Raffaele
The whiskey burns a path down my throat, settling in my stomach with a familiar warmth that does nothing to thaw the ice in my veins.
My dad’s face on the laptop screen is a study in controlled arrogance. An expression he’s worn for my entire fucking life. It’s been six months since my mom died, and he’s already acting like she was nothing more than a footnote in the grand story of Andrea Russo.
“You look tired, Raffaele.” His voice cuts through the silence of my office, his Italian accent thicker after years of living in Rome. “Is the business keeping you up at night?”
I take another slow pull from my cigar, letting the smoke curl around me before answering. Instead of telling him that he’s currently the one keeping me up, I reply, “I’m fine.”
Absentmindedly, I look out the window to where my land is buried under another layer of February snow. Inside my office, another kind of cold permeates the air between dad and son.
“I hear you’re handling collections personally these days.” His beady eyes assess me through the screen. “Is that wise? You have men for that.”
Forcing a yawn, I give him a bored stare. “Are you having me followed now?”
“Hardly. People talk, Raffaele,” he scoffs. “Don’t forget I was the Debt Collector before you.”
Ignoring him, I shift on the couch, adjusting my laptop. “You didn’t need to call to tell me you’re disappointed,” I drawl. “An email will suffice next time.”
He lifts a crystal tumbler into view, the amber liquid catching the light. Even though it’s morning in Rome, he’s already drinking. “To my beloved Beatrice,” he announces, completely changing the subject while raising the glass in a toast. “It’s been half a year since she left this mortal coil.”
My fingers tighten around my own glass. Cancer, time, and death are the primordial enemies no one can fight. I understand that. What really fucking gets me is him acting like he wasn’t halfway across the world while she withered away in a hospice bed.
“To Mom,” I echo, the words tasting bitter as I take a drink.
“She would have wanted you settled by now,” he continues, setting his glass down with a precise click. “You’re thirty-four years old, Raffaele. No wife, no children. The Russo line doesn’t extend itself.”
And there it is—the real purpose of this call. I lean back, crossing one leg over the other, refusing to give him thesatisfaction of seeing me react. “Is that what this is about? My lack of kids?”
“Heirs,” he corrects, as though I don’t have firsthand knowledge of what it means to be his offspring. “It’s about responsibility. Your position in the family comes with expectations. Beatrice, God bless her soul, understood that better than most. She raised you to accept your role like she did hers.”
“Her role?” I repeat, the words cutting like razors. “You mean being your doting wife while you fucked your way through half the world? Is that the role you’re talking about?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, the only sign that my words have landed. “Mind your tone. I respected my wife.”
“Spare me,” I growl, my patience running dangerously low.
While I’ve had the privilege of watching Enzo and Matteo fall in love, I’ve always known that wasn’t in the cards for me. Since I was old enough to hold a gun and pull the trigger, Dad drilled into me that love is pointless.
Power is what matters. Power is absolute.
That he wants me to marry is no surprise; he mentions it at every chance he gets. He’s even provided me with plenty of suggestions over the years. All of them would further his own agenda more than mine.
“Eventually Remus is going to insist on it.” He sighs, a practiced sound designed to make me feel childish. “I’ve built something that will outlast us all, Raffaele. The Russo name means something because I helped make it so. You think this empire runs on sentiment?”
“I think it runs on blood,” I reply coldly. “Some of it spilled, some of it shared.”
“Poetic.” His lips curl slightly. “Perhaps that’s why you’re still alone. Women don’t want poetry from men like us. They want strength. Security.”
Minimizing the window, I double-click the security feed for Alina’s room. Watching her while listening to my dad makes it more bearable.
“Do you hear me, Raffaele?” he snaps.
I allow a cold smile to tug at my lips. “Who says I’m alone?” I question to show him I was listening. And fuck, I love the surprised look on his face. “Who says I’m not engaged and about to get married soon? Or that I’m not already married?”
“Are you?” he demands.
“Whether I am or not is none of your business,” I retort with a shrug. “If my position as Collector depends on marriage, I’m sure Remus will let me know. If it’s about you wanting to secure our branch of the family tree for generations to come, you should have thought about that before you forced Mom to get sterilized after only having me.” The last part comes out as an angry growl.
