Chapter 39 #2
The observation hits me like a physical blow. I’ve spent my life trying to be nothing like him, and yet my own face betrays me with its genetics.
“We’re nothing alike. At least not in the ways that matter,” I spit, the refusal coming out harsher than I intended. Alina’s hands pause in their work, her eyes lifting to mine. I run my hand down her arm, needing the contact to ground me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says, returning to her preparations. “Just… tell me what I should know. About him.”
The things she doesn’t know could fill volumes, and none of it would let her sleep better at night. She knows I’m a collector for the Russo family. Growing up in Little Italy, she must know I’ve done things that can’t be undone.
But the specifics, and Andrea’s role in shaping me into the weapon I’ve become, those are details she doesn’t need.
“Just be careful what you say around him,” I tell her instead. “He catalogs everything. Uses it later.”
She nods, absorbing this as she pours the first pancake onto the griddle. “Noted.”
I watch her flip the pancake with practiced ease, golden brown and perfect. She moves to the coffee machine I’ve prepared, pouring the rich, dark liquid into a carafe. Every movement is efficient, no wasted energy.
“I think you should go talk to him,” she says suddenly, her back to me as she slices strawberries.
“I’d rather stay here with you.”
She turns, spatula in hand, and gives me a look that’s somehow both stern and tender. “I know you would. But you need to deal with this. With him. And I need space to work without you hovering and glowering.”
“I don’t hover,” I protest automatically.
“You absolutely hover.” She points the spatula at the door. “Go. Talk to your dad. I’ve got this under control.”
I hesitate, torn between admiration for her confidence and the primal need to keep her safe from Andrea’s influence.
“Besides,” she adds, softer now, “he came all this way. On your birthday.”
“I hate him,” I say before I can stop myself, the words escaping as if they’ve been waiting years for this moment. And they have.
Alina freezes, her eyes widening at the raw honesty. “Raffaele…”
“You don’t understand,” I continue, my voice dropping to ensure Andrea can’t possibly overhear. “He’s not what you think. Not what he appears to be.”
Her expression shifts from shock to something more complex; a mixture of confusion and sadness that makes my chest tighten.
“Do you have any idea what I would give,” she says slowly, “for one more day with my mom? Or even to meet my dad? Family is… it’s everything, Raffaele. Even when it’s complicated.”
The gulf between us in this moment feels vast. She sees family through the lens of her own experiences. Imperfect but ultimately loving parents who wanted the best for her. She has no framework for understanding a dad who views his son as nothing more than a tool to be sharpened and deployed.
I could try to explain, but I won’t. Because her innocence, her belief in the fundamental goodness of family, is something I refuse to destroy. Not even for honesty’s sake.
“Ian,” I call out, my decision made. “Stay with Mrs. Brewer-Russo.”
He immediately steps into the kitchen, positioning himself discreetly by the entrance. “Yes, boss.”
I meet Alina’s eyes, seeing her disappointment at my non-response. “I’ll go talk to him,” I concede. “But Ian stays with you.”
She nods, accepting the compromise. “The food will be ready soon.”
I cross the space between us, cupping her face in my hands and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you,” I murmur against her skin, though whether I’m thanking her for breakfast or for being the one pure thing in my life, I’m not entirely sure.
Outside, Andrea hasn’t moved. He sits at the terrace table, looking out over the water with the false serenity of a man without regrets.
I drop into the chair across from him, making sure I can still see the kitchen entrance from my position. For several long moments, we sit in thick silence, the only sounds the distant crash of waves against the shore and the birds calling from the nearby trees.
“You have some fucking nerve,” I finally say, my voice low and controlled despite the rage simmering just beneath the surface. “Showing up here. At Mom’s island.”
Andrea’s expression doesn’t change, his eyes are still fixed on the horizon. “It was my gift to her,” he replies smoothly. “And now it’s yours. Family property.”
“Family,” I repeat, the word acid on my tongue. “Is that what we are?”
Now he looks at me, his eyes—so similar to my own—revealing nothing. “Always. Blood is everything.”
“Blood is the least of what makes family,” I counter, thinking of Lorenzo, Matteo, Remus—cousins who’ve been more brothers to me than this man has ever been a dad. Thinking of Alina, who became my family by choice and bond rather than genetics.
Andrea smiles thinly. “Philosophy from the enforcer. How unexpected.”
Before I can respond, the sliding door opens, and Alina emerges from the kitchen, balancing a large tray of food. Colin appears immediately at her side, taking the tray while Ian follows with plates, utensils, and a pitcher of what looks like orange juice.
“I hope everyone’s hungry,” Alina announces, her smile brittle but determined as she begins setting the table.
The spread she’s prepared in such a short time is impressive—fluffy pancakes studded with fresh blueberries, scrambled eggs that look impossibly light and creamy, crisp bacon, sliced tropical fruit arranged in a colorful display, and slices of the bread she baked yesterday evening.
“This looks magnificent, my dear,” Andrea says, his charm firmly in place as he beams at my wife. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
I want to slap the smile off his face for daring to compliment her, for acting like this is some normal family breakfast rather than the calculated invasion it actually is. Instead, I pull out Alina’s chair for her, making sure she sits beside me rather than anywhere near Andrea.
“I made mimosas too,” she says, gesturing to the pitcher that Ian sets on the table. “And coffee, of course.”
The tropical morning sun beats down on us as we begin this surreal meal, the beauty of our surroundings at odds with the ugliness of Andrea’s presence. I observe him as he takes his first bite of food, as if I might catch some telling gesture, some hint of his true purpose here.
But Andrea Russo has spent decades perfecting his mask. Whatever he’s planning, whatever game he’s playing, he won’t reveal it easily.
All I know for certain is that I need to get him off this island and away from my wife as quickly as possible.
“So, Alina,” Andrea begins as he cuts into his pancakes. “Tell me about this bakery of yours. Raffaele mentioned it’s been in your family for generations?” His tone is conversational, friendly even, but I know better.
Every question is reconnaissance, every answer cataloged for future use.
I tense as Alina sets down her fork, seemingly pleased by his interest. She has no idea she’s being interrogated by a master manipulator who wrings information from people like water from a cloth—effortlessly and without their knowledge until they’re left dry.
It shouldn’t make me happy to note that Alina’s smile is as fake as Andrea’s. But it does. I squeeze her knee under the table while she talks about the bakery, especially when wistfulness creeps into her tone.
“What sort of goods do you specialize in?” he asks, continuing to throw questions at my wife.
Alina brightens, always more animated when discussing her passion. “Hmm, we do a little of everything,” she replies, keeping her answer in the present tense, like I haven’t interrupted the routine she once had. “My mom taught me everything I know about baking and cooking.”
“Your mom sounds like a remarkable woman.” Andrea’s voice carries just the right note of sympathy. “Raffaele mentioned she passed away recently. My condolences.”
My grip tightens on my fork. He’s steering the conversation deliberately, establishing a superficial connection before probing vulnerabilities.
“Thank you,” Alina murmurs, her expression dimming. “It’s been… difficult.”
“Loss always is,” Andrea says, somehow sounding both philosophical and understanding without revealing a single genuine emotion. “I felt it keenly when Beatrice passed away.”
My knuckles whiten around my fork. This fucking snake has the audacity to speak about my mom as if he cherished her. As if he even fucking respected her.
“How did you two meet?” Andrea pivots smoothly, gesturing between Alina and me. “Raffaele is typically so… focused on his work. I must admit I was surprised to hear he was getting married.”
“That’s none of your fucking business,” I reply, shooting him a shit-eating grin.
Andrea’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I see. Well, how fortunate you share a birthday.” He all but sneers the last part, making it clear how little he cares.
“I think it’s romantic,” Alina says, oblivious to the subtext. “Sharing a birthday with your spouse.”
“And now you’ll never forget his special day,” Andrea chuckles, the sound as hollow as his eyes. “Tell me, what are your plans now that you’re married? Will you continue with the bakery? Start a family, perhaps?”
My jaw clenches so hard I hear my teeth creak. He’s pushing boundaries deliberately now, asking questions so personal that I want to ram this fork through his hand to stop him.
“We’re still figuring things out,” Alina answers diplomatically, reaching under the table to rest her hand on my thigh—whether to calm me or herself, I’m not sure.
“Children are such a blessing,” Andrea continues, ignoring the tension that’s now thick enough to choke on. “I always wished for more than just Raffaele, but fate had other plans.”
“Fate had nothing to do with it,” I snap, unable to contain myself any longer. “Your choices determined everything.”
Andrea’s expression doesn’t change, but something cold flickers in his eyes. “We all make choices. Some we live with more easily than others.”
The threat is veiled but unmistakable. I’ve made my choice—Alina—and Andrea is making it known that my choice has consequences he controls. Like fuck it does.
“Yes, well…” Trailing off, Alina stands. “Let me clear the table, and I’ll bring out more coffee.”
“Let me help,” I say automatically, moving to rise.
She shakes her head. “I’ve got it. You stay and catch up.” The words sound forced, like she’s trying to convince herself this is a normal family interaction.
“Ian will help,” I say firmly, catching his eye. Understanding immediately, he moves to gather plates and follows Alina inside.
Andrea reaches into his jacket pocket, extracting a cigar that he immediately lights. “I’d forgotten how beautiful this place is,” he comments, blowing out a cloud of fragrant smoke as he settles back in his chair. “You’ve maintained it well.”
I say nothing, watching him through narrowed eyes. The casual way he’s making himself comfortable sets alarm bells ringing through my system.
“Colin,” I say, rising from my seat. “A word.”
We move a few yards away, still on the terrace but far enough that Andrea can’t easily overhear if we keep our voices down. I position myself so I can keep my dad in my peripheral vision at all times.
“I want the boat ready,” I murmur. “As soon as we’re done here, I’m taking Alina away from here until he’s gone.”
Colin nods. “Already got a handful of reservations at different hotels as a decoy,” he explains. “I assume you want to go to the emergency cottage so everything’s ready. Full security setup, stocked supplies. We can move within five minutes of your signal. We just need to get—”
“What?” I interrupt, already impatient to be back next to Alina.
He runs a hand down his face, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “The tablet’s still at the security house, boss. It’s the one with the override to the security in the main house, so we really should have it on us.”
“Fine,” I grunt, not happy he or Ian don’t already have it on them. But I get it. With Andrea suddenly showing up the way he did, things weren’t exactly smooth.
When he offers to go get it, I look over at where Andrea’s still sitting. He’s the picture of calm, even pouring himself more coffee. Ian’s with Alina, and I know he’ll die to protect her. Not that it’ll come to that.
“I’ll come with you,” I say.
“Are you sure?” Colin asks.
Nodding, I look at Andrea one more time. “Yeah, it’ll be quicker than switching places with Ian,” I rush out. “Besides, with Andrea there’s no way of knowing if he’s here alone or if fifty men lie in wait somewhere. Let’s just hurry.”
Together, we jog toward the smaller house.
When we’re almost halfway there, a deafening crack splits the air—unmistakably a gunshot—followed immediately by the sound that freezes my blood solid; Alina screaming.
Time slows to a crawl as I whip around toward the sound, horror flooding my system as I register two facts simultaneously. My wife’s terror or pain echoing from inside the house, and Andrea’s chair is… empty.
“Alina!” I roar.