“Thursday,” Enzo finally repeats, the single word landing like a stone in still water. His icy blue eyes slide from me to Alina, assessing, measuring. “As in next Thursday.”
Piper’s hand finds her husband’s arm, her fingers curling around his wrist in what might appear as affection to anyonewho doesn’t know better. I recognize the subtle restraint, having seen it countless times before when Enzo’s temper threatens to surface.
“A week from now,” Matteo clarifies unnecessarily, his single eye fixed on me with an intensity that would unnerve anyone outside our family. “You’re getting married in a fucking week?”
“Watch your language,” Raven hisses, one hand resting protectively on her enormous belly.
I feel Alina tense beside me. If any of these fuckers make her cave in on herself, I’ll uninvite them from our wedding. And they won’t be allowed near our future children. No way. She’s come too far to be set back now.
To my surprise, she straightens her spine. Pride mingles with something darker as I watch her refuse to shrink under the collective weight of my family’s attention.
What a good fucking girl.
Enzo leans forward, fingers steepled against his lips. “How long has this been—”
“Enough,” Remus cuts him off with a single word, his hand raising slightly from the table. He stands, straightening his suit jacket with deliberate precision. “Rafe, Enzo, Matteo. With me.”
It’s not a request. We all know it.
Alina’s fingers clutch at the tablecloth, her knuckles white with tension. I lean down, pressing my lips to her forehead in a gesture that surprises even me with its tenderness.
“Stay with Piper and Raven,” I murmur against her skin, my hand cupping the back of her neck, thumb brushing over the diamond choker I placed there hours earlier. The sight of it against her pale throat stirs something possessive in my chest. “I won’t be long, Piccola.”
Her pale blue eyes meet mine, uncertainty swimming in their depths. “Raffaele,” she whispers, so low only I can hear. “I don’t think your family likes this idea.”
“It doesn’t matter what they like,” I tell her, maintaining eye contact, willing her to understand. “You’remine,and soon you’ll be my wife. That’s all that matters.”
I straighten, noticing the way Piper and Raven exchange knowing glances. There’s something in their silent communication that makes me uneasy. I swear these two could plan world domination while getting a manicure, and we wouldn’t know until they’d set the world ablaze.
“We’ll take good care of her,” Piper promises, her voice smooth as polished stone.
“Cross our hearts and hope to die,” Raven adds, shooting me a finger gun.
As I follow my cousins out, I glimpse Piper making Alina sit in the seat I had just vacated. Then the other two move about until they sit on either side of my soon-to-be wife. Almost like they’re shielding her. Or maybe it’s more about literally making her the center of attention.
“So,” I hear Raven say. “I need to pretend I’m drinking wine while you tell us all the gory details.”
I almost turn back, almost intervene, but Remus’ steady gaze pins me in place. The women will do what women do, and Alina will have to navigate those waters without me.
The study door closes behind us with a heavy thud. It’s a room I know well—dark wood paneling, leather chairs worn to perfect comfort, shelves lined with books that have likely never been opened.
Matteo immediately walks to the bar cart, pouring amber whiskey into four heavy crystal tumblers without asking if anyone wants one. Enzo extracts a cigar from the humidor on the desk and offers me one, which I don’t hesitate to accept.
Remus claims the chair behind the desk—his chair, his desk, his authority. Despite being the same age as us, he carries ourfamily’s legacy with an ease that commands respect. He accepts the whiskey Matteo hands him with a slight nod.
I light my own cigar, watching the flame briefly illuminate my cousins’ faces—the tension in Enzo’s jaw, the calculated blankness in Matteo’s expression, the patient expectation in Remus’ eyes.
They’re waiting for me to explain myself, to justify what they perceive as recklessness.
I take my time, taking several pulls off my cigar and letting it out in a slow stream that curls toward the ceiling. Only then do I settle into the chair across from Remus, accepting the whiskey Matteo hands me.
“My dad called,” I say simply, watching understanding dawn on their faces. Andrea Russo’s name carries weight, even in his absence, even across an ocean. “He’s demanding that I marry. Says it’s time I took my place properly in the family.”
Matteo scoffs, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “And you picked the baker?” He takes a deep drink of his whiskey. “The one you collected for a debt, what, three weeks ago?”
“Twenty-six days,” I correct him, my tone sharper than intended. “And yes.”
Enzo raises an eyebrow. “That’s… convenient.”
