It’s not because I thought my dad would be happy for me as long as I married. I’ve always known he’d want an elite wedding, which I’ve just denied him. He—and the family—gains nothing from Alina.
The fact that I… care for her means nothing. That’s irrelevant. He doesn’t get more power, prestige, or wealth. So I’m failing as much as if I remained unmarried. The thought of my dad taking any interest in Alina makes my stomach turn.
Andrea Russo doesn’t acknowledge attachments or feelings; he exploits them.
“I’m texting Colin and Ian now,” I say, typing one-handed as I speak. “We need more security for tomorrow. And I’m moving the ceremony to my estate.”
“What?” Enzo interjects. “The cathedral is already secured, Rafe. We’ve had men checking it for days.”
“Too public,” I snap. “Too many variables. I’m not risking her. I also have to cancel the—”
“Think about what you’re doing,” Remus says, his voice steady and authoritative in a way that still commands my attention, even now. “Think about Alina. About what this day means to her.”
His words hit their mark. I pause, the text to my men half-composed on my screen.
“She’s had very little say in everything,” Remus continues. “But you told us all she asked for was to pick the location for the ceremony, her dress, and bake the cake herself. You take that from her now, at the last minute, and you’re letting Andrea win without him even being here.”
I grip the phone tighter, torn between security and what I know Alina wants.
The memory of her face and the joy as she told me everything was ready, the softness in her eyes when she looked at me—rises unbidden in my mind.
“We can increase security,” Enzo offers. “Triple it if necessary. But don’t let your dad dictate your wedding day.”
“She deserves her moment, Rafe,” Matteo adds, uncharacteristically gentle. “And you deserve yours. Don’t let the old man take that from you.”
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of the decision. My first instinct is always to protect, to control, to eliminate threats. But Alina isn’t a business asset to be secured; she’s the woman who will be my wife tomorrow.
“Fine,” I concede finally. “The cathedral stays. But I want every man we have there. Complete sweep beforehand, lookouts on all adjacent buildings, two security teams inside.”
“It’s already being arranged,” Remus assures me. “Focus on your bride, Rafe. Let us handle this.”
I nod, though they can’t see me. “One more thing,” I add, my voice hardening. “We need to find out how he knew. Someone talked, and I want to know who, and I want them dealt with.”
“Allow me to make it your wedding present,” Matteo replies, a dangerous edge to his voice.
“Is this your way of telling us you haven’t shopped yet?” Enzo grins.
After ending the call, I return to the library, to the black box with its custom-labeled cigars. I pick up one of the cigars, studying it under the light. Expensive. Rare. Perfect in every way.
I snap it in half, watching the aged tobacco crumble, then throw both pieces into the fire, watching the flames devour them.
One by one, I feed each cigar into the fire, a silent rejection of my dad’s “gift.” When the last one burns to ash, I close the empty box and place it back on my desk.
Tomorrow, I will marry Alina. I will place the deed to her bakery in her hands. And no matter what game my dad is playing, I will make sure she remains untouched by it.
Chapter 29
Alina
The cold surface of the vanity mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize. Pale face, shadows under blue eyes, red hair styled in loose waves that tumble over my shoulders.
Behind me, Piper and Raven flit about the bridal suite like anxious butterflies, their chatter filling the air as they debate lipstick colors and hairpins. I stifle another yawn, my third in as many minutes.
My body aches for sleep, for the security of Raffaele’s arm around my waist that kept the nightmares at bay every night until I insisted on this ridiculous tradition of spending the night before our wedding apart.
“Hold still,” Raven orders, wielding a makeup brush like a weapon. Her baby bump precedes her as she leans over myshoulder, dusting something shimmery across my cheekbones. “I swear, if you yawn one more time, I’m going to poke you in the eye with this brush.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, forcing my eyes to stay open. “I didn’t sleep well.”
