Chapter 37
Alina
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to keep doing all this, you know,” I say softly, gesturing vaguely at our surroundings.
“Do what?” he asks, furrowing his brows in confusion.
“The restaurants, the helicopter tours, and now a yacht. I appreciate it all, but…” I pause, gathering courage. “I’m fine. Happy, even, with simpler things. Like what we’re doing right now.”
Raffaele studies me over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable in the fading light. For a moment I fear I’ve offended him, criticized his generosity. But when he speaks, his voice is thoughtful rather than defensive.
“I’m not trying to impress you, Alina,” he says, setting down his wine. “I’m trying to show you all that life has to offer. All the experiences and pleasures that you’ve never had.”
“Before you,” I finish quietly.
He nods, leaning forward. “You deserved better than what you had. And now you can have anything. Everything.”
The distinction melts something inside me. That he’s not trying to buy my affection but to expand my world. That the extravagance isn’t about showing off but about showing me possibilities.
“Tell me more about her,” he says unexpectedly. “Your mom. Like, what else did she teach you?”
The question catches me off guard, but I find myself wanting to share. “She was the strongest person I’ve ever known,” I begin, my throat tightening slightly. “Even when she got sick, she never complained. She just adapted. Found new ways to do things.”
I tell him about how she would sing while baking, about how she taught me to see beauty in the small things life has to offer. Like a perfect chocolate chip cookie, a sunset, the first spring flowers pushing through snow.
“Once, Sabrina was complaining we had to do… I can’t remember what, exactly.
But it was something we had to fix or create by ourselves.
” Pausing, I try to recall what triggered the situation, but the details are lost. “Anyway. So Mom sat us both down and taught us there are two kinds of people in life. Those who can make things and those who pay others to make things for them.”
Raffaele makes a sound of agreement.
“And Mom said that even if we had all the money in the world, she’d always want to know how to make things,” I explain. “Because she’d never want to rely completely on others.”
Now that I know Mom borrowed money from Raffaele, that pearl of wisdom shines in a new light. Because the person who had to pay that debt was me. Me. It’s what led to this moment, to being on our honeymoon.
Christ.
“She sounds remarkable,” Raffaele says, his expression soft in a way I rarely see.
“She was,” I agree, surprised to find my eyes dry. The memories bring comfort now, not just pain. “What about your mom? What was she like?”
Something flickers across his face—vulnerability, perhaps, or surprise at the question. For a moment I think he won’t answer, that I’ve crossed some invisible boundary. But then he takes a deep breath.
“She loved music,” he begins, his voice low and rich with memory. “Classical, mostly. She played the piano. Not professionally, but beautifully. Our house was never silent when I was growing up.”
As it gradually gets darker, Raffaele tells me about Beatrice Russo. He tells me about her warm personality, her grace, and her battle with cancer that ultimately took her in August of last year.
He describes sitting beside her hospital bed, playing chess to distract her from the pain, learning to recognize when she needed silence and when she needed words.
“That’s why this place means so much,” he admits, gesturing toward the villa. “It was hers. Her retreat. She was happiest here.”
I reach across the table, taking his hand in mine. Our fingers intertwine, a physical manifestation of the connection forming between us through shared grief and vulnerability.
Hours later, I feel like I have a pretty good idea of who Beatrice Russo was. Like all of us, she wasn’t a saint. But she loved her son more than life itself. And she endured her marriage to Andrea, despite his cruelty.
With how much Raffaele is sharing with me, I feel guilty for being the one to hold back. But I’m not ready to tell him what I did. I know that when I do, he’ll never look at me the same way. How could he?
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I whisper, meaning it more deeply than I can express.
His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. “Thank you for cooking dinner,” he replies, the simple words carrying unexpected weight.
“I enjoy cooking,” I murmur. “Just like I enjoy creating things, Raffaele. Look, I’ll never be one of those women who wants a credit card with no limit so they can buy all the materialistic goods in the world.
I want to always be able to find beauty in the little things.
Like summer rain, or the fire in the library. ”
“Is that so?” he asks, smirking.
I nod. “Yes.” Meeting his gaze again, I add, “At least I hope so. Because as long as I can do those things, I’m still me. I’m still Alina Brewer.”
“Brewer-Russo,” he corrects.
Rolling my eyes, I allow silence to wrap around us. It’s a comfortable silence. It makes me feel like we’re sharing something more than words as we sit here, holding hands across the table as stars begin to appear in the vast expanse above us.
As the last light fades from the sky, Raffaele collects our empty plates and stacks them neatly before carrying them inside. The gesture is so surprising that it never occurs to me to help. I just sit there, watching him.
When he returns, his movements are unhurried, almost languid in the warm night air. “Let’s go to the pool,” he suggests, pouring the rest of the wine into our glasses before extending his hand to me. “It’s lit up at night.”
I take his hand without hesitation, our fingers interlocking with a familiarity that sends warmth spreading through my chest.
The pool glows with underwater lights that illuminate the water from within, casting rippling blue patterns across the surrounding stone. We settle at the edge, dipping our feet into the cool water.
The temperature difference between the warm night air and the pool sends pleasant shivers up my legs. Our conversation continues where it left off, flowing as easily as the water that laps around our ankles when we kick gently.
“Did you ever think you’d end up here?” Raffaele asks, his shoulder pressed against mine. “With someone like me?”
I consider the question, swirling the wine in my glass. “No,” I answer honestly. “I never imagined any of this. The most adventure I thought I’d have was maybe taking a weekend trip to Pittsburgh someday.”
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Pittsburgh?”
“Don’t judge,” I bump his shoulder playfully. “That was my big dream. Maybe see the Andy Warhol Museum.”
His arm slides around my waist, pulling me closer. “And now?”
“Now I’m sitting on a private island with my husband, who happens to be a mafia collector, drinking wine that probably costs more than I made in a year working at the bakery.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “Life is strange.”
“In a good way?” His voice holds a note of uncertainty I rarely hear.
“In the best way,” I assure him, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
Soft landscape lighting illuminates the lush tropical plants surrounding the pool area, creating intimate pockets of shadow and light. The moon hangs low and full above us, casting a silvery path across the ocean visible beyond the infinity edge of the pool.
It’s impossibly romantic, like something from a movie I would have watched alone in my tiny apartment, never believing such scenes existed in real life.
Raffaele’s hand traces lazy circles on my back, each pass dipping slightly lower. His voice drops to a seductive rumble as he asks, “Want to swim?”
“I didn’t bring a suit,” I reply, though the heat in his eyes tells me that’s exactly what he had in mind.
“Neither did I.” His lips brush against my ear as he whispers, “Skinny dip with me, Alina.”
My heartbeat speeds up, a flush spreading from my cheeks down to my chest. Despite the intimacy we’ve shared, the idea of stripping naked under the open sky feels daringly exposed.
Raffaele must sense my hesitation because he pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine. “No one can see us here,” he assures me. “It’s just you and me.”
Something shifts inside me; a decision, a surrender, or perhaps a claiming of my own desire. Without breaking eye contact, I set down my wineglass and rise to my feet. Raffaele remains seated, looking up at me with growing heat in his gaze as I reach for the thin straps of my dress.
“You’re full of surprises,” he murmurs, his eyes tracking my every movement.
Slowly, I pull the straps down my shoulders, letting the fabric catch momentarily on my breasts before it falls completely, pooling around my feet in a puddle of blue flowers. I stand before him in nothing but the sexy black lingerie set I chose after my shower.
My skin prickles with goosebumps that have nothing to do with the night air. Raffaele’s eyes darken as they travel the length of my body, lingering on my breasts, the curve of my waist, the swell of my hips.
I unhook the bra and let it fall to the ground before sliding my thumbs beneath the waistband of my panties and pushing them down my legs. When I step out of them, it’s with what I hope appears as confidence rather than the trembling nervousness I actually feel.
He rises in one fluid motion, wasting no time in shrugging off the shirt he never bothered buttoning. His pants follow, then his… oh, no boxer briefs tonight.
Raffaele stands gloriously naked before me, his erection evident and unashamed.
“Beautiful,” he says, and I’m not sure if he means me or the night or the moment itself.