“Raffaele?” Alina questions, sensing my sudden tension. “What is it?”
I squeeze her hand once before releasing it, positioning myself slightly in front of her as we continue walking. “Stay close to me,” I murmur, keeping my voice casual despite the adrenaline beginning to pump through my system.
As we approach the dock, I spot it—a boat moving toward our island. Not the security boat we keep stationed nearby. Not a local fishing vessel that sometimes passes in the distance.
This one is sleek and expensive, cutting through the water with purpose. Direct approach. No hesitation.
“Colin,” I call out, my voice sharp enough to carry. “Get Mrs. Brewer-Russo back to the house.”
But it’s too late. The boat is already too close; its occupant is visible now. Colin and Ian abandon their posts, moving swiftly to flank us on either side, no longer maintaining the fiction of invisible security.
“What’s happening?” Alina asks, her voice rising with concern. Her head swivels between all of us. “And who are those guys?” She might have seen Colin and Ian around, but she’s never been properly introduced to them.
I always thought I’d do it back at the mansion, when she fully gets to embrace her life as Mrs. Brewer-Russo. Especially since one of them will always be required to escort her wherever she wants to go.
With the tension rolling off her and the high pitch to her voice, I realize that was a mistake. A big one. I should have made sure she already knew who Colin and Ian are.
Alina steps around me, trying to see what has caused this sudden shift in atmosphere. “Answer me, Raffaele,” she demands, her tone sharp now.
I reach for her, intending to pull her behind me again, but she’s already spotted the approaching vessel. The craft glides toward our dock with precision, its engine quieting as it nears.
Standing at the helm, his posture rigid with authority, is the man I hoped Alina would never have to meet.
“My dad,” I growl, anger and worry for Alina battling within me.
Chapter 39
Raffaele
Ishould not be surprised he has the fucking audacity to show up here, on what was my mom’s sanctuary, on our birthday, during my honeymoon with my wife. The calculation behind the timing is so transparent it makes my teeth grind.
Nothing Andrea Russo does is ever a coincidence.
The rage that surges through me is so intense my vision actually dims at the edges. “Ian,” I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. “Get the house ready. Colin, stay close.”
Both men nod almost imperceptibly, their bodies shifting into alert stances without drawing attention. Years of training under my command have made them extensions of my will. They understand exactly what I’m asking without needing elaboration.
I shift my weight, positioning myself more firmly between Alina and the approaching threat. Because that’s what Andrea is, no matter how benign he might appear to others. A threat. Always.
“Raffaele?” Alina’s voice is uncertain behind me, her hand touching my back lightly. “Who is that?” she asks again.
“My dad,” I repeat, the word tasting like poison on my tongue. “Stay behind me.”
His boat is now secured to our dock, and he steps onto the wood with the confidence of a man who’s never questioned his right to be anywhere.
He’s dressed impeccably in light-colored pants and shirt, looking every inch the wealthy European businessman enjoying the Caribbean sun rather than the ruthless crime lord I know him to be.
I don’t need to see his eyes beneath his sunglasses to know the smile plastered on his face is hollow and as fake as he is. “Figlio mio!” he calls out, arms extending in greeting like we’re some normal fucking family having a reunion.
“What’s he saying?” Alina whispers, reminding me she doesn’t speak Italian.
“Either speak English or keep your mouth shut,” I snarl.
Taking no visible offense, my dad repeats the sentiment in English. “My son.” Then he adds, “And his beautiful bride. What an honor it is to finally meet you.”
“What are you doing here?” I demand, not moving an inch as he approaches.
Andrea stops a few feet away, his hands dropping to his sides at my cold reception. “Is that any way to greet your dad? On your birthday, no less?” He clicks his tongue in disapproval. “And on your lovely wife’s birthday as well. Such synchronicity is almost fascinating.”
