Beautiful Beast (Perfectly Imperfect: Mafia Legacy #1)

“Not funny!” I grumble.

“Sorry, but yes. Yes, it is. He just wanted to be your knight in shining armor.”

I snort. “We were at the park when it happened. I was still gaping at Oliver fumbling with my phone when a dog got loose off his leash and ran right toward us, barking. My knight in shitty armor squeaked like a four-year-old girl and hightailed it out of there without even looking over his shoulder to check on me.”

“What a bastard! And the dog?”

“He just wanted to play. Licked my hands and face, then ran off.” I shake my head and spin a full circle on my gaming chair. “Dad mentioned wanting a normal guy for me. Some accountant, he said. Well, probably when I turn fifty, but . . . I don’t think I can make it work with any normal guy, Yulia.”

“Why not?”

I arch an eyebrow at my baby sister. “Because a normal guy would piss himself the moment he meets our family. Can you imagine an accountant lounging in our living room and BS-ing with Dad, Alexei, and Uncle Sergei?”

“I think Uncle Sergei is awesome. He wouldn’t do anything to your accountant.”

“He brought a grenade launcher to dinner last week.”

“Well, there’s that.” She shrugs. “Maybe you should try dating someone from Bratva. Whoever it is, he’ll know what he’s getting into.”

“Yeah, sure. How long do you think the poor guy would live after Dad finds out we’re going out?”

“A week?”

“Forty-eight hours, tops. Dad would never let either of us date one of his men. Or anyone from our social circle.”

I understand our father’s need to keep his daughters away from the seedy part of Roman Petrov’s world—don’t get me started on the patriarchial shit that my younger brother never even has to think about—but the thing Dad doesn’t fully get is that we’re already a part of it. Around-the-clock armed security. Wounded, bleeding men brought into our house to be patched up right on our kitchen island. Constant vigilance against random skirmishes with other criminal organizations. Bodyguards no further than an arm’s length away until a potential threat is resolved. Business meetings and even family gatherings often ending with guns drawn. My sister and I were both born into this madness. That’s our “normal.” Anything else will never feel remotely as such.

“Do you think Dad will make me marry an accountant, as well?” Yulia chirps from the bed.

“Nah. He’ll probably find you a dentist. Or a museum curator.” I grin, looking at her and picturing a dude with glasses and a bow tie coming to pick her up for their date. “Dad would never let the baby of the family go anywhere near a big bad accountant. Those guys can get involved in frauds.”

“Yeah.” She chews her thumbnail. “Um . . . I’m going to ask Dad to let me move out before the next semester.”

I gape at my sister. “Why?”

“I’m not like you, Vasya. All this commotion, people constantly coming and going, the fucking noise all the time . . . I don’t think I can live in this nuthouse anymore.”

“I doubt he’d let you.”

“Why not? There haven’t been any skirmishes with other Families recently. Everybody’s just been minding their own business.”

“Yes, but . . .” I stare at her. In Russian families, it’s common for kids to keep living at home until they finish college and get a job. Especially in families like ours—where extra security is often necessary. “But, it’s not that bad here.”

The slamming of doors somewhere down the hallway reverberates through the house as if purposely contradicting my statement. Yelling and the sound of running feet mix with the droning of the lawn mower drifting through the open window. Male laughter and good-natured Russian insults clamor for attention in the backyard—Alexei and our cousin Sasha are competing in knife-throwing again. I wonder which one of them will end up getting stitched up in the kitchen today. The stench of smoke seems to be dissipating, but it’s still hanging in the air. Mom is going to lose it if it settles into her new drapes. High-pitched female voices are ringing somewhere inside the mansion, spewing Russian curses back and forth. Dad’s office is just below my room, and I can hear him roaring at someone over the phone. Probably Uncle Sergei; he’s the only one who can make my dad lose his shit in under a minute.

Just another regular day in the Petrov household.

“I stand corrected. Our home is the oasis of peace and tranquility.” Yulia laughs from her spot on the bed. “So, are you really going to cease your cyber adventures?”

“Yeah,” I mumble and bite my lower lip. I should have sent more moola to that kids’ choir while I had the chance.

When I first started hacking my way into random businesses, I quickly found that most of their digital safeguards were a joke. To me, corporate firewalls didn’t present any challenge whatsoever. So, I did some digging and picked the top ten private security companies. I’ve been working solely with their systems ever since, creating back doors into their networks, just like Grandpa Felix showed me. It’s not about espionage or financial fraud, simply a question of flexing my computing muscles and breaching the most stringent virtual environments on the planet. I’d get in, then retreat, erasing every trace I’d ever been there. Except for small things. I can’t seem to overcome a stupid need to leave behind a tiny clue. A changed code to the service elevator. Reformatted bullet points on the website from basic dots to little stars. Increasing the paychecks of the lowest-paid employees by a dollar. Or, in the case of the big-ass security conglomerate with offices around the globe, manipulating their accounting systems to send small donations to obscure charities and underprivileged places.

Maybe I could hit the “big brawny beast” one last time. A goodbye kiss to my hacking career.

Yes. I’ll wait a couple of weeks, just in case. If Dad doesn’t return my laptop by then, I’ll find another dive internet café and do it from there.

It’ll be less than thirty minutes of work, now that I know their system like the back of my hand.