Beautiful Beast (Perfectly Imperfect: Mafia Legacy #1)

The incessant ringing of a phone finally penetrates my daze. I hadn’t realized how quiet everything was around us until now. Rafael’s phone keeps going off in his pocket, but he ignores it completely, continuing to ravage me with his mouth.

The smell of him, the same scent that is now mine, is making me crazy. I tug his lower lip with my teeth, suck on it. A low growl leaves his throat, and then he bites me. Nips on my tingling lips. My fingers tunnel through his hair, pulling, messing it up. He always keeps it slicked perfectly back. Vehemently controls everything about him. Not anymore.

It’s glorious.

It’s wild.

He’s unrestrained.

“Signor De Santi.” An unknown male voice breaks through the trance that surrounds me.

Rafael’s lips go still, then slowly release mine, letting me draw the first breath in what feels like hours. Despite my grip on his strands, he tilts his head and glares at the waiter. The man, standing mere feet away, flinches and seems to shrink in stature, but holds up a phone to Rafael.

“Potrei ucciderti per questo,” Rafael barks at the little dude who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“È Guido, Signor De Santi,” the poor guy stutters. “Dice che è urgente.”

“I’m sorry, vespetta. I have to take this,” Rafael says as he gently lowers me to the ground, then snatches the phone from the offering hand and starts yelling at the caller.

During his menacing tirade—I can tell by the tone of his voice—that lasts for at least two minutes, Rafael keeps his free arm wrapped around my waist, basically crushing me to his front. I put my palms on his chest, feeling the vibrations deep within him, while trying to gather my senses.

Rafael De Santi kissed me.

And I kissed him back.

My God, I’ve lost my fucking mind.

With one last bark, Rafael throws the phone onto the table, and his hand slides to the small of my back. Giving the waiter another glaring look, he quickly ushers me toward the exit.

I don’t say a word as Rafael helps me inside the car, completely shaken by that kiss. By my reaction to it, really. I’m both excited and appalled. My heart still hasn’t stopped its mile-a-minute race by the time he gets behind the wheel.

“So . . . trouble in hitmen paradise?” I ask as casually as I can muster. Maybe we can pretend that earth-shattering kiss never happened.

Rafael cocks an eyebrow at me, then starts the car. “No. It’s something . . . let’s say it’s personal.”

“Will that personal matter require a Remington, as well?”

“Maybe. Calogero Fazzini’s men rarely learn their lesson without it.”

My eyes snap to him. “The don of Sicilian Mafia?”

“Yes.” He nods. “And also, my godfather.”

I blink in confusion. “But you said you’re not a member of Cosa Nostra.”

“I was never initiated into the Family. When I was fourteen, I fled to the States with Guido.”

“Why?”

“Because my mother broke the omertà.”

I suck in a breath. Omertà is Cosa Nostra’s code of silence. The basic principle is that one must keep their lips sealed, especially when dealing with legal authorities or outsiders. It’s an extreme form of loyalty—a code of honor and conduct—that places importance on solidarity against government involvement, even if upholding its tenets includes one’s mortal enemy or a personal vendetta. Within the Mafia, breaking the omertà is punishable by death.

“Cosa Nostra killed your mother?”

“The previous don, Mancuso, did it himself.”

A shudder runs down my spine. “Why did you come back to Sicily?”