I know he’s right. The evidence is undeniable. Yet something in me recoils at the finality of Raffaele’s solution. At the ease with which he pronounces this death sentence.
“I can’t…” I struggle to find words for the conflict raging inside me. “I can’t agree to this, Raffaele.”
He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, studying me with that penetrating gaze that seems to see through every defense. “What’s the alternative? We let her go? Pretend it never happened? What happens when she tries again?”
The question lands like a stone in still water, sending ripples of doubt through my certainty. What if she tries again? What if she succeeds next time?
“I don’t know,” I admit, wrapping my good arm around myself. “I just know I can’t… I can’t sign off on my sister’s murder. I can’t be that person.”
“Even when she was perfectly willing to be that person for you?” There’s no judgment in his tone, only a genuine attempt to understand my position.
I look down at my hands—one encased in a cast because I was running in terror from a threat my own sister helped create. “Hating what she did doesn’t mean I can hate her enough to want her dead.”
Raffaele sighs, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t about hatred, Alina. It’s about protection. It’s about ensuring she can never harm you again.”
My mind whirls with possibilities, with alternatives that don’t end in blood. “Can’t we just keep her away from us? Make her leave Cleveland? Something that doesn’t involve killing her?”
“And spend our lives looking over our shoulders? Wondering when she’ll surface next? Who she’ll ally herself with next time?” Raffaele shakes his head. “That’s not a life. That’s a prison of fear.”
I feel tears building again, hot and persistent. My sister wants me dead, and my husband wants her dead in return. The symmetry would be poetic if it weren’t so horrifically real.
“I need some time,” I say finally, shifting on the bed. “Some space to process all this. Can I just… be alone for a bit?”
Raffaele’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture stiffens. “No.”
The single word hits harder than I expected. “No?”
“We’re a team, Alina. In this together.” He moves closer, erasing the space I created between us. “I won’t leave you alone to spiral into guilt and self-doubt over someone who would have celebrated your death.”
Anger flares suddenly, bright and unexpected. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to decide when I need space.”
“I do when that space puts a wall between us.” His voice remains calm, but his eyes flash with intensity. “When that space becomes you taking on blame that isn’t yours to carry.”
“This isn’t about blame! This is about me needing to breathe!” The words explode from me with a force that surprises us both. “You’re asking me to consent to my sister’s execution. My sister, Raffaele. No matter what she’s done—”
“What she’s done is try to have you killed,” he cuts in, his control slipping for the first time. “She wants you dead, Alina. Dead. Gone forever. And you’re still trying to protect her.”
“I’m not trying to protect her! I’m trying to protect myself!” The admission tears from my throat. “I can’t be the person who says ‘yes, kill my sister.’ I can’t live with that. I can’t become that.”
Raffaele studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he takes my good hand and holds it between both of his. “Let me ask you something, and I want you to really think before you answer.”
I nod, wary but willing.
“Do you truly, honestly want Sabrina to live and always be a threat to us? To our family?” His thumbs trace circles on my palm. “What happens when we have children, Alina? What happens if she decides to hurt them to get to you?”
The question steals my breath. Children. Our children.
“It’s not fair,” I whisper. “It’s not fair to use children we don’t even have yet as leverage.”
“It’s not leverage. It’s reality.” Raffaele’s voice softens. “This is who I am, Alina. I eliminate threats. I protect what’s mine. That’s never going to change.”
I know he’s right. Logically, practically, even morally in some twisted way—he’s right. Sabrina made her choice. She plottedmy death without remorse. She would have celebrated if Andrea had succeeded.
But I can’t make myself say the words. Can’t force my lips to form consent to my sister’s death. It’s a line I cannot cross, not even for him. Not even for us.
“I know you’re right,” I admit, my voice barely audible over the yacht’s engines. “I know she’s a danger, and, yeah, she’s made her choice.” I meet his eyes directly. “But I can’t be the one to condemn her, Raffaele. I can’t say those words.”
His face softens, something like understanding passing through his eyes. “I’m not asking you to pull the trigger.”
