Chapter 28
Raffaele
The ice in my glass melts slowly as I stare into the crackling fire, the only sound in this too-empty library.
Midnight approaches, and I should be sleeping, but the bed upstairs feels wrong without Alina in it. Fucking bridal traditions. Who gives a shit about bad luck when I’ve already collected the only luck I need?
But she insisted, those blue eyes wide with something close to panic when I suggested ignoring the custom, so here I am, drinking alone while she sleeps in my bed with only her cat for company.
I take another sip of whiskey, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat. The shadows dance across the walls of the library, stretching and contracting with each flicker of the flames.
This room has always been my sanctuary, a place where I can think without interruption. Tonight, though, it feels hollow—a space missing something vital.
Missing her.
The thought catches me off guard. It’s only been an hour since I kissed her goodnight and retreated downstairs, yet I feel her absence like a physical weight on my chest. When did that happen? When did Alina Brewer become as necessary as oxygen?
I shake my head, refocusing on the package sitting on the desk before me. The gold frame catches the firelight, glinting like a promise. Inside, behind the glass, lies the deed to the bakery, the apartment, and the entire building—now transferred entirely into her married name.
Alina Brewer-Russo.
My fingers trace the edge of the frame, following the ornate patterns etched into the gold. The purchase from her sister cost me two million dollars, money I’d spend a hundred times over to see the look on Alina’s face tomorrow when I hand her this gift.
Her freedom. Her dream. The very thing she fought hardest to keep.
The legal documents took longer than expected to process, the lawyers dragging their feet despite the considerable bonus I paid for expedited service. But they came through just yesterday, and the frame arrived this morning—perfect timing for our wedding tomorrow.
I lift the frame, studying the official language that grants Alina full ownership of her family’s legacy. I know Alina thinks I insisted on buying Sabrina’s half to control her through the bakery. She couldn’t have been more wrong.
I didn’t want to own her dream; I wanted to give it back to her, whole and undivided.
Tomorrow, when I slip my ring onto her finger, I’ll place this deed into her hands as well. The first of many gifts. A promise that what matters to her matters to me.
If only I thought she’d let me crush her sister for being such a vicious cunt. I have the means to do it. And I don’t just mean money.
No. Thanks to my connections and almost unlimited funds, I’ve bought controlling shares in LakeEffect, and I fully intend on stripping Sabrina of her influencer status.
Thanks to Enzo’s politicians, Matteo’s favors, and Remus being, well, Remus, I now also have the ears of the CEOs of the big three. And when the time comes, I’ll get her blacklisted there as well.
Even if Alina never allows me to pay Sabrina back for messing with my wife, I’ll pull the trigger one day.
Smiling to myself, I reach for a cigar and light the fucker up. Even mentally planning someone’s ruin deserves celebration.
The rich tobacco scent fills the air as I draw deeply and exhale a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. The ritual soothes me, but it’s a poor substitute for what I really want. Alina across from me, her face illuminated by the firelight as she contemplates her next move on the chessboard.
I miss our games. Miss the delicate furrow between her brows when she’s thinking. Miss the way she bites her lower lip when she’s about to make a bold move.
Chess with Alina has become one of my all-time favorite parts of each day. I fucking love the way she reveals herself piece by piece with each game. Her strategies tell me more about her than her words ever could.
The whiskey bottle is half-empty when I check my watch again. It’s almost midnight. In just over twelve hours, Alina will become my wife. The thought sends something electric through my veins, a current of possession and anticipation that has nothing to do with the alcohol warming my blood.
I lean my head back against the leather chair, closing my eyes. Sleep eludes me, but memories don’t—Alina’s face when I first touched her, the soft sounds she makes when pleasure overwhelms her, the way she looked at me earlier when she said she was ready for tomorrow.
Not afraid. Not resigned. Ready.
The shrill ring of my phone cuts through the silence like a blade, startling me from my thoughts. The display shows the security gate’s number, and tension immediately coils in my muscles.
“Yeah?” I answer, voice sharp.
“Mr. Russo, sir. There’s a courier here at the gate,” the guard reports. “Says he has a delivery. A wedding present that needs to be delivered tonight.”
I check my watch again. Midnight exactly. “Did he say who it’s from?”
“No, sir. Just that it’s time-sensitive.”
My instincts flare with warning. No legitimate delivery service operates at this hour, and nothing about the timing feels coincidental. “What’s he driving?”
“Black sedan. No company markings that I can see.”
I consider my options. Turn him away, potentially missing something important—or allow him through and control the situation on my terms. “Let him through to the front door. I’ll meet him personally. And Weston? Keep the cameras on him the entire time.”
“Yes, sir.”
I end the call and rise from my chair, the whiskey’s warmth doing nothing to dull my senses. Instead, my mind sharpens, focusing with predatory intensity as I move through the darkened hallways of my home.
My hand slides beneath my shirt, checking the Glock tucked into my waistband at the small of my back. The familiar weight of the weapon grounds me.
Through the windows, I catch the sweep of headlights as the car approaches along the driveway. The security lights illuminate the black sedan as it comes to a stop, the driver’s silhouette visible through the windshield.
I position myself to the side of the door, angling my body to present the smallest possible target. Old habits. Necessary habits in my world.
When the doorbell rings, I wait three beats before opening it, keeping one hand casually behind my back, fingers brushing the grip of my gun.
The courier flinches when he sees me—a young man, early twenties maybe, wearing what looks like a standard delivery uniform but without any company logo. His eyes dart nervously, taking in my size, my expression, the tattoos visible on my forearms where I’ve rolled up my sleeves.
“Mr. Russo?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly.
“Who’s asking?” I respond coldly.
He swallows visibly. “I have a delivery for you, sir.” He lifts a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper, about the size of a large book. “A wedding gift.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know, sir. I just got the call to pick it up and deliver it by midnight. Paid in cash.”
I study his face, looking for signs of deception. His fear seems genuine enough—the slight tremble in his hands, the sweat beading at his temples despite the cool March night.
“Where did you pick it up?”
“A drop box location downtown. Instructions were to deliver it to this address by midnight, no signature required.”
I reach for the package, and he practically shoves it into my hands, clearly eager to complete the transaction and leave.
“You can go,” I tell him, and the relief on his face is palpable.
I watch as he practically runs back to his car, turning only when the sedan disappears down the driveway. The package feels heavy in my hands, substantial but not excessive. I examine it carefully—no markings, no return address, just sturdy brown paper secured with tape.
With cautious steps, I return to the library, my sanctuary violated by this unexpected intrusion. I place the package on the desk.
I stare at the package for a full minute, mapping each fold in the brown paper, each strip of tape, searching for anything suspicious. My instincts scream that nothing good comes at midnight in unmarked boxes.
With precise movements, I use a letter opener from my desk to slice through the tape, carefully peeling back the paper to reveal a black lacquered box that makes my blood run cold. I know this box—or rather, I know the collection it comes from.
The black lacquer gleams in the firelight, perfectly polished and unblemished. Heavy. Expensive. The kind of luxury that doesn’t announce itself but is recognized instantly by those who matter. Andrea Russo’s signature taste.
I run my fingers along the edge, feeling for any irregularities, any sign of tampering. Finding none, I lift the lid slowly, half-expecting something more volatile than cigars. But there they are—eight perfectly rolled cigars nestled in individual grooves, the finest tobacco money can buy.
The brands alone would tell me they came from my dad’s private stock—rare vintages, aged precisely to his exacting standards. But it’s not the cigars themselves that confirm it. It’s the labels.
Each cigar bears not the traditional brand marking, but a custom label—black with gold lettering that reads “March 26th” in elegant script. My wedding date.
A date my dad should not know.
I lift one cigar from its groove, examining it more closely. The craftsmanship is impeccable—of course it is. Andrea Russo accepts nothing less than perfection, especially when sending a message. And this is definitely a message.
A small card tucked into the lid catches my eye. I extract it with careful fingers, recognizing the heavy stock my dad favors for his personal correspondence. The message is short, written in his distinctive hand.
Congratulations on your wedding day, son!
Six words. Simple. Direct. Terrifying in their implications. Snarling, I slam the cigar box shut with enough force to rattle the crystal tumblers on the side table.
My dad knows.