But will Raffaele see it that way? Or will he see only his dad’s body with a knife wound I inflicted? Will he believe me?
The sun beats down on my bare shoulders as I speed across the open water, the beauty of the Caribbean a cruel contrast to the darkness inside me. I have no phone, no wallet, no money—nothing but the clothes on my back and a boat I barely know how to operate.
Yet somehow, the crushing weight of what I’ve left behind feels heavier than any of these concerns. I’ve lost Raffaele. Lost the fragile happiness we were building. Lost everything in the span of minutes.
The horizon stretches endlessly before me, blue meeting blue in a line that offers no answers, no comfort. Just like the vast unknown that awaits me now. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’ll do when I get there.
All I know is that I can’t go back. Not after what I’ve done.
The island is just a smudge on the horizon now, Raffaele no longer visible on the dock. I wonder if he’s already found his dad. If he’s kneeling beside Andrea’s body, grief and rage battling for dominance. If he’s cursing my name for what I’ve taken from him.
I wipe my tears with the back of my hand, smearing blood across my cheek in the process. The engine’s steady rumble beneath me is the only constant in a world that has shattered into pieces.
My throat tightens as a sob works its way free. “Happy birthday to us,” I whisper bitterly to the empty air, to the husband I may never see again.
Chapter 41
Raffaele
My dad’s boat cuts through the water at full throttle, my knuckles white on the wheel as I scan the horizon for any sign ofLa Fortuna. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to break free, each beat hammering home the same thought.
Alina is gone.
“Where are you, Alina?” I shout to the empty air, desperation clawing at my throat as the island grows larger before me.
I should have been faster. Should have reached her before she got to the boat. Should have protected her from Andrea’s fucking games in the first place.
Of all the fucking shit to inherit from him, it’s his arrogance. I believed I could have my cake and eat it too. Instead of makingsure Alina was protected at all times by being at her side, I left. And for what? For a fucking tablet we could have gotten together?
“Fuck!” I roar at the heavens.
Now she’s out there alone, terrified, probably convinced I’ll hunt her down for vengeance rather than bring her home where she belongs. And spend the rest of my life begging for her forgiveness.
The dock comes into view, and I spot Colin’s broad figure pacing back and forth, his posture rigid with urgency. My gut tightens. Something’s happened.
I guide my dad’s boat alongside the dock with more force than necessary, the hull slamming against the wood before I cut the engine. Colin moves to secure the craft, his face grim as I leap onto the dock.
“What is it?” I demand, already knowing the answer from his expression.
“No sign of Mrs. Brewer-Russo,” he confirms, then hesitates. “But there’s something you need to see, boss.”
“What?” I snap, impatience surging through me. Every second spent not searching for Alina feels like a betrayal.
“The security footage.” Colin gestures toward the villa. “From the kitchen.”
A cold weight settles in my stomach. “Show me.”
We hurry up the path, my mind racing ahead with possibilities, each worse than the last. The villa looms before us, its pristine white walls and tropical beauty now tainted with whatever violence happened inside.
“Where is he?” I ask as we enter, not needing to specify who.
“We’ve moved both bodies to the security house,” Colin replies, his voice professionally detached.
Both men. Fuck. Ian was a good man, loyal and efficient. And now he’s dead because I let my guard down around Andrea fucking Russo.
Colin leads me to the dining table where a laptop sits open. He positions it, taps a few keys, and steps back.
The screen shows the kitchen. I watch Ian enter first, carrying plates. Then Alina. They move about the kitchen with careful efficiency, Alina rinsing dishes while Ian stacks them in the washing machine.
