“I’d rather stay here with you.”
She turns, spatula in hand, and gives me a look that’s somehow both stern and tender. “I know you would. But you need to deal with this. With him. And I need space to work without you hovering and glowering.”
“I don’t hover,” I protest automatically.
“You absolutely hover.” She points the spatula at the door. “Go. Talk to your dad. I’ve got this under control.”
I hesitate, torn between admiration for her confidence and the primal need to keep her safe from Andrea’s influence.
“Besides,” she adds, softer now, “he came all this way. On your birthday.”
“I hate him,” I say before I can stop myself, the words escaping as if they’ve been waiting years for this moment. And they have.
Alina freezes, her eyes widening at the raw honesty. “Raffaele…”
“You don’t understand,” I continue, my voice dropping to ensure Andrea can’t possibly overhear. “He’s not what you think. Not what he appears to be.”
Her expression shifts from shock to something more complex; a mixture of confusion and sadness that makes my chest tighten.
“Do you have any idea what I would give,” she says slowly, “for one more day with my mom? Or even to meet my dad? Family is… it’s everything, Raffaele. Even when it’s complicated.”
The gulf between us in this moment feels vast. She sees family through the lens of her own experiences. Imperfect but ultimately loving parents who wanted the best for her. She has no framework for understanding a dad who views his son as nothing more than a tool to be sharpened and deployed.
I could try to explain, but I won’t. Because her innocence, her belief in the fundamental goodness of family, is something I refuse to destroy. Not even for honesty’s sake.
“Ian,” I call out, my decision made. “Stay with Mrs. Brewer-Russo.”
He immediately steps into the kitchen, positioning himself discreetly by the entrance. “Yes, boss.”
I meet Alina’s eyes, seeing her disappointment at my non-response. “I’ll go talk to him,” I concede. “But Ian stays with you.”
She nods, accepting the compromise. “The food will be ready soon.”
I cross the space between us, cupping her face in my hands and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you,” I murmur against her skin, though whether I’m thanking her for breakfast or for being the one pure thing in my life, I’m not entirely sure.
Outside, Andrea hasn’t moved. He sits at the terrace table, looking out over the water with the false serenity of a man without regrets.
I drop into the chair across from him, making sure I can still see the kitchen entrance from my position. For several long moments, we sit in thick silence, the only sounds the distant crash of waves against the shore and the birds calling from the nearby trees.
“You have some fucking nerve,” I finally say, my voice low and controlled despite the rage simmering just beneath the surface. “Showing up here. At Mom’s island.”
Andrea’s expression doesn’t change, his eyes are still fixed on the horizon. “It was my gift to her,” he replies smoothly. “And now it’s yours. Family property.”
“Family,” I repeat, the word acid on my tongue. “Is that what we are?”
Now he looks at me, his eyes—so similar to my own—revealing nothing. “Always. Blood is everything.”
“Blood is the least of what makes family,” I counter, thinking of Lorenzo, Matteo, Remus—cousins who’ve been more brothers to me than this man has ever been a dad. Thinking of Alina, who became my family by choice and bond rather than genetics.
Andrea smiles thinly. “Philosophy from the enforcer. How unexpected.”
Before I can respond, the sliding door opens, and Alina emerges from the kitchen, balancing a large tray of food. Colin appears immediately at her side, taking the tray while Ian follows with plates, utensils, and a pitcher of what looks like orange juice.
“I hope everyone’s hungry,” Alina announces, her smile brittle but determined as she begins setting the table.
The spread she’s prepared in such a short time is impressive—fluffy pancakes studded with fresh blueberries, scrambled eggs that look impossibly light and creamy, crisp bacon, sliced tropical fruit arranged in a colorful display, and slices of the bread she baked yesterday evening.
“This looks magnificent, my dear,” Andrea says, his charm firmly in place as he beams at my wife. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
