Beautiful Beast (Perfectly Imperfect: Mafia Legacy #1)

Holy shit, there’s more life in the catacombs than in this beautiful but devoid place. After hours of exploring, I did bump into a maid while she was wiping down the kitchen counter, and then again when she carried folded towels up the stairs. But both times, as soon as she saw me, she hightailed it to God knows where.

Continuing to drift aimlessly from room to room, I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. Several ready-to-eat packaged entrées are stacked on the shelves. I move mushroom pasta to the side (I tried some of it earlier in the day) and pull out a chicken salad.

I stab a piece of meat, but after a moment, just stick everything back into the fridge. I’m not hungry. I just want to go home, damn it. The round white clock on the wall shows it’s almost eleven in the evening. Why am I still here?

There’s an opened bottle of red wine on the fridge door. I don’t remember seeing it here before. The label is the same as on the bottle I broke in the cellar, and that memory instantly pops into my mind. I pour myself a glass and meander out of the kitchen.

A warm breeze blows my hair as I step out onto the wide terrace overlooking the sea and prop my elbows on the railing. If I weren’t a prisoner here, I’d be enjoying the breathtaking view and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Out in the distance along the coast, several tiny twinkling lights are aglow. Straining my eyes into the darkness, I lean forward, trying to decipher what they are.

“Fishing boats,” a deep male voice rumbles behind me.

I swing around, startled, and the wine splashes everywhere, including all over my borrowed outfit. With no lamps on the terrace, the only illumination is the ambient light spilling from inside the house through the massive French windows and doors. There’s not enough of it, though, to chase away the shadows outside. The figure of a man—a very broad, muscular man—is sitting on the wicker recliner at the patio’s far side. His face is hidden by the darkness, but I can see that he’s wearing dress pants and a button-down, with a vest over the top. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. A length of white bandage is wrapped around his right forearm.

“I got your message.” He lifts the wineglass in his hand and takes a sip. “Very eloquent, Miss Petrova. I especially liked the part about defecating dogs.”

Goose bumps run down my arms from the rich timbre of his voice. It’s hoarse and gruff, but the strong Italian accent makes it sound less gravelly. There isn’t a single soft note in it. With his powerfully built body laid back so casually, I feel like I’m facing an indomitable large feline. One who’s eyeing his next meal. Me.

“Rafael, I presume?” I swallow as I take him in. He doesn’t seem like he’s been quaking in his boots, concerned about his life. “When is my dad arriving?”

“I wasn’t aware that Pakhan Petrov intended to visit Sicily.”

“He’s coming to take me home.” I retreat a step while panic begins to rise from the pit of my stomach. “You told him I’m here.”

“Have I? Why would I do that?”

“Because you know who I am. And because my father is going to kill you if you don’t let me go.”

He takes another sip of the wine. “Who your father is has no bearing on my plans.”

“What . . . plans?” I manage to ask as panic ratchets into terror.

“You will be fixing the mess you created when you intruded into my company’s network system, for starters.”

“I . . . I have no idea what you’re talking about. What system?”

“Please, Miss Petrova, let’s not play dumb. I had my brother complete an extensive background check on you. You studied computer science. Graduated with a bachelor’s degree earlier this month and have been accepted into an advanced software engineering master’s program.” An aura of impending doom descends with his every word. “Was it your father who put you up to this? Got you to breach my company’s firewalls and create back doors to the network? What was your goal? Find your way to my client list?”

“What?” I choke out. “No. My dad had nothing to do with that.”

“So it was you, after all.”

Shit. I look away. “Yes.”

“What was the purpose of your actions?”

“Your IT security is good. It was a challenge to break it. And I was . . . bored.”

“You were bored?” His voice is hushed, but there is a dangerous edge to it now. “I have four people working on identifying whatever malware or shit you downloaded into my systems. What you did has left a clusterfuck that they still haven’t managed to untangle.”

This conversation isn’t going the way I expected. I was sure he’d apologize, then stumble over his feet to send me home as soon as possible. This is the furthest thing from that.

With the wind blowing in my face, hurling my hair into my eyes, I take another step back.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, okay? It’s just a tiny bit of code. I can fix it the moment I get home. Can you please let me go?”

“One’s actions bear consequences, Miss Petrova. That’s how the real world works. Your little game left my company vulnerable to more cyberattacks. So, no, I will not let you go.” He lifts his ankle onto the opposite knee and leans back. “I want to offer you a job.”

“A job?” It comes out as a shrill while I stare at this lunatic. “You had me kidnapped, drugged, flown to another continent, thrown into a goddamned cellar, and now you expect me to work for you?”