“I am,” I answer honestly.
“A week isn’t much time to plan a wedding,” Matteo observes, the statement containing a question.
“We don’t need much time. It’ll be a small ceremony, only for those of us here tonight. And Alina wants the reception at my—our—place.” I glance at my cousins, who all nod. “She hasn’t had an easy life. She deserves something good.”
The words slip out before I can catch them, revealing more than I intended.
“And you think being married to you is that something good?” Matteo asks, but the edge is gone from his voice, replaced by genuine curiosity.
“I think being Alina Russo opens more doors than it closes,” I answer carefully. “And I think I can give her stability. Safety. The bakery she loves.”
“And children?” Remus asks quietly. “Have you discussed that part of marriage with her?”
Heat spreads through my chest at the thought of Alina round with my child. “Yes.”
Enzo’s eyes widen slightly. “And?”
“And she wants them,” I say simply.
A silence falls over the room, but it’s different now—contemplative rather than tense. We’ve been here before, the four of us, in this room or others like it. Making decisions. Settling disputes. Supporting each other through the darkness that comes with our name, our legacy.
“Well,” Matteo says finally, raising his glass, “I guess we’re planning a wedding.”
“We?” I echo, eyebrows raised.
“Family business,” Remus confirms, a hint of warmth creeping into his tone. “And despite your best efforts to be a solitary bastard, you’re family.”
Enzo stands, refilling our glasses. “To the happy couple,” he says, sarcasm edging his words but not enough to cut.
“Wait a fucking second,” Matteo urges. “Does she even have a wedding dress? And what about her sister? Is she coming to the wedding? What does she want as a wedding present? Is she already pregnant?”
Question after question tumbles from him, each one making my smile wider.
“Relax,” I grin. “Her sister’s not fucking invited within ten miles of her unless Alina specifically wants it. As for the dress… couldn’t Piper and Raven help?”
Enzo pulls his phone out, his eyebrows knitting together as his thumbs fly across the keyboard. After a couple of minutes, he gives me a thumbs-up. “They’ll take her shopping tomorrow.”
I watch them shift from opposition to support with a mixture of gratitude and wariness. This is the Russo way—we fight, we challenge, we question. But in the end, we stand together. Always.
As the conversation turns to logistics—security, catering, timeline—I feel something inside me uncoil slightly. This is why we survive, why we thrive. The world may see us as dangerous, ruthless, cold. But they don’t see this—the fierce loyalty, theabsolute certainty that no matter our disagreements, we protect our own.
We finish our drinks, the atmosphere now relaxed enough for actual conversation. Matteo shares a story about Raven’s latest pregnancy craving, sending him on a midnight hunt for pickle-flavored ice cream.
Enzo describes Piper’s recent political triumph over a senator with undisguised pride. Even Remus cracks a rare smile as he recounts a business associate’s shock upon learning exactly who he’d been dealing with.
“Hey,” Matteo says suddenly. “I’m sorry for the shit with Mikhail. I’ll get his man out of prison.”
Even though we’ve already talked about it, I appreciate the apology. “Water under the bridge, cousin,” I say.
Before learning why Matteo wasn’t there to pick up the shipment, I would have sworn there’d never be a good enough reason. But after finding out he was in the hospital with Raven, who had Braxton Hicks contractions, I got it.
Family shouldalwayscome first.
“I still feel bad,” Matteo replies.
Shrugging, I drink the last of the whiskey in my glass. “I get it, man. I’d have done the same.”
Enzo studies my face with uncharacteristic intensity, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Fuck me,” he says suddenly, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’re in love, aren’t you, cousin?”
