Beautiful Beast (Perfectly Imperfect: Mafia Legacy #1)

Rafael’s phone starts to ring again. The touch on my lips disappears as he picks up the device off the desk and presses it to his ear.

“Guido? Cosa è successo?”

As soon as Guido starts talking on the other end of the line, Rafael leaps out of the chair. With me still seated on his lap, and him maintaining a viselike hold around my waist, I end up dangling half a foot above the floor, my back plastered to his chest.

“Rafael!” I tug on his forearm. “Do you mind?”

The hold around my middle loosens just a tiny bit. Just enough to let me slowly slide down his body, allowing me to feel the brush of every inch of that rock-hard front against me.

“Merda. Venti minuti,” he barks into the phone.

The hand still on my hip disappears and, the next moment, Rafael is heading across the room, toward the door that leads to the bedroom. He’s still speaking in rapid Italian, and even though I don’t have the faintest idea what he’s saying, the clipped tone of his voice makes it clear that something is wrong. In a few long strides, he cuts the call and steps inside “my” room.

I dash after him, my heels clicking on the hardwood floor. With no hoodies or baggy pants available at Albini’s, my new wardrobe consists of skinny jeans, shorts, and pretty blouses. I did get some canvas sneakers, but they’re still boxed and pushed under the bed because I’ve been wearing heels most of the time.

I can’t remember the last time I dressed so prettily and didn’t feel bad as a result. There’s no difference in Rafael’s behavior toward me, either—he treats me exactly the same as he did while I walked around in his tent-size shirts. It’s such a fucking relief. Yet, at the same time, I’ve been feeling slightly frustrated. Today, I put on a blouse with a particularly low neckline, and he hasn’t glanced at my breasts even once. Not that I want him to.

Well, maybe a little.

Ugh.

This man confuses all my senses, and I don’t even know what I want anymore.

I catch up with Rafael as he’s stepping into the walk-in closet. Momentarily confused about his intentions, I almost miss as he presses his thumb to the small wall-mounted screen behind the row of his suits. A barely audible click sounds and the back wall of the closet begins to slide to the side. The next instant, Rafael disappears into a previously hidden room.

Trying to be as silent as I can, I tiptoe through the gap where Rafael pushed the suit jackets apart and find myself in a room that’s about half the size of the walk-in closet. A counter runs along the entirety of the opposite wall, the space below it is filled with dozens of drawers. Above, nearly all the way to the ceiling, are cubbies, shelves, and brackets, but it’s not clothes they hold. It’s weapons. Knives. Dozens of various caliber handguns. Long-range rifles. In one of the corners, utility crates are stacked nearly waist-high, and more weapons are slotted into gun racks mounted on both sides of the room.

The last time I saw so many weapons in one place, was when Uncle Sergei showed me his armory (well, one of them, at least). I made the mistake of telling Dad and ended up grounded for a week. Uncle Sergei sported a busted lip for days afterward. If Dad ever finds out that my uncle taught me how to use most of the weapons in that armory (the other one contains explosives and assault weapons, and Uncle Sergei has never allowed me to see those, unfortunately), he would totally go apeshit.

Rafael opens one of the top drawers below the counter and takes out a few small boxes, setting them on the countertop in front of him. Ammunition. He removes his black suit jacket and throws it onto the counter, too, revealing the dark-gray dress shirt he has on underneath. Reaching into another drawer, he selects a shoulder harness and puts it on, adjusting the straps. After grabbing two handguns off the shelf before him, he checks their ammo, then slots the pistols and the extra magazines into their holsters.

“Rafael? What’s going on?”

“This is turning out to be an eventful evening. I have to go resolve a misunderstanding at the port.” He approaches the side wall and takes down one of the mounted rifles, then pulls out a box with ammunition from another nearby drawer.

“You usually solve misunderstandings with a Remington?” I choke out as panic builds in my chest.

Rafael’s head snaps up, his gaze collides with mine while a corner of his lips quirks upward. “Is that worry I hear in your voice, Miss Petrova?”

My body goes rigid. “Nope. I think you mistook it for excitement.”

A strange look settles on his face, and with his eyes never leaving mine, Rafael takes a step toward me. I take one back. He keeps advancing, I keep retreating. Until I’m in the walk-in closet again, and my back is pressed against the rack of his shirts. Rafael stops in front of me and leans over until our faces align.

“I’ve never met a woman who can identify a particular make of tactical rifle,” he says, astonishment glowing in his eyes.

I draw in a breath, and my olfactory receptors swell with his scent. Fresh. Seductive. My gaze lowers to his lips. Two thick scars bisect the lower one, making it misshapen, before continuing down his chin. How would it feel to have those lips on mine? What would they taste like? I raise a hand, pressing my palm to his chest. Hopefully, that will be enough to stop me from leaning in further and trying to find out for myself.

Rafael reaches out and brushes his knuckles down my cheek. “You can keep the laptop to finish what you started, but the activity on that device is monitored. If you get inspired to contact someone online or share things you know you shouldn’t, please remember that one word from me, and your family will lose their lives in minutes.”

And just like that, my worry for him transforms into rage.

I push him away and I scurry out of the walk-in and back to the office to get the fucking laptop. I can’t wait to be done with this crap so I can return home. I thought this “job” would last only a few days, but I’ve been here almost three weeks.

We both enter the bedroom at the same time. I’m heading toward the bed with the laptop under my arm, while Rafael makes a beeline from the walk-in to the door. As we pass each other, our hands brush ever so slightly.

The touch lasts less than a heartbeat, but it feels like the back of my hand is singed. I climb into the huge bed and, folding my legs under my ass, open the laptop in front of me.

“Sleep well, vespetta.” His husky voice comes from the entryway.