Beautiful Beast (Perfectly Imperfect: Mafia Legacy #1)

“Your merchandise is beautiful, but I don’t need anything else at the moment.”

“But . . . but Mr. De Santi mentioned you need everything. Twenty-plus pairs of pants. Tops to match. Shoes that complement each combination. Dresses. A few cardigans, perhaps.” His tone escalates from overly concerned to outright panicky. “How can I go out there and tell him that aside from these select things, you were not able to find anything you liked?”

“Really, I don’t need anything else but these.”

“Please, miss . . .” Albini pleads, twisting his fingers in front of him. “Mr. De Santi will be very displeased with me. Can I show you our selection of evening gowns, at least?”

I shake my head and walk out of the room, patting the old man’s arm as I pass him. “I’ll be right back.”

The outer area of the boutique is huge, filled with white wooden shelving and racks that match the antique front counter displaying the best of the haute couture. Off to the side is an elegant sitting area with a big leather couch. I assume this is where husbands, boyfriends, or lovers typically wait while their better halves shop. It appears that kidnappers are welcome here, too, since that’s where I find Rafael. He’s leaning against the cushions with his arms spread across the back of the sofa and one ankle braced on the opposite knee.

“Is something wrong, vespetta?”

My eyes turn into narrow slits. Damn him. Why couldn’t he have picked a cliché moniker like “beautiful” or “angel”? I hate those. “Mr. Albini is in there nearly peeing his pants because, evidently, I failed to pick up all the items on your shopping list. He’s so terrified, I’m worried he’s going to have a heart attack.”

“He’s just afraid I’ll kill him if he doesn’t get you what you need.”

I roll my eyes.

“I want you to be comfortable during your stay here, Miss Petrova. If my intent is derailed because of Albini’s inability to provide acceptable service, I’m going to punish him. Therefore”—he nods in the general direction of the clothing racks—“you better resume choosing things you like. Something other than shapeless jeans and baggy tops, if at all possible.”

“I like jeans and baggy tops.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . I . . . I just like them,” I say and look away.

I detest shapeless jeans and baggy tops.

Pretty dresses. Tight tops in bright colors. Skinny jeans paired with silk blouses and sky-high heels. That’s what I love to wear. It makes me happy. The heels especially because I feel less like Thumbelina from the fairytale Mom liked to read to me when I was a kid. Too bad that’s exactly what makes people see me as an empty-headed bimbo every time I doll up.

“You don’t want Albini to end up in the emergency room on such a lovely day, do you?”

“Fine.” I cock my hip and point a finger at him. “But just so you know—buying me a shitload of expensive clothes won’t make me like you any better.”

A small smile tugs on Rafael’s lips as he props his chin on his palm and watches me with amusement dancing in his eyes. “You have no idea how astonishing I find that little fact.”

Ugh. I pivot and storm off toward the rack with blouses while Raphael’s deep laugh chases me. As I’m browsing the nearest selections, out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. Albini and the three sales ladies peeking around the slightly opened dressing room door, their heads stacked in a row like tilted face emojis.

It looks like my little hacker is trying to get back at me for making her buy more clothes . . . by picking up everything at the store that’s available in her size.

I fold my hands behind my head and take in the sea of white bags spanning the floor around the front counter. There must be at least fifty. She’s made Albini one happy camper, that’s for sure. I don’t recall ever seeing him as excited as he is at this moment while ringing in the twenty-third pair of heels.

“I think that’s the last one, Signor De Santi,” he says as one of the saleswomen places the box in a bag.

“Not yet.” I rise from the couch and walk up to Vasilisa, who looks like a deflated balloon amid the whiteout of her purchases. When she started piling items on the counter over two hours ago, she was looking very smug. She threw me a look that said You asked for it, beaming a rascally smile at me. I bet she expected me to stop her. When I did nothing to curtail her efforts, she kept bringing more and more things to the front, and her face slowly shifted from that mischievous grin to an exasperated countenance. Now she just looks tired. No wonder, after nearly three hours of trying on clothes and shoes.

“I don’t think they have anything else in my size,” she grumbles.

“You forgot a dress.”

“I don’t need one.”

My eyes sweep the store, halting at the display of elegant gowns. The centerpiece is a floor-length gold dress. The square neckline exposes the shoulders and instantly brings to mind timeless beauty and elegance. The sheer tight-fitting bodice and long sleeves are embroidered lace, featuring an intricate floral design, but the pleated skirt is all flowy solid-colored silk. And, along the front on the right side, a full-length slit that reaches the upper thigh. The dress is sophisticated and decadent at the same time. It would look beautiful on any woman. On this one in particular—it would look sexy as fuck.

So would a pair of black stilettos with a wide ankle strap adorned with a gold clasp. The shoes are sitting on the small nearby stand, but I can already see them on the shapely legs of my unwilling houseguest.

“Albini,” I say and nod toward the gown. “Shoes, as well.”