“Yes, Piccola. Your dreams. The things you want most in this world.” My tone is patient but firm. “And remember, complete honesty was our agreement.”
She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear, her eyes dropping to her lap where her fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket. “I suppose my first dream would be to keep the bakery going,” she says softly. “Not just keep it open, but to make it thrive. To honor what my mom built.”
The way her voice catches when she mentions Sophia tells me this is more than a business aspiration—it’s a promise to the dead. Interesting.
“And your second dream?” I prompt when she falls silent.
Her cheeks flush a deeper pink. “I’ve always wanted children,” she admits, the words coming out in a rush, as if she’s embarrassed by the admission. “A family of my own. A home where everyone feels… safe and loved. So loved.”
There’s something in the way she emphasizes that last word that hints at deeper wounds. A history of not feeling those things herself, perhaps. I file this information away for later examination.
“When I was little,” she continues after a moment, “I used to play with these old dolls my mom found at garage sales. Theyweren’t much. Some were missing limbs, others had marker stains or chopped hair. But I loved them.” A small smile curves her lips, transforming her face. “I’d create these elaborate families. Each doll had its own baby to care for. I’d make tiny blankets out of scraps of fabric, little beds out of shoeboxes.”
She pauses, her smile fading slightly. “Sabrina thought it was stupid. She was always into makeup and clothes, even then. But I just wanted to take care of something. Someone.”
There’s a vulnerability in her expression that catches me off guard. Something in my chest tightens at the image of a young Alina, creating families from broken dolls, already preparing for a role life hasn’t yet granted her.
I should say something to reassure her, but no words come to mind. What the fuck do you say to any of that?
“That’s two,” I remind her, deciding on getting us back on track. “What’s your third greatest dream?”
Alina bites her lower lip. “I’m not sure I have a third one,” she finally says. “Just those two have always been enough.”
Simple dreams. Attainable dreams. Nothing like the women who usually orbit my world.
Chapter 13
Raffaele
“My second question,” I continue, leaning forward slightly. “Are you untouched, Alina?”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide with shock. “W-what?” she stammers.
“You heard me. Has any man ever touched you? Kissed you? Fucked you?” I keep my voice casual, as if I’m asking about the weather, but my body is anything but relaxed. The thought of being the first—the only—man to claim her makes something feral rise in my chest.
Her face flushes crimson, the color spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of my shirt. “No,” she whispers, unable to meet my eyes. “No one has ever… I’ve never been kissed. Or touched. Or… anything else.”
The confession sends a surge of possessive heat through me that’s so intense it nearly takes my breath away. This beautiful, soft woman has never known a man’s touch. The knowledge that she’s completely untainted makes something primal rise inside me.
Mine.The word echoes in my mind with a ferocity that should alarm me.
My thoughts turn to the conversation with my dad earlier—his demands for me to settle down and continue the Russo line. And me saying I’m getting married. Fuck.
Looking at Alina now, with her fiery hair and pale skin, her modest dreams, and untouched body, I realize she would make a perfect Russo wife. Stunning enough to be shown off at family gatherings. Domestic enough to create a home.
Willing to bear children. Innocent enough to be molded to our ways.
It wouldn’t be love. But it would be convenient. Practical. A solution to my father’s demands and a way to keep this intriguing creature in my possession indefinitely.
“My third question,” I say, my voice dropping lower. “Why are you so untouched? Is it for religious reasons?”
Alina squirms uncomfortably, her discomfort clear in every line of her body. Her eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but at me. The firelight catches on her lashes, casting spidery shadows on her cheeks.
She licks her lips nervously. “Look at me,” she finally whispers, her voice so small I barely hear it over the crackling fire.
I don’t respond, just continue to stare at her with unwavering intensity.
“No one would ever want someone like me,” she continues, the words tumbling out in a rush of self-deprecation.
