Chapter 40
Alina
My scream dies in my throat as the gunshot echoes through the kitchen. Ian’s body crumples to the floor beside me, blood blooming across his chest like a macabre rose.
Before I can process what’s happening, Andrea lunges at me, his hand wrapping around my throat and slamming me against the cold wall with enough force to rattle my teeth.
The diamond choker around my neck bites into my skin, probably breaking it. My lungs burn instantly, desperate for air that can’t push past his iron grip.
His eyes—so much like Raffaele’s but colder, emptier—stare into mine as my vision begins to blur at the edges.
“Such a disappointment,” Andrea hisses, his face inches from mine. His breath smells of expensive cigars and coffee. “Did you really think a peasant baker from Cleveland was worthy of my son?”
I claw at his hand, nails digging into his skin as black spots dance across my vision. My feet barely touch the ground, suspended by his grip. I kick wildly, connecting with his shin, but he doesn’t even flinch.
“Stop struggling,” he says, loosening his hold just enough to let me suck in a desperate, painful breath. “It will only make things worse.”
I gasp, my throat burning as if I’ve swallowed broken glass. Ian lies motionless on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. Dead or dying while I fight for my life.
“Why?” I choke out, the word barely audible.
He adjusts his grip, one hand still around my throat while the other pins my shoulder to the wall. My heart hammers so violently I’m sure it will burst from my chest.
Andrea leans closer, his mouth near my ear. “Your death will serve more purpose than your life ever did.” His grip tightens again. “When Raffaele finds your body, when he realizes he couldn’t protect you, it will break him. But don’t worry, I’ll find him a better wife.”
Understanding crashes through me with horrifying clarity. This isn’t just about me—it’s about controlling Raffaele.
Fury rises inside me, hot and unexpected. This man wants to use my death as a tool to hurt Raffaele, to manipulate him. My vision sharpens with sudden clarity, fear temporarily replaced by rage.
I bring my knee up hard between his legs. His grip loosens just enough for me to twist away, gasping and stumbling toward the counter. I need something—anything—to defend myself.
Andrea recovers quickly, tossing the gun aside with a clatter. It skids across the floor, far out of my reach.
Adrenaline surges through my veins as I lunge forward, driven by pure survival instinct. My fingers close around the handle of a knife just as he reaches for the same block. Our bodies collide, his larger frame nearly knocking me off balance.
“Brave little baker,” he taunts, trying to pry my fingers from the knife. “But stupid.”
His hand wraps around mine, squeezing until pain shoots up my arm. I twist violently, throwing my weight backward in a desperate attempt to break free. We grapple for control, his strength against my desperation.
The kitchen fills with our harsh breathing and the squeak of shoes against tile. My free hand finds purchase on his wrist, my nails digging into his flesh as I try to force him away. He grunts in pain but doesn’t release his grip.
Where the hell is Raffaele? He should be here by now, shouldn’t he? I’m honestly not sure. It feels like an eternity has passed while I’ve been fighting Andrea, but it could just be seconds. Time’s both moving incredibly slowly and too fast simultaneously.
The knife between us wavers, pointing first at my chest, then his, as we struggle for control. My arms burn with the effort of resisting him. He’s stronger, heavier, his weight crushing the breath from my lungs as he forces me backward.
My grip slips on the handle, slick with sweat and something warm I realize belatedly is blood—maybe his, maybe mine. Panic surges through me, raw and blinding.
My foot skids against the tile as I try to brace myself, throwing my balance off. For a split second, the pressure between us changes. Andrea lurches forward, trying to regain control of the knife, his larger body crashing into mine.
The blade drives upward between us. There’s a sickening resistance—then it gives. His eyes widen, his mouth forming a perfect O of surprise.
For one frozen moment, neither of us moves.
Then warm wetness spills over my hands, and I realize with horror what’s happened. The knife is buried in his abdomen, my fingers still gripping the handle.
Andrea staggers backward, staring down at the weapon protruding from his stomach. Blood spreads across his expensive shirt, turning the pale fabric dark crimson. His hand reaches for the knife handle, then drops away as if he can’t summon the strength.
“You…” he begins, but whatever he means to say dissolves into a wet cough.
I stand paralyzed, watching as he takes another unsteady step back, then collapses against the refrigerator, sliding slowly to the floor.
In the distance, I hear Raffaele shout my name, his footsteps pounding toward the house. The sound breaks through my horrified trance, and reality crashes back with brutal force. I killed Raffaele’s dad. I’ve driven a knife into Andrea Russo’s body.
My hands begin to shake uncontrollably, blood—his blood—dripping from my fingers onto the pristine white tile. The metallic scent fills my nostrils, making my stomach heave.
Raffaele will be here any second, and I just… no. No. No.
Unbidden, the memory of Raffaele threatening Maxwell comes to mind. All Maxwell did was call me a bitch, and Raffaele threatened him with a gun. What will he do to me for killing his dad?
The footsteps grow louder. I can hear Raffaele calling my name, his voice frantic with fear. But all I can think is that Andrea is right. How could Raffaele ever look at me the same way again? How could he forgive me for this?
I’ve killed before. When I helped my mom end her suffering, I knew exactly what I was doing. But this—this violent, bloody act—feels like it’s transformed me into someone I don’t recognize.
“Alina!” Raffaele’s voice is closer now, just outside.
Fear grips me anew. Not fear of Andrea anymore, but fear of what comes next. Fear of seeing hatred in my husband’s eyes when he discovers what I’ve done.
I turn and run.
I burst through the back doors of the villa, blindly running away from the kitchen, away from Andrea’s body, away from what I’ve done.
Blood—his blood—is still wet on my hands, staining my skin like an accusation I can’t wipe clean. Behind me, I hear Raffaele’s voice calling my name, growing closer with each second.
I don’t slow down. I can’t.
The image of his face when he finds his dad, murdered by his wife, propels me forward with desperate speed. My lungs burn as I gulp down air, throat still raw from Andrea’s grip.
“Alina! Stop!” Raffaele’s voice carries across the distance between us, the rawness in it unmistakable.
I don’t look back. The path to the dock stretches before me, winding down through lush tropical vegetation. My feet catch on roots and stones, pain shooting up my legs with each misstep, but I barely register it through the haze of terror clouding my mind.
How could Raffaele ever look at me the same way? I’ve taken his dad from him. He’ll never forgive me.
The dock comes into view, wooden planks stretching out over crystal-blue water that now seems threatening rather than inviting. La Fortuna bobs gently at the end, tied securely the way Raffaele taught me. The sight of it ignites a spark of desperate hope.
I can get away. I can disappear.
“Alina! Wait!” Raffaele sounds closer now. I risk a glance over my shoulder and see him emerging from the path behind me, his face contorted with… it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that the distance between us is closing too quickly.
I reach the boat and fumble with the rope, my blood-slicked fingers struggling with the knots Raffaele showed me how to do.
The memory brings fresh tears to my eyes, blurring my vision as I finally manage to free the boat. I leap aboard, nearly falling as the vessel rocks beneath my weight. Behind me, Raffaele’s footsteps thunder down the dock.
My hands shake violently as I reach for the ignition. Which key? Which button first? The lessons Raffaele patiently gave me flash through my mind in disjointed fragments.
Check the throttle. Turn the key. Press the button.
I force myself to breathe, to focus through the panic. The key’s already in the ignition, and just as his footsteps grow alarmingly closer, I turn it with trembling fingers.
Nothing happens.
“No, no, no,” I sob, trying again. The engine remains silent, mocking my escape attempt. “Please!”
“Alina!” Raffaele is barely twenty feet away. “Stop fucking running and tell me what happened? Are you hurt?”
Ignoring his words, I stay on task. I just need to… oh. I remember now. The neutral switch. The realization cuts through my panic just long enough for me to flip it into position.
When I turn the key again, the engine roars to life, startling a cry from my throat. Relief surges through me for a split second before guilt crushes it. I’m running away from my husband after killing his dad.
“Alina, don’t do this!” Raffaele sprints toward me, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding as he realizes I’m trying to leave.
But we can’t fix this. No one can bring back the dead.
I grab the throttle and ease it forward as Raffaele taught me, the boat responding with a lurch that nearly throws me off my feet. Water churns behind me as La Fortuna begins to pull away from the dock.
“Please!” Raffaele reaches the end of the dock, his hand outstretched toward me. “Don’t leave me!”
The raw pain in his voice nearly breaks my resolve. My finger hovers over the throttle, tempted to cut the power, to turn back, to face whatever comes next with him at my side.
But then I see the villa looming behind him, and I know what waits inside. Andrea’s body. Ian’s body.
I push the throttle further, tears streaming down my face as La Fortuna picks up speed. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, though I know he can’t hear me. “I’m so sorry.”
Raffaele’s figure grows smaller as distance opens between us, his arm still outstretched, reaching for me across an expanding gulf that’s more than just water. The desperation on his face will haunt me forever.
I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the open water ahead. Where am I going? I have no plan, no destination, no supplies—just blind panic driving me forward. The mainland is somewhere ahead, but I’m not even sure which direction to head.
My knowledge of these waters is limited to what Raffaele showed me on our short excursions.
The island grows smaller behind me as I push the throttle to maximum, the wind whipping my hair into a frenzy around my face. Blood has dried on my hands in rusty patterns, cracking when I flex my fingers on the wheel. Andrea’s blood. Proof of what I’ve done.
Self-defense, a small voice in my head insists. He was going to kill you.
But will Raffaele see it that way? Or will he see only his dad’s body with a knife wound I inflicted? Will he believe me?
The sun beats down on my bare shoulders as I speed across the open water, the beauty of the Caribbean a cruel contrast to the darkness inside me. I have no phone, no wallet, no money—nothing but the clothes on my back and a boat I barely know how to operate.
Yet somehow, the crushing weight of what I’ve left behind feels heavier than any of these concerns. I’ve lost Raffaele. Lost the fragile happiness we were building. Lost everything in the span of minutes.
The horizon stretches endlessly before me, blue meeting blue in a line that offers no answers, no comfort. Just like the vast unknown that awaits me now. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’ll do when I get there.
All I know is that I can’t go back. Not after what I’ve done.
The island is just a smudge on the horizon now, Raffaele no longer visible on the dock. I wonder if he’s already found his dad. If he’s kneeling beside Andrea’s body, grief and rage battling for dominance. If he’s cursing my name for what I’ve taken from him.
I wipe my tears with the back of my hand, smearing blood across my cheek in the process. The engine’s steady rumble beneath me is the only constant in a world that has shattered into pieces.
My throat tightens as a sob works its way free. “Happy birthday to us,” I whisper bitterly to the empty air, to the husband I may never see again.