Chapter 36
Alina
The turquoise water stretches endlessly before me, meeting the blue sky in a perfect line on the horizon. If I had an ounce of artistic ability, I’d love to paint this moment. Or maybe photograph it. Anything to make it last forever.
Since I’m not an artist and don’t have a camera, I commit it all to memory. Soaking up every detail, every nuanced change like a sponge.
The warm Caribbean breeze tangles through my hair as I take in the view for what must be the hundredth time since we arrived four days ago. It still doesn’t seem real.
This private paradise, this luxury that surrounds me like a dream I’m afraid to wake from. Raffaele’s island. Our honeymoon retreat. My new life as Alina Brewer-Russo.
Four days of extravagance have left me feeling slightly dizzy, like I’ve been spinning in circles and haven’t quite found my balance.
Yesterday, Raffaele arranged a private helicopter tour of neighboring islands, followed by lunch at an exclusive restaurant where the chef came to our table personally to discuss each course.
Who even does that?
Everything is the best, the most expensive, the most exclusive. The clothes in my closet don’t need price tags for me to know they’re expensive.
And I’m grateful. Of course I am.
But there’s a part of me that feels like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. The Alina who baked cookies at four in the morning seems like a different person entirely. And sometimes, I miss her simplicity.
She didn’t need designer stuff or fancy restaurants to be happy. She… well, all she needed was her mom, Onyx, and the bakery. Yes, okay, I can admit that version of me wasn’t happy, but more… content.
Yet, now it feels like the same compromise. I didn’t need a honeymoon. Honestly, all I wanted was to get to know my husband better and earn my freedom so I can return to the bakery and…
The sound of water dripping onto the sand alerts me to Raffaele’s presence before his wet hands slide around my waist. He presses against my back, his chin resting on top of my head as he joins me in looking out at the water.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, though I can feel his eyes on me rather than the view.
I lean back against him, drawing comfort from his solid presence. “It’s incredible.”
His lips brush against my ear, sending shivers down my spine despite the warm air. “I’ve made reservations for tonight. There’s this place on the mainland I’d love to take you. The chef trained in Paris under—”
“Actually,” I interrupt, then immediately bite my lip, surprised by my own boldness. I turn in his arms, gathering courage as I look up into his sage green eyes. “I was thinking maybe we could stay in tonight?”
His eyebrow arches, curiosity evident on his face. “Stay in?”
My hands fidget with the hem of my cover-up, nervousness bubbling up. “I thought I could cook dinner for us. Something simple. I don’t want to waste all the food in the kitchen, Raffaele. And…” I trail off, suddenly uncertain.
What if he thinks it’s a stupid idea? What if he’s disappointed?
The smile that spreads across his face is slow and genuine, reaching his eyes in a way that makes my heart flutter. “You want to cook for me?”
I nod, relief washing through me at his reaction. “I miss it. Cooking, I mean. And I thought it might be nice to just be together. Here.” My cheeks heat as I add, “Unless you’d rather go out, which is fine too.”
His thumb traces the curve of my cheek, then drops to tilt my chin up. “Is that really what you want?” he asks, his voice rough. “Or is it what you think I want?”
Knowing this is my time to be honest, I reply, “It’s what I want, Raffaele. I want a quiet and intimate evening with my husband.” I nuzzle into the palm of his hand as he slides it up to cup my cheek. “That’s all I want,” I murmur.
“In that case,” he rasps, “I’d love to have you cook for me, Mogliettina.”
The approval in his voice makes me ridiculously giddy. Cooking dinner is such a small thing. Yet his acceptance of this tiny assertion feels monumental.
His lips brush against mine, a gentle kiss that quickly deepens into something more demanding. When he pulls away, his eyes have darkened with desire.
“We should head back soon,” he rasps.
I nod in agreement, although reluctant to leave the tranquility. “Yeah, let’s go.”
The sun has left its mark on my shoulders and chest, a slight pinkness that will probably fade to freckles by tomorrow.
We gather our things from the beach where we’ve spent most of the afternoon. We don’t have much, just some towels and a picnic basket that was delivered by some of the security men. They didn’t stay long enough for introductions, so I don’t know their names.
As we walk back to the house, I can’t help but think about everything.
My feelings for Raffaele have grown into something I can’t quite define. It’s not just physical attraction, though God knows that’s overwhelming enough. What I’m feeling is deeper, more complex, woven through with threads of fear and uncertainty.
Because the truth is, I don’t really know him. Not fully. I know him as a protective person, a passionate lover, and, surprisingly, a gentleman. The same can be said for thousands of men, though.
I want to know the things others don’t. Like, why are there sometimes shadows in his eyes? Moments we never talk about, but that I notice, where he mentally goes somewhere I can’t follow.
Back at the villa, Raffaele halts me just as I’m about to walk over the threshold. “I’ll go check in with my men,” he announces. “Be good.” The last part comes out like a growl while he squeezes my butt.
“Always,” I smile. “Hurry back.”
As he leaves, I head upstairs to the master bathroom. The bathroom here is a marvel of luxury, much like the one back at… well, our home.
A rainfall shower big enough for four people, a soaking tub with jets positioned to provide the perfect view of the sunset, dual sinks with lighting designed to flatter rather than reveal flaws.
I rinse away the sand and salt under water pressure so perfect it feels like a massage. The shower gel smells of tropical fruits and flowers, exotic and enticing. My hair, when clean, feels silky between my fingers.
After drying off, I stand before the closet, still overwhelmed by the selection. Among the designer dresses and casual beachwear, I find a blue floral print dress with a knotted front and thin shoulder straps. It’s beautiful but not overly formal, perfect for a night in.
I slip it on, the fabric cool and light against my sun-warmed skin. The blue in the pattern matches my eyes, making them appear more vibrant. I leave my hair loose to dry naturally in the warm air, applying only the barest hint of makeup—some mascara and a touch of lip gloss.
As I make my way downstairs to start dinner, I smile at the thought. Cooking for my husband. Such a simple, ordinary thing. And yet it feels incredibly significant.
In the midst of all this extravagance, perhaps what I need most is to carve out small pockets of normalcy, to bring something of myself into this new life.
I’m a simple girl. And tonight, I’ll embrace that simplicity.
The kitchen gleams around me; all sleek surfaces and beautifully shiny appliances. The fridge, freezer, and pantry are beyond stocked, which is perfect.
I find two perfect steaks in the fridge and set them on the side so they can warm up before I cook them. Then I hunt down a skillet, chopping board, knives, and whatever else I need.
While I preheat the skillet, I wash the vegetables I found in the fridge. Lettuce, peppers, garlic, tomatoes, and other salad ingredients that look tasty.
Chopping is almost therapeutic in its familiarity. It’s exactly the kind my hands know by heart, even in this unfamiliar space. The normalcy feels like slipping into a favorite sweater after months of wearing stiff, formal clothes.
I’m so absorbed in slicing bell peppers that I don’t hear Raffaele enter until he’s right behind me, his presence like a physical touch against my bare shoulders.
“Do you need help?” His voice is low, intimate in the kitchen’s vastness.
I glance over my shoulder, taking him in. He’s freshly showered, water still clinging to his black hair. He’s barefoot and dressed in casual linen pants and an unbuttoned shirt that reveals the tattooed expanse of his chest.
Will I ever get used to seeing him like this, or will it always disarm me? Raffaele in a suit is devastating, but without one is… everything.
“You can open the wine,” I suggest, nodding toward the bottle I’d selected from the impressive collection.
He moves with fluid grace, retrieving glasses from a cabinet while I return to my chopping. The rhythmic sound of my knife against the cutting board mingles with the soft pop of the cork being freed. For a moment, we exist in comfortable silence, each focused on our tasks.
“What can I do with these?” he asks, appearing at my side with two glasses of deep red wine. He sets mine within reach before surveying the ingredients spread across the counter.
“You can season the steaks,” I tell him, surprised by my own boldness in directing him. “There’s salt and pepper there, and that herb mixture I made.”
Our domesticity feels surreal. Raffaele Russo, feared collector for the Russo crime family, following my instructions on how to season meat. But he does it without hesitation, his strong hands working the seasonings into the flesh with surprising delicacy.
“Like this?” he asks, and I’m struck by the genuine question in his voice, the absence of his usual commanding tone.
“Perfect.” I nod, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex with each movement, the dark ink of his tattoos shifting like living shadows beneath his skin.
We move around each other in the kitchen with increasing ease, my body somehow knowing where his will be, anticipating his movements. When he reaches past me for the olive oil, his chest brushes against my back, sending warmth cascading down my spine.
Our fingers touch as we transfer the salad to a serving bowl, a fleeting contact that feels more intimate than it should.
The steaks sizzle as they hit the hot pan, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma that mingles with the scent of fresh herbs and the sea breeze drifting through the open doors.
Raffaele stands beside me, watching intently as I flip the meat, his proximity making my skin prickle with awareness.
“You know what you’re doing,” he observes, taking a sip of his wine.
I smile, relaxing into the familiar routine. “I used to cook with my mom all the time. And when she got sick, I took over completely.” The memory brings a bittersweet ache, but it doesn’t overwhelm me as it once did. “This is the first time I’ve cooked since…”
“Since I collected you,” he finishes, his voice soft but matter-of-fact.
I nod, focusing on the steaks to avoid meeting his eyes. “I’ve missed it.”
His hand finds the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my dress. “Then we’ll make sure you have plenty of opportunities to cook, if that’s what you want.”
The simple consideration in his words touches me more deeply than any of the extravagant gifts or experiences of the past days.
Once everything is ready, and I’ve added feta and a few other last-minute decisions to the salad, Raffaele carries our plates outside while I bring the salad and wine.
We settle at the terrace table, the setting sun casting long golden shadows across the stone floor. The ocean stretches before us, a darkening canvas painted with the fiery colors of sunset.
“This looks incredible,” Raffaele says, eyeing the perfectly cooked steak with appreciation.
I wait, watching nervously as he takes his first bite. The look of pleasure that crosses his face sends satisfaction blooming through my chest.
“Delicious,” he confirms, reaching for my hand across the table. His thumb traces circles on my palm, a habit I’ve come to cherish. “Did your mom teach you to cook like this?”
“Kind of,” I answer, relaxing as we fall into easy conversation. “She believed anyone could follow a recipe, but real cooking came from understanding flavors and textures. We couldn’t always afford the best ingredients, but she knew how to make simple things taste special.”
He hums his appreciation, which makes me smile.
As we eat, our conversation drifts from topic to topic. He tells me about the island’s history and his plans to take me snorkeling tomorrow.
The wine loosens something in both of us, creating a bubble of intimacy that feels separate from the outside world.
When our plates are empty and the sun has nearly disappeared beneath the horizon, he once again brings up tomorrow’s plans. My excitement dies when he tells me about the yacht we’ll be on.
“Raffaele,” I say, unable to keep my mouth shut for a moment longer.