Beautiful Beast (Perfectly Imperfect: Mafia Legacy #1)

Yes, I definitely need greater finesse when delivering compliments to women. This woman.

“And you know that . . . from personal experience?” she asks.

“I prefer Aconitum in business matters. It works faster. Some contracts have very short turnaround times.”

Rosy lips pressed tightly together, Vasilisa looks down at the laptop screen. I can practically see the wheels turning in her brain.

“What’s your last name?” she asks without looking at me.

Well, well . . . She connected the dots at last. “It’s De Santi.”

“Rafael De Santi,” she rasps. “The Sicilian.”

I smile. “At your service, Miss Petrova.”

Vasilisa nods and squirms in her chair nervously. Her shoulders are slumped, making her look even smaller in my suit jacket. The sleeves have unraveled and fallen nearly half a foot past her hands.

She looks so lost all of a sudden, and that pang of guilt hits me again.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It’s late. I think we should call it a night.”

“Of course. Sweet dreams, vespetta.”

Keeping her eyes glued to the floor, Vasilisa slides off the chair and heads toward the door connecting the office with my bedroom. She’s trying to appear nonchalant, but it’s obvious she’s running away.

When she reaches the door, however, she halts. “What does it mean? That word. Is it an insult?”

I watch her, so beautiful and regal even in that enormous jacket that seems to have swallowed her whole. She truly looks like a princess.

“It means little wasp,” I say.

“Oh.” She throws a quick glance over her shoulder in my direction, then disappears across the threshold.

I wait until the door shuts behind her before I approach the desk and lift the yellow pad of sticky notes. There’s a doodle on the top piece. A dreadfully done stickman holding the handle of a protest sign in his hand.

World’s shittiest employer.

I can’t suppress my laugh.

Peeling away the note, I take out my wallet and slide the new doodle next to the earlier sketch she made.

Chapter 7

Crickets again. Their song drifts through the open window, filling the room with a melody I found comforting in previous days, but now, it feels ominous somehow.

I fasten the final button on an enormous white dress shirt and glance at my ghostly reflection in the bathroom mirror. My lack of sleep is evident in the shadows under my eyes. I still haven’t been able to wrap my mind around the fact that the man keeping me captive is actually The notorious Sicilian.

Bratva is not huge on gossip. Not like Cosa Nostra—those guys are the personification of the fucking rumor mill—but still, word gets around fast, and whether you want to or not, you hear things. Everyone in our circles knows about Rafael De Santi, a.k.a. The Sicilian.

There are several options for eliminating someone in our world. However, if you need it to be done professionally and fast, and if you have a couple of million to spare, you hire The Sicilian’s team. They’re the only ones with a twenty-four-hour turnaround guarantee, regardless of the location or the target. And no wonder. His front company has branches all over the world. What better strategy than to have his men in position and with relative ease of access because they’ve already infiltrated the security of the most prominent members of high society—bodyguards for his potential future marks? Ingenious.

I look behind me, my eyes wandering around the bedroom I’ve been staying in. My gaze glides over the two men’s dress shirts thrown on the back of the couch, then to the right, taking in the charcoal suit jacket folded on the seat of the recliner. It has a ketchup stain on one of the lapels. My doing.

Considering where I ended up, I should have realized this sooner. But, it didn’t even cross my mind that my Rafael is actually Rafael De Santi. From what I heard of The Sicilian, he should’ve just killed me, regardless of who my father is. Not let me sleep in his bedroom. Or wear his clothes . . . Maybe he does see the “clothes thing” as some weird mind game? A punishment or something? He almost admitted as much. Right?

As I step out of the room, there’s another “delivery” waiting for me in front of my door. Several large white bags sporting the same gold logo as before. I grab the satin handles and carry the load to the couch that faces the fireplace, then start opening them one by one.