The wine loosens something in both of us, creating a bubble of intimacy that feels separate from the outside world.
When our plates are empty and the sun has nearly disappeared beneath the horizon, he once again brings up tomorrow’s plans. My excitement dies when he tells me about the yacht we’ll be on.
“Raffaele,” I say, unable to keep my mouth shut for a moment longer.
Chapter 37
Alina
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to keep doing all this, you know,” I say softly, gesturing vaguely at our surroundings.
“Do what?” he asks, furrowing his brows in confusion.
“The restaurants, the helicopter tours, and now a yacht. I appreciate it all, but…” I pause, gathering courage. “I’m fine. Happy, even, with simpler things. Like what we’re doing right now.”
Raffaele studies me over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable in the fading light. For a moment I fear I’ve offended him, criticized his generosity. But when he speaks, his voice is thoughtful rather than defensive.
“I’m not trying to impress you, Alina,” he says, setting down his wine. “I’m trying to show you all that life has to offer. All the experiences and pleasures that you’ve never had.”
“Before you,” I finish quietly.
He nods, leaning forward. “You deserved better than what you had. And now you can have anything.Everything.”
The distinction melts something inside me. That he’s not trying to buy my affection but to expand my world. That the extravagance isn’t about showing off but about showing me possibilities.
“Tell me more about her,” he says unexpectedly. “Your mom. Like, what else did she teach you?”
The question catches me off guard, but I find myself wanting to share. “She was the strongest person I’ve ever known,” I begin, my throat tightening slightly. “Even when she got sick, she never complained. She just adapted. Found new ways to do things.”
I tell him about how she would sing while baking, about how she taught me to see beauty in the small things life has to offer. Like a perfect chocolate chip cookie, a sunset, the first spring flowers pushing through snow.
“Once, Sabrina was complaining we had to do… I can’t remember what, exactly. But it was something we had to fix or create by ourselves.” Pausing, I try to recall what triggered the situation, but the details are lost. “Anyway. So Mom sat us both down and taught us there are two kinds of people in life. Those who can make things and those who pay others to make things for them.”
Raffaele makes a sound of agreement.
“And Mom said that even if we had all the money in the world, she’d always want to know how to make things,” I explain. “Because she’d never want to rely completely on others.”
Now that I know Mom borrowed money from Raffaele, that pearl of wisdom shines in a new light. Because the person who had to pay that debt was me. Me. It’s what led to this moment, to being on our honeymoon.
Christ.
“She sounds remarkable,” Raffaele says, his expression soft in a way I rarely see.
“She was,” I agree, surprised to find my eyes dry. The memories bring comfort now, not just pain. “What about your mom? What was she like?”
Something flickers across his face—vulnerability, perhaps, or surprise at the question. For a moment I think he won’t answer, that I’ve crossed some invisible boundary. But then he takes a deep breath.
“She loved music,” he begins, his voice low and rich with memory. “Classical, mostly. She played the piano. Not professionally, but beautifully. Our house was never silent when I was growing up.”
As it gradually gets darker, Raffaele tells me about Beatrice Russo. He tells me about her warm personality, her grace, and her battle with cancer that ultimately took her in August of last year.
He describes sitting beside her hospital bed, playing chess to distract her from the pain, learning to recognize when she needed silence and when she needed words.
“That’s why this place means so much,” he admits, gesturing toward the villa. “It was hers. Her retreat. She was happiest here.”
I reach across the table, taking his hand in mine. Our fingers intertwine, a physical manifestation of the connection forming between us through shared grief and vulnerability.
