Beautiful Beast (Perfectly Imperfect: Mafia Legacy #1)

I take the hand he offers me and step up into the SUV. “Why not?”

“My house, my rules.”

The door latches shut with a hollow thud.

Rafael’s steps are unhurried as he rounds the front of the massive vehicle and takes a seat behind the wheel. He reaches for the aviator sunglasses on the dashboard and puts them on.

“I hope breakfast today was to your liking.”

“Yup. Homemade pizza is every prisoner’s wet dream.”

“Good. If you want something in particular to eat, just tell Irma and she’ll prepare it.”

“You mean, I can choose?” I shift, leaning my back on the side window and drawing my legs up and under me on the seat cushion, mere inches from the gearshift. Despite my racing heart, I’m hoping the position makes it seem like I’m not a ball of twisted nerves. It also allows me a direct view of his profile.

“That’s how personal chefs usually work. You tell them what you want. They make it happen.”

“Maybe in your household.” I shrug. “At home, we usually have to pick from a selection of marginally burned, charred, and completely inedible. Our cook is actually a heavy machinery mechanic with zero finesse when it comes to kitchen appliances.”

“You can fire him.”

“Fire him? Igor taught me to tie my shoelaces and let me and Yulia braid satin ribbons into his beard when we were kids. He’s practically a family member.”

Rafael turns onto a wider road that meanders between the hill on the left and an olive orchard on the right. When he shifts the gear stick, his knuckles lightly brush my knee, sending a shockwave of tingles through my whole body. My mind instantly wanders to last night, to him carrying me from the garden. I might have been drunk, but I remember every detail of how it felt to be held by him. The low thrumming in every fiber of my being, from the top of my head to the ends of my toes. The awareness of each point of contact between our bodies. The feeling of wanting to be nowhere else but in his arms.

Why am I so attracted to this man? I shouldn’t be, all things considered. I should despise him, or, at least, be wary of his games.

Maybe it’s because he’s never been patronizing toward me. He actually listens to what I say and doesn’t just nod like a dummy while ogling me, hoping that pretending to listen will make it easier to drag me into his bed. Or maybe it’s because, with him, I don’t need to pretend to be something I’m not.

My entire life I’ve been surrounded by hard, dangerous men. They’re who I’m used to, and I can’t see myself making a connection with some nice, unassuming guy. I’ve tried. I’ve truly tried. None of the guys I ever dated made me feel an ounce of the thrill I do simply sitting in the same car as enigmatic Rafael De Santi.

“Can’t you find some other role for him, then?” he asks.

“Who?” I blink in confusion. What were we talking about?

“Your cook-mechanic.”

“Oh, yeah. Um . . . Igor really likes to cook. And bake, unfortunately,” I mumble. “It’s always Igor and my mom who make birthday cakes. You don’t want to know how those end up.”

“Why?”

“Because Igor is the one giving instructions. And my mom prepares the thing.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Igor doesn’t speak English. And my mom knows exactly ten words in Russian.”

“What a peculiar family.” He glances my way, his mouth arched in a teasing smirk which does funny things to my lady parts.

When he focuses back on the road, I steal a look at his left hand gripping the top of the wheel. Usually, I don’t like it when men wear jewelry—it makes them seem overstated somehow. Rafael has three rings—white gold, or maybe platinum. Two on his forefinger and one on his thumb. There are also several chain-link bracelets around his wrist. They shouldn’t look good paired with his stylish attire, but just like that hoop in his ear, they actually work for him.

The back of that hand, just like his face, is heavily scarred. I glance down at his right hand resting on the gearshift. More rings. Another bracelet, open-cuff this time, on this wrist. And even worse scarring than on his left hand. Maybe it wasn’t a car accident. Did he get these marks on one of his “jobs”? A failed assassination attempt that saw him captured and . . . tortured?

“What about your family?” I look up and over, focusing on the landscape beyond the windshield. “Do they know what you do for a living?”

“Our father was killed when Guido was just a baby. And since our mother died, it’s just been Guido and me. Been that way for about twenty-five years now.”

I furrow my forehead. I thought his brother was in his late twenties. “How old is Guido?”