The casual mention of my mom’s name sends a fresh surge of rage through me. He has no right to speak of her, not here, not in this place that was her escape from him.
“Ian,” I call out, my voice controlled despite the anger coursing through me. “Show Mr. Russo to the terrace dining area. Colin, perimeter check.”
As my men move to follow my orders, I turn to Alina, cupping her face in my hands. “Are you sure about this?” I ask quietly.
She nods, covering one of my hands with hers. “It’ll be fine. It’s just breakfast.”
Nothing is ever ‘just’ anything with Andrea Russo. But I don’t tell her that. Instead, I press a kiss to her forehead and follow her into the kitchen.
I stand in the doorway, my body angled to keep both Alina and the terrace in my line of sight. Andrea sits outside, hands folded neatly on the table like he’s some kind of loving dad waiting patiently for breakfast, rather than the calculating predator I know him to be.
Colin prowls the perimeter while Ian stations himself near the kitchen entrance, both men alert for the slightest hint of trouble.
The morning was supposed to be perfect. Instead, I’m watching my wife pull ingredients from the refrigerator while I’m plotting how to get my dad off this island without bloodshed.
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell Alina, keeping my voice low. “We could tell him to leave.”
She glances up from the carton of eggs she’s just pulled out, her expression determined. “No, Raffaele.” She cracks an egg against the rim of a glass bowl with practiced precision. “He’s your dad. Besides, you know I don’t mind cooking.”
“At least let me help,” I offer, stepping fully into the kitchen.
She shakes her head, already whisking the eggs with cream. “I’ve got this. Really.”
Despite her words, I move to her side, reaching for the coffee grinder. If nothing else, I can make sure she has caffeine for this unexpected ordeal.
She works with confidence, her hands sure as they slice fresh fruit, whip cream, and mix batter for pancakes. There’s something hypnotic about watching her move around the kitchen—a rhythm and precision that speaks to years of experience.
This is her domain, where she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“What’s he like?” she asks suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper as she drops blueberries into the pancake batter.
I tense, the coffee beans forgotten in my hand. “What?”
“Your dad,” she clarifies, keeping her eyes on her work. “You’ve never really talked about him.”
Because there’s nothing good to say. Because the less she knows about Andrea Russo, the safer she is. Because some darkness shouldn’t touch her life.
“Complicated,” I say finally, the understatement so massive it should crush the room.
She glances toward the terrace where Andrea sits, then back at me. “He looks like you. Around the eyes.”
The observation hits me like a physical blow. I’ve spent my life trying to be nothing like him, and yet my own face betrays me with its genetics.
“We’re nothing alike. At least not in the ways that matter,” I spit, the refusal coming out harsher than I intended. Alina’s hands pause in their work, her eyes lifting to mine. I run my hand down her arm, needing the contact to ground me. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says, returning to her preparations. “Just… tell me what I should know. About him.”
The things she doesn’t know could fill volumes, and none of it would let her sleep better at night. She knows I’m a collector for the Russo family. Growing up in Little Italy, she must know I’ve done things that can’t be undone.
But the specifics, and Andrea’s role in shaping me into the weapon I’ve become, those are details she doesn’tneed.
“Just be careful what you say around him,” I tell her instead. “He catalogs everything. Uses it later.”
She nods, absorbing this as she pours the first pancake onto the griddle. “Noted.”
I watch her flip the pancake with practiced ease, golden brown and perfect. She moves to the coffee machine I’ve prepared,pouring the rich, dark liquid into a carafe. Every movement is efficient, no wasted energy.
“I think you should go talk to him,” she says suddenly, her back to me as she slices strawberries.
