Chapter 39
Raffaele
Ishould not be surprised he has the fucking audacity to show up here, on what was my mom’s sanctuary, on our birthday, during my honeymoon with my wife. The calculation behind the timing is so transparent it makes my teeth grind.
Nothing Andrea Russo does is ever a coincidence.
The rage that surges through me is so intense my vision actually dims at the edges. “Ian,” I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. “Get the house ready. Colin, stay close.”
Both men nod almost imperceptibly, their bodies shifting into alert stances without drawing attention. Years of training under my command have made them extensions of my will. They understand exactly what I’m asking without needing elaboration.
I shift my weight, positioning myself more firmly between Alina and the approaching threat. Because that’s what Andrea is, no matter how benign he might appear to others. A threat. Always.
“Raffaele?” Alina’s voice is uncertain behind me, her hand touching my back lightly. “Who is that?” she asks again.
“My dad,” I repeat, the word tasting like poison on my tongue. “Stay behind me.”
His boat is now secured to our dock, and he steps onto the wood with the confidence of a man who’s never questioned his right to be anywhere.
He’s dressed impeccably in light-colored pants and shirt, looking every inch the wealthy European businessman enjoying the Caribbean sun rather than the ruthless crime lord I know him to be.
I don’t need to see his eyes beneath his sunglasses to know the smile plastered on his face is hollow and as fake as he is. “Figlio mio!” he calls out, arms extending in greeting like we’re some normal fucking family having a reunion.
“What’s he saying?” Alina whispers, reminding me she doesn’t speak Italian.
“Either speak English or keep your mouth shut,” I snarl.
Taking no visible offense, my dad repeats the sentiment in English. “My son.” Then he adds, “And his beautiful bride. What an honor it is to finally meet you.”
“What are you doing here?” I demand, not moving an inch as he approaches.
Andrea stops a few feet away, his hands dropping to his sides at my cold reception. “Is that any way to greet your dad? On your birthday, no less?” He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “And on your lovely wife’s birthday as well. Such synchronicity is almost fascinating.”
He extends his hand toward me, his expression expectant. I stare at the offered hand, noting the heavy gold ring that adorns his finger. The same ring has left countless marks on my skin while I was growing up.
I don’t take his hand. His smile doesn’t falter, but when he removes his sunglasses, I note the coldness flickering in his eyes before he shifts, turning his attention and extended hand toward Alina instead.
“You must be Alina. I’ve heard so much about you, my dear. Andrea Russo, Raffaele’s dad. It’s a pleasure to finally—”
I move before he can finish, my hand shooting out to slap his away from my wife. The sound is sharp. “Don’t touch her,” I growl, my voice dropping to a register that my men know means imminent violence. “Don’t even think about it.”
Andrea raises both hands in mock surrender, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me he got exactly the reaction he wanted. “Such protectiveness. Admirable in a husband.”
I can feel Alina’s confusion radiating from behind me, her hand now gripping the back of my shirt. She has no context for this, no understanding of the monster standing before us.
“What do you want?” I demand again.
“To celebrate, of course.” Andrea gestures broadly, taking in the island with a sweep of his arm. “I thought I might take you both out to eat. There’s an excellent underwater restaurant only a couple of hours from here. My gift for the birthday couple.”
I feel the muscles in my jaw working as I consider my options. Sending him away would feel good in the moment, but then I’d spend the rest of our honeymoon wondering when and where he might reappear.
No, keeping him close, under my observation, is the smarter play. Even though every instinct screams at me to get Alina as far from him as possible.
“We’re not leaving the island,” I state flatly.
Andrea’s expression doesn’t change, but I know him well enough to catch the slight tightening around his eyes. He’s not accustomed to being refused.
“Such a shame,” he says smoothly. “Perhaps another time. I have gifts for you both on my boat. Shall I—”
“We don’t want your gifts,” I cut him off.
The tension stretches between us, thick enough to choke on. I’m about to tell him to get back on his boat and leave when Alina steps out from behind me, surprising us both.
“I could cook breakfast,” she offers, her voice steady despite the nervousness I can see in the way she twists her fingers together.
My first instinct is to shut this down immediately. I don’t want Andrea anywhere near our villa, near our private space, near her. But… fuck. There’s no refuting that staying in a controlled environment with Colin and Ian present is the better option.
“How absolutely lovely,” Andrea says before I can respond, his charm cranked to maximum as he smiles at Alina. “I’d be honored to taste the cooking of my new daughter-in-law.”
“Fine,” I growl, placing my hand possessively on the small of Alina’s back. “Breakfast at the villa. Then you leave.”
Andrea inclines his head in acknowledgment, but the victory on his smug face makes my skin crawl. He got exactly what he wanted.
“After you,” I say, gesturing for Andrea to walk ahead of us. I’m not turning my back on him for a second.
As we begin the walk up to the villa, Colin positions himself behind Andrea while Ian moves ahead to secure the house. I keep Alina close to my side, my arm around her waist more of a protective shield than an affectionate gesture.
“I’m sorry about this,” I murmur into her ear, trying to salvage something of the day I had planned for her.
“It’s okay,” she whispers back, though I can feel the tension in her body. “He’s your dad. Family is important.”
If only she knew. But her innocence, her belief in the fundamental goodness of family, is part of what I love about her. Part of what I’ll protect with my life.
The walk feels longer than usual, every step measured and tense. Andrea comments occasionally on the beauty of the island, on the improvements since his last visit, on the perfect weather.
I respond with grunts when absolutely necessary. My focus split between watching him for any threatening moves and scanning our surroundings for additional threats. Because Andrea Russo never travels alone.
Or… maybe he fucking did. I wouldn’t put it past him to be that arrogant. Yeah, the more I consider it, the more I do believe that’s the case. But still… I need to be ready just in case.
By the time we reach the villa’s terrace, my shoulders are rigid with tension, my jaw aching from being clenched so hard. Andrea pauses to admire the view, his back to us as he surveys the ocean spread out below.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Beatrice always did have exceptional taste.”
The casual mention of my mom’s name sends a fresh surge of rage through me. He has no right to speak of her, not here, not in this place that was her escape from him.
“Ian,” I call out, my voice controlled despite the anger coursing through me. “Show Mr. Russo to the terrace dining area. Colin, perimeter check.”
As my men move to follow my orders, I turn to Alina, cupping her face in my hands. “Are you sure about this?” I ask quietly.
She nods, covering one of my hands with hers. “It’ll be fine. It’s just breakfast.”
Nothing is ever ‘just’ anything with Andrea Russo. But I don’t tell her that. Instead, I press a kiss to her forehead and follow her into the kitchen.
I stand in the doorway, my body angled to keep both Alina and the terrace in my line of sight. Andrea sits outside, hands folded neatly on the table like he’s some kind of loving dad waiting patiently for breakfast, rather than the calculating predator I know him to be.
Colin prowls the perimeter while Ian stations himself near the kitchen entrance, both men alert for the slightest hint of trouble.
The morning was supposed to be perfect. Instead, I’m watching my wife pull ingredients from the refrigerator while I’m plotting how to get my dad off this island without bloodshed.
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell Alina, keeping my voice low. “We could tell him to leave.”
She glances up from the carton of eggs she’s just pulled out, her expression determined. “No, Raffaele.” She cracks an egg against the rim of a glass bowl with practiced precision. “He’s your dad. Besides, you know I don’t mind cooking.”
“At least let me help,” I offer, stepping fully into the kitchen.
She shakes her head, already whisking the eggs with cream. “I’ve got this. Really.”
Despite her words, I move to her side, reaching for the coffee grinder. If nothing else, I can make sure she has caffeine for this unexpected ordeal.
She works with confidence, her hands sure as they slice fresh fruit, whip cream, and mix batter for pancakes. There’s something hypnotic about watching her move around the kitchen—a rhythm and precision that speaks to years of experience.
This is her domain, where she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“What’s he like?” she asks suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper as she drops blueberries into the pancake batter.
I tense, the coffee beans forgotten in my hand. “What?”
“Your dad,” she clarifies, keeping her eyes on her work. “You’ve never really talked about him.”
Because there’s nothing good to say. Because the less she knows about Andrea Russo, the safer she is. Because some darkness shouldn’t touch her life.
“Complicated,” I say finally, the understatement so massive it should crush the room.
She glances toward the terrace where Andrea sits, then back at me. “He looks like you. Around the eyes.”