Alina
The Russo family dining room isn’t what I expected. Instead of the grand, intimidating space I’d imagined, we’re led to what Raffaele explains is the smaller living room, currently serving as a dining area due to renovations elsewhere in the house.
Light-colored walls adorned with tasteful artwork reflect the warm glow from ornate sconces. Heavy drapes frame tall windows, and the tiled floor gleams beneath an elegant table set for seven.
Despite the room’s relative intimacy, I feel like I’ve stepped onto a stage, every pair of eyes turning to assess me as we enter.
I recognize them all. At the head of the table sits Remus, his face impassive yet somehow still radiating authority. To his leftis Lorenzo, impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, and beside him sits his wife Piper, her sharp green eyes missing nothing as they sweep over me.
On Remus’ right is Matteo, his single eye studying me with an intensity that makes me want to shrink into myself. Next to him sits Raven, her dusky pink hair looks freshly dyed and is almost as impossible to overlook as the roundness of her belly. She’s the only one who smiles genuinely at my entrance.
“Everyone,” Raffaele’s voice cuts through the momentary silence, his hand firm against the small of my back. “This is Alina.”
“Alina,” Raven exclaims, pushing herself up from her chair with surprising agility for someone so pregnant. “I’ve missed you at the bakery.”
She enfolds me in a warm hug that catches me off guard. I wasn’t expecting such familiarity, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.
“It’s good to see you.” I smile as she pulls back. “How is the bakery? Is it still standing?”
“Barely,” she laughs, patting her rounded stomach.
The casual mention of the bakery sends a pang through my chest. It’s been almost a month since I’ve baked professionally, since I’ve stood behind the counter watching customers enjoy my creations.
Raffaele guides me to the free chair next to Raven’s, his hand never leaving the small of my back until I’m seated. He takes the seat beside me, opposite Remus.
“Wine?” Matteo offers, already pouring a deep red liquid into crystal glasses.
Before I can answer, Raffaele does it for me. “She’ll have water.”
I should be annoyed at him answering for me, but instead, I feel a strange relief. One less decision to make in a situation already saturated with tension.
Throughout the meal, I feel their eyes on me—curious, assessing, wondering. Each one of them steals glances when they think I’m not looking, exchanging subtle looks with each other.
“Don’t forget to eat,” Raffaele murmurs at one point, noticing I’ve barely touched my food. His hand finds my knee under the table, a warm, steady pressure that grounds me.
I obey without thinking, taking a bite of the perfectly prepared salmon. The flavor bursts on my tongue, but anxiety has dulled my appetite.
“I’ve only been to the bakery a few times,” Piper says, looking at me. “But I absolutely loved the pistachio bread I bought. Was that your recipe?”
Opening my mouth, I try to tell her yes. But then I close my mouth again because it wasn’t just mine. Technically, it was also Mom’s.
Raffaele’s voice cuts in before I can stammer through a response. “Answer her, Piccola,” he says, his tone soft but unmistakably a command.
Again, I find myself obeying instinctively, the structure of his guidance creating a strange sense of safety. “Yes,” I confirm. “I came up with the idea, and my mom helped me perfect it.”
When she asks more questions, I tell her about the bakery, about growing up in Cleveland, carefully omitting any mention of Sabrina or the circumstances that brought me to Raffaele’s home.
“Have something to drink,” Raffaele says later, when my voice grows hoarse from more questions than I’m used to answering.
Each command should feel restrictive, should make me bristle with defiance. Instead, they act as anchors in unfamiliar waters, giving me clear direction when I might otherwise flounder.
“Look at me,” he says when Lorenzo’s penetrating gaze becomes too intimidating. I turn to meet Raffaele’s eyes instead, finding unexpected reassurance there.
The diamond choker feels warmer now against my skin, no longer just a symbol of ownership but a reminder that I’m not facing this alone. Every time I swallow, every time I turn my head, I feel its gentle pressure—a constant reminder of who I belong to.
By the time dessert plates are cleared away, I’ve settled into a rhythm of sorts. The initial terror has faded to a manageable anxiety. I’ve even managed to make Raven, Matteo, and Piper laugh with a story about an exploding blueberry pie incident at the bakery.
“I believe Alina has brought something for everyone,” Raffaele announces as the staff clears the last of the dessert dishes.
