Epilogue 3
Raffaele
The Caribbean sun beats down on my skin as I recline on the cushioned deck chair, my eyes never leaving Alina. She lounges across from me, one hand cradling her swollen belly while the other holds an elaborate mocktail garnished with fresh pineapple and mango.
The way the sunlight catches in her red hair makes something primitive stir in my chest—a reminder that this woman, heavy with my child, belongs to me in ways that transcend the legal document that binds us.
I shift, adjusting my position to ease the hardening of my cock against the fabric of my black swim shorts.
“You’re staring again,” she says without looking up, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“I didn’t agree to come here on our birthday so I can look at the water,” I grin, taking a slow sip of my whiskey.
Her pale blue eyes meet mine, that familiar blush spreading across her freckled cheeks. “Good to know.” She slurps more of her drink. “I still wish you would have let me fly though,” she pouts.
Even though every doctor said it would be fine, the fucking internet statistics had me veto that idea. Especially since we’ve already made the long journey once. Luckily, The Artimis was ready when I called.
Alina stretches like a contented cat, the movement drawing my attention to how the structured white fabric of her bikini dress frames her fuller breasts. The draped panels at the side part around her rounded belly, displaying it like the treasure it is.
My gaze traces the curve, the visible proof of our growing family.
“You’re doing it again,” she teases, setting her drink on the small table beside her. “Cataloging every inch of me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear if you blink.”
“Not disappear,” I correct her, leaning forward. “I just like what’s mine.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile remains. “The baby and I are perfectly safe, Raffaele. No one knows we’re here except your family.” Her hand smooths over her belly. “And you’ve got enough security around this island to protect a small country.”
“Not enough,” I mutter, thinking of the additional measures I’ve implemented with the help of Enzo, Remus, and Matteo that she doesn’t know about.
After everything that happened with Andrea and Sabrina, I won’t risk her safety again. Not ever.
The slight breeze carries the scent of salt and tropical flowers, rustling the palms that provide dappled shade across the terrace. Alina’s hair lifts gently, dancing around her face like a living flame.
“It’s our birthday,” she reminds me softly. “Can you try to relax? Just for today?”
I reach for the bottle of sun oil on the table between us. “I am relaxed.”
Her laugh is bright and disbelieving. “Right. That’s why you’ve checked your phone seventeen times in the last hour and keep staring at the treeline like assassins might rappel down at any moment.”
“Fifteen times,” I correct her, squeezing a generous amount of oil onto my palm. “And they wouldn’t use the trees. It’s way too exposed.”
Standing, I move to kneel beside her lounger. She watches me with those impossibly blue eyes as I warm the oil between my hands. When I place them on her belly, she sighs, her head falling back against the cushion.
“You’re like a hawk with SPF,” she teases as my hands work the oil into her skin with practiced movements. My fingers trace the new silvery marks stretching across her lower abdomen—proof of how our child grows within her.
I respond with a playful growl, leaning down to press my lips against her navel. “Our son has delicate skin. I’m being thorough.”
“Our daughter,” she corrects, running her fingers through my hair. This is an ongoing debate between us—one I’m happy to lose, as long as the baby is healthy and Alina remains safe.
“Either way,” I murmur against her skin, “they’ll have your freckles.”
Twenty-five years old today. My wife is turning twenty-five while carrying our first child.
The significance of it hits me like a physical blow—how much has changed since I collected her from that bakery. How close I came to losing her. How dangerously, obsessively in love with her I am.
My own thirty-fourth birthday feels inconsequential in comparison. What matters is that we share this day, just as we’ll share every day that follows.
“Happy birthday, husband,” she whispers, as if reading my thoughts. Her hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing my stubbled jawline with a tenderness that still surprises me.
I turn my face to press a kiss into her palm. “Happy birthday, Cara Mia.”
Rising, I capture her lips with mine. The kiss starts out gentle—a soft press of mouth against mouth—but quickly deepens as she opens for me. The taste of tropical fruit and Alina floods my senses, making my cock strain painfully against my shorts.
Her hands slide down my bare chest, nails scraping lightly against my skin in that way she knows drives me wild. I growl against her mouth, nipping at her lower lip.
“Careful,” I warn, my voice rough with desire. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”
Her smile turns wicked, a far cry from the shy woman I first brought to my home. “Who says I can’t finish it?” Her fingers trail lower, teasing the waistband of my shorts.
I capture her wrist, pressing a kiss to the delicate pulse point. “The doctor said—”
“The doctor said nothing about not having sex,” she interrupts, those blue eyes flashing with determination as she guides my hand to her breast, where I can feel her heart racing beneath my palm.
The invitation in her voice sends blood rushing south so fast I feel lightheaded. My hand tightens reflexively on her breast, careful not to press too hard on the sensitive flesh.
“Always so good to me,” she sighs, arching into my touch. “Even when I want you to be bad.”
Fuck, this woman. The things she does to me. The way she’s transformed from the frightened little baker I collected into this confident, sensual creature who knows exactly what she wants—and knows I’ll deny her nothing.
I bring my mouth to hers again, kissing her deeply, possessively. My hand slides from her breast to cup her jaw, holding her exactly where I want her. Six months pregnant, and she’s never been more beautiful—glowing with life, with my mark on her in the most primal way possible.
Mine.
The word echoes in my head with every beat of my heart. Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to keep safe from everything that threatens the perfect world we’ve built.
As the kiss intensifies, I slide my oil-slicked hands up Alina’s thighs, leaving glistening trails across her pale skin. Her breath catches as my fingers dance along the edge of her white bikini bottoms, close but not quite touching where I know she wants me.
The sun beats down on us, but the heat in her eyes burns hotter. This is what I live for now—the way she responds to my touch, the silent communication between our bodies that speaks volumes more than words ever could.
“How long do we have?” she purrs.
Ah, shit, probably not as long as I’d want. “I don’t know,” I respond, my voice already rough with desire. “Why? What are you planning, Piccola?”
Instead of answering, she slides forward on her lounger until she’s perched at the edge, her legs bracketing mine where I kneel before her. Her hands find my shoulders, nails digging in just enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain down my spine.
“I want to touch you,” she says, the words simple but loaded with intent.
I raise an eyebrow, amused and aroused by this bold version of my wife. “You’re touching me now.”
She shakes her head slightly, red hair cascading around her shoulders. “Not like this.” Her right hand trails down my chest, fingertips tracing each tattoo with reverent precision until she reaches the waistband of my shorts. “Like this.”
When her palm cups my hardening length through the fabric, I groan aloud. The pressure is perfect—firm enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. My hips twitch forward instinctively, seeking more.
“Alina,” I growl.
She leans forward, her lips brushing against mine as she speaks. “This is for me, husband. Let me have it.”
Those words, combined with her hand now stroking me through my shorts, demolish any resistance I might have offered. I capture her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her soft moan as her fingers continue their maddening exploration.
With surprising dexterity, she tugs at the drawstring of my shorts, loosening them enough to snake her hand beneath the fabric. When her fingers wrap around my bare flesh, I break the kiss, hissing through clenched teeth at the exquisite sensation.
“Fuck,” I breathe against her neck, my hips pushing forward into her grip. “You’re getting too good at this.”
I feel her smile against my skin. “I had an excellent teacher.”
Her hand begins a steady rhythm, fisting my length with just the right pressure. My mind blanks for a moment, consumed by the feel of her soft palm against my hardened flesh, the slight twist of her wrist at the head that she knows drives me wild.
Desperate to touch her in return, I slide my hand between her thighs, seeking the wet heat I know I’ll find there. But she shifts away, denying me access.
“No,” she says, her voice firmer than I’ve ever heard it. “Let me do what I want on my birthday.”
The command—and it is a command—sends a fresh surge of blood to my already throbbing cock. This woman, who once trembled at my approach, now directs me with unwavering confidence. The contradiction is intoxicating.
“Look at me,” she demands softly.
I obey, meeting her pale blue gaze. What I see there nearly finishes me—desire, yes, but also something deeper. Possession. As if she’s claiming me the way I’ve always claimed her.
Her hand works faster now, her grip tightening just enough to make my breath stutter. My hips move in rhythm with her strokes, chasing the release building at the base of my spine.
“That’s it,” she encourages, her free hand moving to grip the back of my neck, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “I want to watch you come apart for me.”
Something fierce and possessive surges through me at her words. Even as she controls this moment, I need to mark her as mine. My hands move to her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, ensuring there will be bruises tomorrow—a reminder of this moment when she seized control.
“Mine,” I growl, the word torn from somewhere primal inside me. “No matter who touches whom, you’re still mine.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Always,” she agrees, twisting her wrist in that way that makes my vision blur. “And you’re mine.”
The pressure builds, coiling tighter with each stroke of her clever fingers. My breathing grows ragged, muscles tensing as I approach the edge.
“Come for me,” she whispers, echoing words I’ve said to her countless times. “Now, Raffaele.”
The sound of my name on her lips—combined with a skillful twist of her hand—sends me hurtling over the edge. My release hits with stunning force, pleasure radiating outward from where she touches me.
I groan, low and guttural, as I spill over her fingers, my hips jerking uncontrollably against her palm.
“Fuck,” I pant, forehead pressed against hers as the aftershocks ripple through me. “You’re getting dangerous, Cara Mia.”
She laughs softly, pressing gentle kisses across my jaw. “Yes I am.” Without looking away, she pops her fingers into her mouth, licking them clean. “Mhmm.”
Oh fuck, my cock’s already hardening again. I’m about to suggest we move this celebration inside when a high-pitched squeal shatters our private moment.
“Oh my God, Firestarter! I want an island, too!”
My head snaps up, body tensing before I register the familiar voice. Alina freezes, her eyes widening.
“Guess we didn’t have as long as I thought,” she whispers. “Oh my God, and I have your cum on me.”
“For fudge’s sake, Little Thief. Indoor voice, remember?” Matteo’s exasperated tone carries easily.
“You’re both entirely too loud,” Enzo laughs.
I adjust myself quickly, retying the drawstring on my shorts as Alina scrambles to straighten her dress.
While she runs inside, I stand, holding my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun.
“Ready or not, here we come,” Raven calls out, her pink hair visible now as she emerges from the path leading to the dock.
Next to her, Matteo’s pushing a double stroller with the twins.
Behind them, Enzo guides Piper with a hand at the small of her back, his posture protective even in this secure location. Remus brings up the rear, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the amused smirk playing at his lips.
“Happy birthday!” Piper calls, waving enthusiastically.
Alina’s initial embarrassment transforms into delight as she re-joins me. “You made it,” she calls back.
The Russo clan strolls confidently toward our villa, designer luggage in tow. As I watch Alina’s face light up at the sight of her friends, I’m happy I didn’t insist on this being a romantic getaway for just the two of us.
Alina laughs, the sound pure and joyful. “Their timing sucks, but their company makes up for it,” she decides, pulling me down for a quick kiss before moving to greet our family.
That's it for Alina & Rafe's story.
This is officially the end for the Russo Mafia… isn't it? Maybe?
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