Hours later, I feel like I have a pretty good idea of who Beatrice Russo was. Like all of us, she wasn’t a saint. But she lovedher son more than life itself. And she endured her marriage to Andrea, despite his cruelty.
With how much Raffaele is sharing with me, I feel guilty for being the one to hold back. But I’m not ready to tell him what I did. I know that when I do, he’ll never look at me the same way. How could he?
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I whisper, meaning it more deeply than I can express.
His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. “Thank you for cooking dinner,” he replies, the simple words carrying unexpected weight.
“I enjoy cooking,” I murmur. “Just like I enjoy creating things, Raffaele. Look, I’ll never be one of those women who wants a credit card with no limit so they can buy all the materialistic goods in the world. I want to always be able to find beauty in the little things. Like summer rain, or the fire in the library.”
“Is that so?” he asks, smirking.
I nod. “Yes.” Meeting his gaze again, I add, “At least I hope so. Because as long as I can do those things, I’m still me. I’m still Alina Brewer.”
“Brewer-Russo,” he corrects.
Rolling my eyes, I allow silence to wrap around us. It’s a comfortable silence. It makes me feel like we’re sharing something more than words as we sit here, holding hands across the table as stars begin to appear in the vast expanse above us.
As the last light fades from the sky, Raffaele collects our empty plates and stacks them neatly before carrying them inside. The gesture is so surprising that it never occurs to me to help. I just sit there, watching him.
When he returns, his movements are unhurried, almost languid in the warm night air. “Let’s go to the pool,” he suggests, pouring the rest of the wine into our glasses before extending his hand to me. “It’s lit up at night.”
I take his hand without hesitation, our fingers interlocking with a familiarity that sends warmth spreading through my chest.
The pool glows with underwater lights that illuminate the water from within, casting rippling blue patterns across the surrounding stone. We settle at the edge, dipping our feet into the cool water.
The temperature difference between the warm night air and the pool sends pleasant shivers up my legs. Our conversation continues where it left off, flowing as easily as the water that laps around our ankles when we kick gently.
“Did you ever think you’d end up here?” Raffaele asks, his shoulder pressed against mine. “With someone like me?”
I consider the question, swirling the wine in my glass. “No,” I answer honestly. “I never imagined any of this. The most adventure I thought I’d have was maybe taking a weekend trip to Pittsburgh someday.”
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Pittsburgh?”
“Don’t judge,” I bump his shoulder playfully. “That was my big dream. Maybe see the Andy Warhol Museum.”
His arm slides around my waist, pulling me closer. “And now?”
“Now I’m sitting on a private island with my husband, who happens to be a mafia collector, drinking wine that probably costs more than I made in a year working at the bakery.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “Life is strange.”
“In a good way?” His voice holds a note of uncertainty I rarely hear.
“In the best way,” I assure him, surprising myself with how much I mean it.
Soft landscape lighting illuminates the lush tropical plants surrounding the pool area, creating intimate pockets of shadow and light. The moon hangs low and full above us, casting asilvery path across the ocean visible beyond the infinity edge of the pool.
It’s impossibly romantic, like something from a movie I would have watched alone in my tiny apartment, never believing such scenes existed in real life.
Raffaele’s hand traces lazy circles on my back, each pass dipping slightly lower. His voice drops to a seductive rumble as he asks, “Want to swim?”
“I didn’t bring a suit,” I reply, though the heat in his eyes tells me that’s exactly what he had in mind.
“Neither did I.” His lips brush against my ear as he whispers, “Skinny dip with me, Alina.”
My heartbeat speeds up, a flush spreading from my cheeks down to my chest. Despite the intimacy we’ve shared, the idea of stripping naked under the open sky feels daringly exposed.
Raffaele must sense my hesitation because he pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine. “No one can see us here,” he assures me. “It’s just you and me.”
Something shifts inside me; a decision, a surrender, or perhaps a claiming of my own desire. Without breaking eye contact, I set down my wineglass and rise to my feet. Raffaele remains seated, looking up at me with growing heat in his gaze as I reach for the thin straps of my dress.
