Her freedom. Her dream. The very thing she fought hardest to keep.
The legal documents took longer than expected to process, the lawyers dragging their feet despite the considerable bonus I paid for expedited service. But they came through just yesterday, and the frame arrived this morning—perfect timing for our wedding tomorrow.
I lift the frame, studying the official language that grants Alina full ownership of her family’s legacy. I know Alina thinks I insisted on buying Sabrina’s half to control her through the bakery. She couldn’t have been more wrong.
I didn’t want to own her dream; I wanted to give it back to her, whole and undivided.
Tomorrow, when I slip my ring onto her finger, I’ll place this deed into her hands as well. The first of many gifts. A promise that what matters to her matters to me.
If only I thought she’d let me crush her sister for being such a vicious cunt. I have the means to do it. And I don’t just mean money.
No. Thanks to my connections and almost unlimited funds, I’ve bought controlling shares in LakeEffect, and I fully intend on stripping Sabrina of her influencer status.
Thanks to Enzo’s politicians, Matteo’s favors, and Remus being, well, Remus, I now also have the ears of the CEOs of the big three. And when the time comes, I’ll get her blacklisted there as well.
Even if Alina never allows me to pay Sabrina back for messing with my wife, I’ll pull the trigger one day.
Smiling to myself, I reach for a cigar and light the fucker up. Even mentally planning someone’s ruin deserves celebration.
The rich tobacco scent fills the air as I draw deeply and exhale a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. The ritual soothes me, but it’s a poor substitute for what I really want. Alina across from me, her face illuminated by the firelight as she contemplates her next move on the chessboard.
I miss our games. Miss the delicate furrow between her brows when she’s thinking. Miss the way she bites her lower lip when she’s about to make a bold move.
Chess with Alina has become one of my all-time favorite parts of each day. I fucking love the way she reveals herself piece by piece with each game. Her strategies tell me more about her than her words ever could.
The whiskey bottle is half-empty when I check my watch again. It’s almost midnight. In just over twelve hours, Alina willbecome my wife. The thought sends something electric through my veins, a current of possession and anticipation that has nothing to do with the alcohol warming my blood.
I lean my head back against the leather chair, closing my eyes. Sleep eludes me, but memories don’t—Alina’s face when I first touched her, the soft sounds she makes when pleasure overwhelms her, the way she looked at me earlier when she said she was ready for tomorrow.
Not afraid. Not resigned.Ready.
The shrill ring of my phone cuts through the silence like a blade, startling me from my thoughts. The display shows the security gate’s number, and tension immediately coils in my muscles.
“Yeah?” I answer, voice sharp.
“Mr. Russo, sir. There’s a courier here at the gate,” the guard reports. “Says he has a delivery. A wedding present that needs to be delivered tonight.”
I check my watch again. Midnight exactly. “Did he say who it’s from?”
“No, sir. Just that it’s time-sensitive.”
My instincts flare with warning. No legitimate delivery service operates at this hour, and nothing about the timing feels coincidental. “What’s he driving?”
“Black sedan. No company markings that I can see.”
I consider my options. Turn him away, potentially missing something important—or allow him through and control the situation on my terms. “Let him through to the front door. I’ll meet him personally. And Weston? Keep the cameras on him the entire time.”
“Yes, sir.”
I end the call and rise from my chair, the whiskey’s warmth doing nothing to dull my senses. Instead, my mind sharpens,focusing with predatory intensity as I move through the darkened hallways of my home.
My hand slides beneath my shirt, checking the Glock tucked into my waistband at the small of my back. The familiar weight of the weapon grounds me.
Through the windows, I catch the sweep of headlights as the car approaches along the driveway. The security lights illuminate the black sedan as it comes to a stop, the driver’s silhouette visible through the windshield.
I position myself to the side of the door, angling my body to present the smallest possible target. Old habits. Necessary habits in my world.
When the doorbell rings, I wait three beats before opening it, keeping one hand casually behind my back, fingers brushing the grip of my gun.
