirty,” she informs me, like that’s the poignant part.
An incredulous laugh leaves me. “Yes, I forgot handwashing your clothes in the bathroom sink is the epitome of cleanliness,” I deadpan.
I know Susan’s washing the clothes for her. But bringing that up ruins my point, so I leave it out of the conversation.
Her cheeks grow red, and splotches appear on her neck as well. “I’m not dirty if that’s what you’re insinuating,” she hisses. Blowing some of her red strands out of her face, she pins me with her gaze. “I don’t want to wear the new clothes.”
“Why not?” I ask, genuinely confused by that statement. “Do you prefer a different brand?”
Huffing, she throws her arms up in the air in pure exasperation. “You kidnapped me—”
“I collected you,” I correct.
“Fine,” she snips. “You collected me because my mom borrowed money from you. And then you basically forced me to marry you—”
“You think I forced you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “I asked you, and you said yes. That’s called a choice.”
“It wasn’t much of a choice, was it?” she retorts, rolling her shoulders back. “You dangled my dreams in front of me, Raffaele.”
I shrug. “So? That’s called motivation. Tell me, how’s that different from most choices in life?”
“What do you mean?”
“Most people work to earn money, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“If someone has a job that comes with lucrative bonuses, are they then being forced to go above and beyond? Or incentivized?”
“That’s not—”
I interrupt her again, my hand coming down hard on the table. “People can decide to do the bare minimum and still get paid. It’s their choice whether they want to earn a bonus or not. Just like they could take the money instead of paying rent. Another choice.”
“You’re twisting everything,” she snips. “If people don’t pay rent, they’ll lose their homes.”
I give her a stiff smile. “Exactly. That’s called a consequence, Alina. But consequences come with the choices we make. Stop playing the victim by deluding yourself into thinking you don’t have a choice just because you don’t like the options in front of you.”
Scoffing, she rolls her eyes, and the gesture set my blood on fire as my hand tightens around the stem of the wineglass. Her defiance makes me want to press her against the nearest wall and show her exactly who’s in control here.
“Fine.” The slight tremble in her voice is the only sign she’s not as confident as she tries to look. “Everything about my life is my choice. And I choose not to wear the clothes.”
I’m impressed she’s talking back and standing up for herself with me. When I saw her at Sophia’s funeral, she looked so frail and weak. Two things she hasn’t been since I brought her home.
Alina Brewer might not fight me with her fists or sassy comebacks. In fact, she’s pretty fucking soft and gentle. Still, fight me she does—in her own way. Too bad for her, this is not the night to push me.
I grip the edge of the table hard enough to make the wood creak. “Don’t challenge me,” I growl. “I own every inch of you, Alina.”
“If you say so,” she mumbles.
As tantalizing as her bravery is, I feel my control fraying at the edges. The way she pushes back when she should submit—it feeds something dark and hungry inside me. Something that both wants more and to punish her simultaneously. See her stand tall and kneel at my feet.
“Look, Raffaele—”
Cutting her off, I give her one last chance to change her mind. “Are you absolutely certain you won’t wear the clothes?” I growl, giving her one last chance to reconsider.
She nods and says, “Yes.”
Something in me snaps at her words. The tightly coiled restraint I’ve maintained splinters into fragments sharp enough to draw blood. I rise from my chair in one fluid movement, the scrape of wood against the floor punctuating the sudden silence.
“Okay,” I agree. “You’ll get exactly what you want. But remember one thing, Alina.”
“What?”
“You asked for it.”
Her eyes widen as I stalk around the table toward her. She tries to stand, to retreat, but I’m faster, more determined. My hand closes around her wrist, tightening just enough to make her gasp.
Her breath comes in quick, shallow pants; her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath my shirt. “Let me go,” she demands, though her voice wavers.
“No.” The word is simple and absolute.
With one smooth movement, I bend and hoist her over my shoulder, one arm securing her legs against my chest. She gasps, her hands flying to my back as her world tilts.
“What are you doing?” she shrieks, her fists beginning to pound ineffectually against my back. “Put me down!”
Her body is soft against mine, curves I’ve been imagining for days now pressed against my shoulder. The feeling of her struggling sends heat straight to my cock, making me so hard it fucking hurts.
“Let me show you exactly what you just chose,” I say, heading for the stairs with slow, purposeful strides.
Her body bounces against my shoulder as I take the stairs two at a time, her fists still pounding uselessly against my back. She’s still fighting, still believing she has any power here. I’ll enjoy showing her otherwise.
“Put me down!” she demands, her voice shrill with panic. “This is ridiculous!”
I ignore her protests, my hand firm around her thighs to keep her secure. Her struggles send blood rushing to my cock, hardening it with each twist of her body against mine. Part of me wants her to keep fighting—the resistance making the inevitable surrender that much sweeter.
“You’re acting like a caveman,” she gasps, trying to push herself up, her hands pressing against my lower back.
“And you’re being a bad girl,” I respond, my voice low despite the heat coursing through my veins. “Bad girls who don’t appreciate what they’re given often end up with nothing.”