Beautiful Beast (Perfectly Imperfect: Mafia Legacy #1)

A beautiful white cardigan with oversized mother-of-pearl buttons is in the first bag, neatly folded and wrapped with a gold ribbon tied into a bow. I try it on and glide my palms over the soft material. I have a lot of nice things at home, but I don’t think I’ve ever touched something so downy. This must be cashmere or something similar. Hardly anyone ever gets me the correct size when they buy me clothes, and typically everything is at least one or two sizes too big. But this . . . this is a perfect fit.

The next bag has a pack of socks (one hundred percent organic cotton, based on the label), as well as fluffy fur-topped open-toe slippers. I try them on, and my eyebrows hit my hairline. I guess being a hitman requires an unprecedented ability to make precise visual assessments, because the pretty slippers are also the perfect size.

At the bottom of the same bag, I find a black silk nightgown with a plunging neckline. I bite my lower lip as I take out the sexy nightie. The fabric seems to glide like water over my hands. Did Rafael order someone to purchase this for me, or did he do it himself? Something tells me he picked this one out on his own. Was he imagining how I would look in it? And all those lacy panties and bras? Maybe I should put the silky thing on tonight before heading to resume my work in his office, just to see if he’d still be so indifferent.

Whoa. What?

I immediately force that outrageous thought out of my mind and stuff the nightgown back into the bag. No, I am not getting excited by the mere idea of the most dangerous man in this part of the world fantasizing about me wearing this revealing little thing.

The last bag has a hairbrush, a few other toiletries, and two cans of deodorant. A very familiar-looking deodorant. I take them out. The aerosol cans are the same exact product and scent as I found in the bathroom. I snort and look at the bottom of the bag. There’s a rectangular red velvet box with a pearly-looking white card attached to it.

I apologize for being such a shitty host.

The color should go well with my shirts.

R.

I take out the velvety box and open the lid. It makes a tiny creak. Inside, a gorgeous gold necklace is nestled on a satin cushion. A multitude of pale-gray diamonds line the entire length of it. With my mouth hanging open, I carefully lift the necklace from its cradle, noticing how the sunlight bursts off the gleaming gems. If these are the real deal, this must have cost a fortune. Gray diamonds are incredibly rare and hard to obtain. My mom has a ring with one. Dad had to tell her the stone was fake because she wouldn’t actually wear it otherwise.

This pretty thing must be the most beautiful and extravagant piece of jewelry I’ve ever held in my hands. Too bad I don’t accept presents in lieu of apologies. So I put the gorgeous necklace back into its box, set it aside, and head downstairs.

The mansion is vacant, as usual, with only the smell of crisp sea air filling the space. But as I cross the entry hall, a new, sweet aroma drifts in from the terrace and invades my nostrils.

Decadent fresh pastries.

I step outside and can only stare.

The patio table has been relocated to the middle of the terrace and is covered in a white tablecloth. Its surface is overflowing with platters featuring a selection of tasty-looking baked goods. Croissants. Tarts with a multitude of colorful fillings. Then, there are three-tiered stands laden with all kinds of fruit and berries. And jugs of freshly squeezed juice of several varieties.

There’s enough food here to feed an army.

In the middle of the table, leaning against the strawberry custard is a yellow sticky note.

My heart rate ratchets up as I bring it closer, gaping at a drawing. It’s hardly a lifelike masterpiece and is done in plain blue pen ink, but I’m certain it’s me, reclined in the office chair, pencil clenched in the frowny-looking mouth. Rought lines around the face probably represent the stray strands of hair, while the rest is depicted as a glob on top of the head. There’s another bold curve with a wider tip that I’m guessing is supposed to be a man’s tie, twisted around the mass of tresses.

My eyes flit over all the details once more, then I look at a note scribed in strong male handwriting under the sketch.

I want some real food for breakfast.

A small giggle escapes me while warmth surges inside my chest.

Rafael De Santi. The man whose name alone makes people tremble in fear, left me a doodle on a sticky note. I slip the paper into my pocket and look around the terrace, but there isn’t anyone else here. Sighing, I pull up a seat at the table and pick up a slice of tart from the closest platter. For the briefest moment, I hoped Rafael would be joining me for this feast.

My hand stills on a juice jug. I’m attracted to him. Attracted to a man who threatened to kill my family. Who is keeping me a prisoner. And I have no idea what he even looks like.

Peachy.

After I’m done with breakfast, I carry my plate and glass to the kitchen. The jumpy maid is there, putting the groceries away into the fridge, and the moment she notices me, she shrieks.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” I mumble, nodding at the plate in my hands. “I just brought this back.”

The girl blinks in confusion, then rushes toward me and basically snatches the plate and glass from my hands and loads them into the dishwasher.

“Um . . . I could have done that. Okay, I’ll go bring the—”

The maid dashes past me right out of the kitchen. I glance at her retreating back, seeing her scurry onto the terrace, where she starts collecting the breakfast leftovers.

Ooookay. I have no idea what I did, but the woman seems to be terrified of me for some reason. Deciding not to stress her further, I leave the kitchen through the side door that leads to the garden.