Chapter 31
Raffaele
Istand at the edge of the living room, watching my wife move through the crowd of my family.
My wife.
The words still feel strange on my tongue, but I can’t deny the possessive thrill that runs through my veins every time I think them. Alina Brewer-Russo.
Mine in name, in body, in law.
I take a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in my chest as my eyes track her ivory lace dress across the room.
The room has been completely transformed. The furniture has been moved to the side, creating enough space in the middle to dance. Which is exactly what we did. We had our first dance in here to Andrea Bocelli’s version of ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’.
The twinkling lights strung across the ceiling cast her in a soft glow, making her red hair shimmer like copper. Something unfamiliar tightens in my chest as she throws her head back in laughter at something Susan says.
It’s an emotion I’m not equipped to handle, one I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding. But as I watch her, I reluctantly recognize it for what it is.
Somewhere in the periphery of my vision, Matteo and Enzo are engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation, punctuated by Enzo’s occasional dark chuckle.
Piper stands beside them, her champagne glass dangerously full as she sways slightly. Raven, her hand protectively cradling her pregnant belly, watches her friend with barely concealed amusement.
“If you keep going at this rate, I’ll have to carry you home soon,” Lorenzo murmurs to his wife, his arm sliding possessively around her waist.
“Nonsense,” Piper replies, taking another deliberate sip. “I’m drinking for Raven, too. She made me promise.”
“I absolutely did,” Raven laughs, adjusting her weight from one foot to another. “But don’t blame your inability to hold your liquor on my babies. That’s poor form, Pipes.”
My gaze shifts back to Alina, drawn to her like a compass finding north. She’s still chatting with Susan, her hands moving animatedly as she speaks.
The ivory lace of her wedding dress catches the light with every gesture, the deep V-neckline revealing just enough pale, freckled skin to make my mouth water. Even from across the room, I can see the diamond choker I gave her glinting at her throat, a visible mark of my claim on her.
Remus approaches me, glass in hand, expression unreadable as always. “Congratulations again, cousin,” he says, his voice low and measured.
“Thank you,” I reply.
His eyes follow mine to where Alina stands. “She’s not what I expected for you,” he admits. “But I can see why you chose her.”
Before I can respond, he steps to the center of the room and taps his knife against his crystal whiskey glass. The clear ring cut through the room, silencing all of us. Alina hurries to where I stand, and I immediately pull her as close as possible.
“Stop walking away from me,” I murmur against her hair.
Tipping her head back, she meets my gaze and grins. “Is that an order, Mr. Russo?”
“A plea, Mrs. Brewer-Russo,” I rasp.
We’ve been glued to each other’s sides almost since we left the church hours ago. But now that dinner’s over, we’ve all moved from the dining room into the living room. It’s easier to stand and move around in here, which we’ve all taken advantage of.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” Remus announces, his voice carrying without effort. Authority hangs around him like a cloak, demanding attention without asking for it. “Today, we welcome a new member into our family. Alina Brewer-Russo.”
The possessive thrill returns at the sound of her married name. My hand settles on the back of her neck, feeling her pulse and warmth. She leans into my touch, and the simple gesture of trust makes that unfamiliar emotion tighten in my chest again.
“The Russo family has always valued loyalty above all else,” Remus continues, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on Alina. “And today, Alina has pledged her loyalty to Raffaele, and by extension, to all of us. In return, she has earned ours.” He raises his glass. “To Mrs. Brewer-Russo. May your marriage be as strong as the bonds that hold this family together.”
“To Mrs. Brewer-Russo,” the room echoes, and I watch as Alina’s cheeks flush with pleasure. She raises her own glass of champagne, her blue eyes bright with unshed tears.
“To my fucking wife,” I growl into her ear.
