Chapter 24
Alina
Istare at my reflection in Raffaele’s bathroom mirror, hardly recognizing the woman staring back at me. The black dress Susan helped me order hugs every curve of my body—curves I’ve spent a lifetime trying to hide.
The ruched square neckline shows more cleavage than I’m used to. The fitted waist cinches in before the fabric flares gently to my knees. I look… different. Not thin or perfect, but somehow put-together in a way that makes my heart race with nervous anticipation.
Tonight I’m meeting Raffaele’s family. Yep, I’m being introduced to the Russos and I’m freaking out. Even thinking about it sends a fresh wave of butterflies swarming through my stomach.
I lean closer to the mirror, applying a final swipe of mascara to my lashes. I’ve kept my makeup simple—just enough to enhance my features without looking like I’m trying too hard. My red hair falls straight down over my shoulders, the color a stark contrast against the black dress.
I briefly consider pinning it up, but Raffaele mentioned he likes it down. What he wants has become increasingly important to me, in ways that both terrify and thrill me.
With one final glance at my reflection, I open the bathroom door and step into the bedroom.
Raffaele stands by the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the late afternoon light.
The cut of his black suit emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. When he turns, his eyes find mine immediately, then drop to take in my appearance with such naked hunger that heat floods my cheeks.
“Alina,” he says, my name emerging as a rough growl that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
He crosses the room in three long strides, circling me slowly, his gaze trailing over every inch of me like a physical touch. I resist the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, coming to stand before me. In his hand, a black velvet box appears that I hadn’t noticed before. “But something’s missing.”
Before I can ask what he means, he opens the box to reveal a diamond choker—a delicate band of sparkling stones that would circle my throat perfectly. The light catches on the facets, sending prisms dancing across his face.
“Come,” he says, taking my hand and leading me to the full-length mirror across the room.
A week ago, he knelt behind me in front of this mirror, his hands on my body as he played me like a Stratocaster. He refused to let me look away while he showed me pleasure I’d never imagined possible.
The memory sends a flush of heat across my skin that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way his fingers had felt against my most intimate places.
He positions me before the mirror, standing behind me just as he did that night. Our eyes meet in the reflection, and I know he’s remembering too.
“Lift your hair,” he instructs, his voice deliciously husky.
I gather my red locks and lift them away from my neck, exposing the vulnerable curve where my shoulder meets my throat. Raffaele steps closer, his chest brushing against my back as he brings the choker around my neck. The diamonds are cool against my heated skin.
His fingers work the clasp with practiced ease, and I wonder fleetingly how many other women he’s adorned with jewelry. The thought sends an unexpected pang of jealousy through me, which I try to suppress.
“There,” he says, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders as the choker settles into place. “Perfect.”
I stare at our reflection—his imposing six-foot-four height dwarfing my measly five-foot-seven. God, he’s huge. A behemoth, really. Not just in height, but in every inch of his body. Every muscle is worked and shaped to perfection, making him look as though he’s been carved from stone.
“What are you thinking about?” His rough voice penetrates my thoughts.
Blinking, I realize I’ve tilted my head to rest on the possessive hand clutching my shoulder. When did I do that? Clearing my throat, I lift my head and touch the diamonds.
“They’re beautiful,” I whisper as they glitter at my throat like captured stars.
I try to decide if they overpower Mom’s necklace too much, but no. I’m not removing the necklace, even if it looks like cheap metal next to the choker.
“Just like you.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to accuse him of mocking me. But how can I when he looks at me like he is right now? Or when he spends nights worshiping my body without being selfish in his desire?
It’s all too much. I need to do something. Say something. “You’re giving me a collar now?” I attempt to joke, my voice coming out breathier than intended.
Raffaele’s eyes darken, his grip on my shoulder tightening just enough to send a shiver down my spine.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he answers with a simple, “Yes.”
My first instinct is irritation—a flash of defiance at his blatant claim of ownership.
I’m not a pet to be collared, not a possession to be marked.
But even as the thought forms, another feeling rises to meet it—a liquid heat that pools low in my belly, a traitorous thrill at being so thoroughly claimed.
His eyes hold mine in the mirror, challenging me to deny the effect he has on me. I can’t. “Does that bother you?” he asks, one hand sliding from my shoulder to the base of my throat, his fingers brushing against the diamonds there.
I swallow hard, feeling the slight pressure of his touch against my pulse. “It should,” I admit.
His lips curve into that dangerous half-smile that never fails to make my heart skip. “But it doesn’t.”
It’s not a question, and I don’t treat it as one. We both know the truth. “We need to go,” I say instead of answering directly. “I don’t want to be late.”
Raffaele nods, but doesn’t move immediately. His hand remains at my throat, his fingers pressing lightly against my pulse as his eyes stay locked with mine in the mirror.
I take his arm, grateful for the support as my knees feel suddenly weak. “I need to get the treats from the kitchen first,” I remind him. “I can’t show up empty-handed.”
Raffaele nods, leading me out of the bedroom. The diamond choker sits cool and heavy against my throat, a constant reminder of who I belong to now.
My stomach flutters with nerves as we head downstairs. Meeting his family—the infamous Russo clan—as his. Not his girlfriend or fiancée. Just… his.
The kitchen is spotless as always, and even though Susan isn’t around, there’s a timer ticking from above the oven.
I take the paper bag waiting on the counter, making sure everything’s there. Once I’ve checked, I get the second one from the fridge.
“Ready?” Raffaele asks, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back.
I nod, though ready is the last thing I feel.
Even the walk to the garage, which reveals Raffaele’s fleet of cars, isn’t enough to distract me from what lies ahead. I barely register him pointing to his black Maserati, or sliding into the front passenger seat.
It’s not until he closes the door after me that I notice I’m sitting here. Notice the leather seat cradling me while I carefully balance the two paper bags on my lap.
Inside are hours of work—delicate pastries and treats I’ve spent the past week perfecting between stolen moments of planning a wedding that still doesn’t feel quite real.
The wedding that will make me Alina Russo in less than exactly a week. March twenty-sixth. The date echoes in my mind with every beat of my heart.
Raffaele slides into the driver’s seat with effortless grace, his movements fluid and controlled like everything else about him. The engine purrs to life as he pulls out of the driveway, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching across to rest possessively on my thigh.
“Tell me again what you’ve made,” he says, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
I peek inside the bag, though I know its contents by heart.
“Cinnamon rolls and bites for Raven. She used to come to the bakery almost every morning for them.” A smile tugs at my lips as I recall her exaggerated moans of pleasure with each bite.
“Dark chocolate and marzipan for Piper because you said she has refined tastes. Nougat bites for Lorenzo, profiteroles for Matteo, and tiramisu for Remus.”
“You remembered all their favorites,” he observes, his thumb tracing small circles on my thigh.
“Of course I did.” I can’t help the small note of pride that creeps into my voice. “I was raised to always bring hostess gifts. Mom insisted it was proper etiquette.”
The mention of my mom brings a familiar pang of grief, but it’s duller now. Mostly the grief has softened by time and distraction. But… there’s a huge chunk that’s because I’m pissed at her for giving me up as collateral. And because of the way she allowed Sabrina to treat me.
“And the cookies?” he asks, glancing briefly at the separate container nested in the paper bag.
“Save the date cookies,” I explain. “They’re chocolate chips with the wedding date piped in chocolate. I thought… I thought it might be a nice way to announce it.”
His hand tightens momentarily on my thigh. “That’s a great idea,” he says, and though the words are simple, the approval in his voice warms me.
Outside the window, Cleveland slides by—familiar streets giving way to more exclusive neighborhoods as we drive toward the Russo estate.
My anxiety rises with each passing mile. I’ve never been to the Russo estate before, and now I’m about to walk into the wolf’s den. Not as a stranger, but as Raffaele’s. As the woman who will soon bear his name.
As if sensing my thoughts, Raffaele’s hand climbs higher on my thigh, his touch both comforting and possessive. “You’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m nervous,” I admit, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of the paper bag. “What if they don’t like me?”
He makes a dismissive sound. “Their opinion doesn’t matter,” he says, squeezing my thigh.
Although I appreciate he doesn’t give me empty assurances, it’s not enough for me. “It matters to me,” I counter. “You love your family.”
Something softens in his expression, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless. “Yes,” he concedes. “I do. But that doesn’t mean they get a say in this. You’re mine now, Piccola. No matter what they say.”
Mine. That one word both chafes and warms me. And if I’m completely honest, the chafing comes from telling myself I ought to feel like that when he’s quite literally collected me. But the way he’s made me feel seen is making it too hard to feel anything but good in his vicinity.
It’s only now that I’m beginning to fully understand the danger that is Raffaele Russo. It has nothing to do with violence or even his mafia family. It’s the way he’s making me feel.
We turn onto a long, tree-lined driveway, and I catch my first glimpse of the Russo estate through the windshield. The house—mansion, really—rises imposingly against the early evening sky.
Large windows reflect the sun like watchful eyes, and a wrought-iron gate stands open, waiting to receive us.
As we approach, I notice the subtle security measures—cameras disguised as architectural features, uniformed men positioned at strategic points around the grounds. This isn’t just a home; it’s a fortress.
“Breathe,” Raffaele reminds me, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. “There you go. Good girl.”
The words make heat pool in my lower stomach. God, why does his praise always make me feel so… well, needy for him?
He parks in front of the main entrance rather than in the large garage visible to one side. Before I can reach for the door handle, he’s out of the car and circling around to my side. I wait, understanding now that this is what he expects.
These small surrenders of independence are part of our unspoken agreement.
When he opens my door, he offers his hand, and I take it without hesitation, grateful for the solid strength of his grip as I emerge from the car with the paper bags clutched in my free hand.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes roaming over me appreciatively. “That dress fits you perfectly.”
Coming from anyone else, I might doubt the sincerity of the compliment. But Raffaele doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. He’s proven that to me over and over.
The clothing debate is over. He won. The day after he took the clothes from me, I begged to get them back. Having to beg wasn’t what surprised me. No, what shocked me was how much I liked it.
“And that choker,” he continues, his voice dropping to a register that makes me slick with want, “is driving me crazy. I can’t wait to see it against your bare skin tonight when I’m tasting that sweet cunt of yours.”
“Raffaele!” I gasp, shocked at his crude words despite knowing by now that’s exactly how he speaks when desire overtakes him.
A blush creeps up my cheeks, but I can’t deny the jolt of arousal his words trigger. My body responds to him on a primal level I never knew existed until him.
He smirks, fully aware of the effect he has on me. “Straighten your spine,” he commands, his hand pressing lightly against the small of my back. “Walk in there like you own the place.”
“Like you own the place, you mean,” I can’t help but correct him.
“Like we own it,” he counters, surprising me. “You’re a Russo now, in all but name. And that changes in a week.”
I take a deep breath and do as he instructed, straightening my spine, lifting my chin. The diamond choker sits cool and heavy against my throat, a constant reminder of his claim on me. But it also feels like armor somehow, giving me a confidence I didn’t know I could possess.
A staff member waits at the entrance, opening the heavy door as we approach. Raffaele’s hand never leaves the small of my back, guiding me forward.
“Take this to the kitchen,” he tells the staff member, taking the paper bags from me and handing them over. “Keep it in a cool place until after we’ve eaten.”
“Yes, Mr. Russo,” the man nods, accepting the bag with careful hands.
As we step over the threshold, I feel the weight of the moment settle over me. I’m entering the wolf’s den, walking into the heart of a family known for their ruthlessness and power. But I’m not alone.
Raffaele’s hand on my back reminds me of that with every step.