He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he answers with a simple, “Yes.”
My first instinct is irritation—a flash of defiance at his blatant claim of ownership. I’m not a pet to be collared, not a possession to be marked. But even as the thought forms, another feeling rises to meet it—a liquid heat that pools low in my belly, a traitorous thrill at being so thoroughly claimed.
His eyes hold mine in the mirror, challenging me to deny the effect he has on me. I can’t. “Does that bother you?” he asks, one hand sliding from my shoulder to the base of my throat, his fingers brushing against the diamonds there.
I swallow hard, feeling the slight pressure of his touch against my pulse. “It should,” I admit.
His lips curve into that dangerous half-smile that never fails to make my heart skip. “But it doesn’t.”
It’s not a question, and I don’t treat it as one. We both know the truth. “We need to go,” I say instead of answering directly. “I don’t want to be late.”
Raffaele nods, but doesn’t move immediately. His hand remains at my throat, his fingers pressing lightly against my pulse as his eyes stay locked with mine in the mirror.
I take his arm, grateful for the support as my knees feel suddenly weak. “I need to get the treats from the kitchen first,” I remind him. “I can’t show up empty-handed.”
Raffaele nods, leading me out of the bedroom. The diamond choker sits cool and heavy against my throat, a constant reminder of who I belong to now.
My stomach flutters with nerves as we head downstairs. Meeting his family—the infamous Russo clan—as his. Not his girlfriend or fiancée. Just… his.
The kitchen is spotless as always, and even though Susan isn’t around, there’s a timer ticking from above the oven.
I take the paper bag waiting on the counter, making sure everything’s there. Once I’ve checked, I get the second one from the fridge.
“Ready?” Raffaele asks, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back.
I nod, though ready is the last thing I feel.
Even the walk to the garage, which reveals Raffaele’s fleet of cars, isn’t enough to distract me from what lies ahead. I barely register him pointing to his black Maserati, or sliding into the front passenger seat.
It’s not until he closes the door after me that I notice I’m sitting here. Notice the leather seat cradling me while I carefully balance the two paper bags on my lap.
Inside are hours of work—delicate pastries and treats I’ve spent the past week perfecting between stolen moments of planning a wedding that still doesn’t feel quite real.
The wedding that will make me Alina Russo in less than exactly a week. March twenty-sixth. The date echoes in my mind with every beat of my heart.
Raffaele slides into the driver’s seat with effortless grace, his movements fluid and controlled like everything else about him. The engine purrs to life as he pulls out of the driveway, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching across to rest possessively on my thigh.
“Tell me again what you’ve made,” he says, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
I peek inside the bag, though I know its contents by heart. “Cinnamon rolls and bites for Raven. She used to come to the bakery almost every morning for them.” A smile tugs at my lips as I recall her exaggerated moans of pleasure with each bite. “Dark chocolate and marzipan for Piper because you said she has refined tastes. Nougat bites for Lorenzo, profiteroles for Matteo, and tiramisu for Remus.”
“You remembered all their favorites,” he observes, his thumb tracing small circles on my thigh.
“Of course I did.” I can’t help the small note of pride that creeps into my voice. “I was raised to always bring hostess gifts. Mom insisted it was proper etiquette.”
The mention of my mom brings a familiar pang of grief, but it’s duller now. Mostly the grief has softened by time and distraction. But… there’s a huge chunk that’s because I’m pissed at her for giving me up as collateral. And because of the way she allowed Sabrina to treat me.
“And the cookies?” he asks, glancing briefly at the separate container nested in the paper bag.
“Save the date cookies,” I explain. “They’re chocolate chips with the wedding date piped in chocolate. I thought… I thought it might be a nice way to announce it.”
His hand tightens momentarily on my thigh. “That’s a great idea,” he says, and though the words are simple, the approval in his voice warms me.
Outside the window, Cleveland slides by—familiar streets giving way to more exclusive neighborhoods as we drive toward the Russo estate.
My anxiety rises with each passing mile. I’ve never been to the Russo estate before, and now I’m about to walk into the wolf’s den. Not as a stranger, but as Raffaele’s. As the woman who will soon bear his name.
As if sensing my thoughts, Raffaele’s hand climbs higher on my thigh, his touch both comforting and possessive. “You’re thinking too hard.”
