“Oh, I’m very serious.” He tilts his head slightly, the faintest glint of amusement in his storm-gray eyes.
I glance around the bakery, at the cracked paint and empty tables, and feel the weight of Mom’s memory pressing down on me. If I refuse, I’ll lose everything—her legacy, my home, my dignity.
“Fine,” I spit out, the word tasting like poison. Shame curls in my chest, but I push it down, forcing myself to meet his gaze. There’s no point in fighting what I can’t change.
Rafe straightens, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “Good. Pack a bag. You’re leaving with me.”
As he steps back, I catch the faintest hint of something predatory in his smile, as though he’s already imagining how this week will go.
If I thought I’d be left alone to gather my things from the small studio above the bakery, I’m sorely mistaken. Rafe follows me, his footsteps unhurried but deliberate. I feel his eyes on me the entire time, burning into my back as I shove a few belongings into a battered suitcase.
The tiny studio smells faintly of yeast and old wood, and the single window facing the street offers no comfort. By the time I close the suitcase, my palms are sweating.
When the door to the bakery closes behind me, it feels like I’m stepping out of one life and into another—a far more dangerous one.
2
Rafe
The scent of fresh bread and sugar lingers in the air as we leave Alina’s bakery behind, fading into the cool spring evening. The streets of Little Italy hum softly, the distant clink of plates and murmur of diners mixing with the faint sweetness of blooming flowers. My focus, though, is entirely on her.
She clutches her bag like it’s the only shield she has, her lips pressed into a tight, defiant line. Her shoulders are rigid, her head held high, but the tension radiating off her betrays her nerves. She’s trying so hard to appear unshaken, but I see right through her.
“Rafe, I don’t need your help,” she says, her voice sharper than expected, though she still won’t meet my eyes.
“Too late for that.” My tone is calm but final.
The sleek black car waits at the curb, Enzo standing by with the back door open. Alina hesitates, her hazel eyes dartingtoward me, then back to the car. She doesn’t move until I step closer, crowding her just enough to make her feel it. “Get in.”
Her lips tighten, but she obeys, climbing into the car with stiff movements. I slide in beside her, and the tension in the air thickens. The soft leather seats swallow her up, a stark contrast to the flour-streaked world she just left behind.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks after a long silence, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You’ll see.” I let the quiet stretch, filling the space between us with unspoken weight.
I study her discreetly; the way her dark brown waves brush her shoulders, the faint freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, the soft curve of her lips pressed into a line.
Her worn clothes should make her seem unremarkable, but somehow, they only emphasize the unpolished beauty beneath. Her curvy frame is deceptively strong, her posture tense but still carrying a stubborn pride.
Alina shifts in her seat, her fingers fiddling with the strap of her bag. She bites her lower lip, her teeth leaving a faint mark on the soft flesh. I smirk, knowing she’s fully aware of my gaze and hating that it affects her.
“Rafe, please,” she begins again, a crack of desperation slipping into her voice.
“Save it,” I cut her off, my tone firm. “You belong to me for a week. You’ll do as I say.”
Her head snaps toward me, her hazel eyes blazing with defiance. “We’ll see,” she hisses.
I lean back, smirking at the fire in her. “I really hope that resolve lasts.”
The car pulls to a stop in front of my building, a sleek glass-and-steel tower that reflects the dim glow of the Cleveland skyline. I step out first, the air cool against my skin. When Alina doesn’t move, I reach into the car, gripping her hand and pullingher out with firm insistence. Her skin is warm, her pulse quick beneath my fingers.
“Is this where I’m staying?” she asks, her voice wavering despite her effort to sound composed.
“This is wherewe’restaying,” I correct. “Welcome home.” I lead her toward the entrance, my hand brushing the small of her back. Her steps falter slightly, and I feel the tremor running through her body.
I’m still not sure what made me accept her instead of the money owed to the Russo family—to my family. All I know is that when I saw the fire in her, I wanted to protect and possess rather than extinguish.
“It’s just a week,” she murmurs, and I get the feeling that the words were more to herself than me.
