I want to slap the smile off his face for daring to compliment her, for acting like this is some normal family breakfast rather than the calculated invasion it actually is. Instead, I pull out Alina’s chair for her, making sure she sits beside me rather than anywhere near Andrea.
“I made mimosas too,” she says, gesturing to the pitcher that Ian sets on the table. “And coffee, of course.”
The tropical morning sun beats down on us as we begin this surreal meal, the beauty of our surroundings at odds with the ugliness of Andrea’s presence. I observe him as he takes his firstbite of food, as if I might catch some telling gesture, some hint of his true purpose here.
But Andrea Russo has spent decades perfecting his mask. Whatever he’s planning, whatever game he’s playing, he won’t reveal it easily.
All I know for certain is that I need to get him off this island and away from my wife as quickly as possible.
“So, Alina,” Andrea begins as he cuts into his pancakes. “Tell me about this bakery of yours. Raffaele mentioned it’s been in your family for generations?” His tone is conversational, friendly even, but I know better.
Every question is reconnaissance, every answer cataloged for future use.
I tense as Alina sets down her fork, seemingly pleased by his interest. She has no idea she’s being interrogated by a master manipulator who wrings information from people like water from a cloth—effortlessly and without their knowledge until they’re left dry.
It shouldn’t make me happy to note that Alina’s smile is as fake as Andrea’s. But it does. I squeeze her knee under the table while she talks about the bakery, especially when wistfulness creeps into her tone.
“What sort of goods do you specialize in?” he asks, continuing to throw questions at my wife.
Alina brightens, always more animated when discussing her passion. “Hmm, we do a little of everything,” she replies, keeping her answer in the present tense, like I haven’t interrupted the routine she once had. “My mom taught me everything I know about baking and cooking.”
“Your mom sounds like a remarkable woman.” Andrea’s voice carries just the right note of sympathy. “Raffaele mentioned she passed away recently. My condolences.”
My grip tightens on my fork. He’s steering the conversation deliberately, establishing a superficial connection before probing vulnerabilities.
“Thank you,” Alina murmurs, her expression dimming. “It’s been… difficult.”
“Loss always is,” Andrea says, somehow sounding both philosophical and understanding without revealing a single genuine emotion. “I felt it keenly when Beatrice passed away.”
My knuckles whiten around my fork. This fucking snake has the audacity to speak about my mom as if he cherished her. As if he even fucking respected her.
“How did you two meet?” Andrea pivots smoothly, gesturing between Alina and me. “Raffaele is typically so… focused on his work. I must admit I was surprised to hear he was getting married.”
“That’s none of your fucking business,” I reply, shooting him a shit-eating grin.
Andrea’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I see. Well, how fortunate you share a birthday.” He all but sneers the last part, making it clear how little he cares.
“I think it’s romantic,” Alina says, oblivious to the subtext. “Sharing a birthday with your spouse.”
“And now you’ll never forget his special day,” Andrea chuckles, the sound as hollow as his eyes. “Tell me, what are your plans now that you’re married? Will you continue with the bakery? Start a family, perhaps?”
My jaw clenches so hard I hear my teeth creak. He’s pushing boundaries deliberately now, asking questions so personal that I want to ram this fork through his hand to stop him.
“We’re still figuring things out,” Alina answers diplomatically, reaching under the table to rest her hand on my thigh—whether to calm me or herself, I’m not sure.
“Children are such a blessing,” Andrea continues, ignoring the tension that’s now thick enough to choke on. “I always wished for more than just Raffaele, but fate had other plans.”
“Fate had nothing to do with it,” I snap, unable to contain myself any longer. “Your choices determined everything.”
Andrea’s expression doesn’t change, but something cold flickers in his eyes. “We all make choices. Some we live with more easily than others.”
The threat is veiled but unmistakable. I’ve made my choice—Alina—and Andrea is making it known that my choice has consequences he controls. Like fuck it does.
“Yes, well…” Trailing off, Alina stands. “Let me clear the table, and I’ll bring out more coffee.”
“Let me help,” I say automatically, moving to rise.
She shakes her head. “I’ve got it. You stay and catch up.” The words sound forced, like she’s trying to convince herself this is a normal family interaction.
