“I’m nervous,” I admit, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of the paper bag. “What if they don’t like me?”
He makes a dismissive sound. “Their opinion doesn’t matter,” he says, squeezing my thigh.
Although I appreciate he doesn’t give me empty assurances, it’s not enough for me. “It matters to me,” I counter. “You love your family.”
Something softens in his expression, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless. “Yes,” he concedes. “I do. But that doesn’t mean they get a say in this. You’re mine now, Piccola. No matter what they say.”
Mine. That one word both chafes and warms me. And if I’m completely honest, the chafing comes from telling myself I ought to feel like that when he’s quite literally collected me. But the way he’s made me feel seen is making it too hard to feel anything but good in his vicinity.
It’s only now that I’m beginning to fully understand the danger that is Raffaele Russo. It has nothing to do with violence or even his mafia family. It’s the way he’s making me feel.
We turn onto a long, tree-lined driveway, and I catch my first glimpse of the Russo estate through the windshield. The house—mansion, really—rises imposingly against the early evening sky.
Large windows reflect the sun like watchful eyes, and a wrought-iron gate stands open, waiting to receive us.
As we approach, I notice the subtle security measures—cameras disguised as architectural features, uniformed men positioned at strategic points around the grounds. This isn’t just a home; it’s a fortress.
“Breathe,” Raffaele reminds me, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. “There you go. Good girl.”
The words make heat pool in my lower stomach. God, why does his praise always make me feel so… well, needy for him?
He parks in front of the main entrance rather than in the large garage visible to one side. Before I can reach for the door handle, he’s out of the car and circling around to my side. I wait, understanding now that this is what he expects.
These small surrenders of independence are part of our unspoken agreement.
When he opens my door, he offers his hand, and I take it without hesitation, grateful for the solid strength of his grip as I emerge from the car with the paper bags clutched in my free hand.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes roaming over me appreciatively. “That dress fits you perfectly.”
Coming from anyone else, I might doubt the sincerity of the compliment. But Raffaele doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. He’s proven that to me over and over.
The clothing debate is over. He won. The day after he took the clothes from me, I begged to get them back. Having to beg wasn’t what surprised me. No, what shocked me was how much I liked it.
“And that choker,” he continues, his voice dropping to a register that makes me slick with want, “is driving me crazy. I can’t wait to see it against your bare skin tonight when I’m tasting that sweet cunt of yours.”
“Raffaele!” I gasp, shocked at his crude words despite knowing by now that’s exactly how he speaks when desire overtakes him.
A blush creeps up my cheeks, but I can’t deny the jolt of arousal his words trigger. My body responds to him on a primal level I never knew existed until him.
He smirks, fully aware of the effect he has on me. “Straighten your spine,” he commands, his hand pressing lightly against the small of my back. “Walk in there like you own the place.”
“Likeyouown the place, you mean,” I can’t help but correct him.
“Likeweown it,” he counters, surprising me. “You’re a Russo now, in all but name. And that changes in a week.”
I take a deep breath and do as he instructed, straightening my spine, lifting my chin. The diamond choker sits cool and heavy against my throat, a constant reminder of his claim on me. But it also feels like armor somehow, giving me a confidence I didn’t know I could possess.
A staff member waits at the entrance, opening the heavy door as we approach. Raffaele’s hand never leaves the small of my back, guiding me forward.
“Take this to the kitchen,” he tells the staff member, taking the paper bags from me and handing them over. “Keep it in a cool place until after we’ve eaten.”
“Yes, Mr. Russo,” the man nods, accepting the bag with careful hands.
As we step over the threshold, I feel the weight of the moment settle over me. I’m entering the wolf’s den, walking into the heart of a family known for their ruthlessness and power. But I’m not alone.
Raffaele’s hand on my back reminds me of that with every step.
Chapter 25
