Beautiful Beast: An Age Gap Forced Proximity Mafia Romance (Mafia Legacy – Perfectly Imperfect Book 1)

Present day

Sicily

I stare at the blond guy behind the wheel. He’s settled back in his seat, an elbow casually draped through the open window while he steers his souped-up ride over roads that see more sheep crossings than vehicle traffic. Meanwhile, dickhead one is flanking me in the back seat, the pissed-off vibes rolling off him in droves, and dickhead number two is obnoxiously gloating after calling shotgun. I can’t believe these bastards dragged me to damn Sicily!

How long is the flight to Italy? Mom and Dad probably already know that something’s happened and are looking for me. God, I hope they find me soon.

“I need your name,” blondie—my kidnappers called him Guido—says.

Yup, they have no idea who I am. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

“And I need you to let me go,” I mumble. “What do you want from me?”

“Me, personally? Nothing. You’ll have to discuss the rest with my brother.”

“And where is said brother?”

He ignores me for a moment while easing the car to a stop. Then, he pivots toward the back and lifts his phone, snapping a shot of my face before I can even protest.

“He should be home in a few hours,” Guido finally responds. His eyes bounce between the two goons with half a brain between them. “Take her to the basement. Give her food and water.”

Vinny exits the car, pulling me out after him. I cry out, trying to shrug him off without much luck. Hank grabs my other arm, and both proceed to tow me toward the entrance of the huge sandstone villa. The only thing I manage to catch before I’m hauled inside is that the house is located on a hillside, overlooking the sea.

The interior screams opulence, but it’s that understated luxury that’s hard to miss. Not gaudy and in-your-face flashy, but homey—comfort etched into every room and amenity we pass. The ceilings are high, crisscrossed with thick wooden beams. The stucco detailing on the walls reminds me of photos from Architectural Digest or other interior design magazines. Sunlight streams through the massive French windows that open to the shimmering waters beyond, bathing the pale wood furniture. My steps falter for a moment, and I can’t help but draw in a deep breath, taking in the view.

“Move!” Vinny barks, tugging me away from the beautiful sight and to the left of the main doors, toward stairs that must lead to the lower level.

I dig my heels into the floor, trying to resist or at least slow the brute down. Pain shoots through my wrists when he yanks on the handcuffs’ chain again, making me cry out as he nearly drags me down the steps to the sturdy-looking wooden door at the bottom.

“Stop whimpering.” He opens the door and pushes me inside the spacious but dim, cool room. A slight earthy scent hangs in the air.

I fall to my knees and manage to brace my palms on the frigid tiled floor, barely avoiding hitting my face on the surface.

“And because you were a bitch—no food or water!”

I scramble to my feet and rush toward the door, but it snaps shut just before I reach it. The panic I’ve been trying to keep at bay pushes its way through my restraint, sweeping through me like a tempest. I grab the knob, finding it locked.

“Let me out!” I bang on the barrier with my fists. “You sleazy motherfuckers! You’re going to pay for this! Let me out!” My hands hurt from the continuous blows on solid wood, and even though I know it’s in vain, I keep doing it.

I’m not certain how long I keep up my assault on that damn basement door. By the time I relent, the scant light coming from the narrow horizontal windows cut high into the walls has changed to a dusky orange. I press my back to the door and let my body slide down to the floor.

Despite being mostly underground, the temperature is relatively comfortable in the room, but my legs are shaking as if I’ve been plunged into the dead of winter. My arms, too. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down, but it doesn’t work. Soon enough, my whole body is racked by tremors like I’m running a fever. My bravado is gone, and all I want to do is curl into a ball and cry.

What the hell do these people want from me? To punish me for hacking into their damn company? I don’t even know which one it is. Why not kill me right away? Why drag me all the way here, across the ocean, just to throw me into some basement? Unless “the brother” wants to kill me himself?

Another shudder passes through me. These are not some regular businessmen, of that I’m certain. Corporate CEOs don’t kidnap people. Only people in my father’s world do. And as far as I know, Sicily is run by Cosa Nostra. Bratva has no beef with any of the factions of the Italian Mafia. Maybe I should have told them who I am, who my father is. Now, I may very well end up dead before I ever get the chance to do so.

I look around, searching for something . . . I’m not sure what. Anything. There are a few empty crates in one corner. An old chair in the other, with dark stains on the weathered wood as well as on the floor directly below. I don’t want to think about what made those stains. Another chair close by, one that’s in slightly better shape.

My focus shifts to the windows. Maybe they’re my way out? That hope is dashed as soon as I spot ornate bars on the outside of the glass. Although there are light fixtures on the ceiling, I don’t see a switch anywhere. Must be on the other side of the door.

I get up to approach a small sink near the entryway and drink directly from the tap. The two assholes gave me water and some crackers on the plane, but that was hours ago. My stomach picks that moment to twist itself into a cramp. When was my last full meal? Lunch, before they snatched me? I’ve been feeling lightheaded for the past hour from the lack of food and wearing myself out. All my energy is depleted, and every muscle aches like the last time I was sick with the flu. It feels as if my body is slowly shutting down, and I’m getting drowsy. But, there’s no way I’m letting myself faint. I push away from the wall and head across the room.

The only other thing in this space is a massive shelf covering an entire wall. Hundreds of wine bottles are stashed on their sides inside their cubbyholes. I’ve been locked in a damn cellar. How rustic, and somehow completely befitting the country-style decor I glimpsed upstairs. Approaching the assortment, I pick up one of the bottles. The black label with silver lettering proclaims it to be a thirty-year-old red wine. Must be expensive shit. Such a shame.

My fingers might be trembling as I wrap a corner of my shirt around the neck of the bottle, but my hold on it is strong. I step to the side and slam the premium vintage against the wall. The last remnants of crimson sunlight fall onto the half-broken vessel left in my hand, reflecting magnificently off crystalline edges. My lips quirk at the corners. Uncle Sergei would be proud. Leaning my shoulder on the wall to support my weight, I shuffle to the farthest corner of the room.

I’m pretty certain these scumbags intend to kill me.

But, I’m not going down without a fight.

Rafael

The wrought iron gate slowly opens, revealing a meandering gravel road through the olive trees. I nod at the guard stationed to the right of the barrier, then nudge my SUV along the pale path lit by my headlights, enjoying the subtle crunch of tiny stones beneath the oversized tires. Guido always nags about gravel damaging the vehicles, insisting we should pave the long lane through the estate. Today’s youth seems to be inclined to upgrade every single thing, even when there’s no actual need for it. I had more than enough asphalt and concrete to last me a lifetime during those fifteen years we lived in the States.

The road gradually widens, transforming into a driveway in front of my house. Two guys from my Chicago division—Vinny and Hank—are standing by the front door, their backs ramrod straight while their eyes follow my car as I park. I wonder how long they’ve been waiting there, doing good imitations of dumb posts. I would have preferred to send one of my top guys to snatch the damn hacker who’s been the source of my annoyance for months, but time and logistics were against me. Since most of our merc ops have focused on Europe in the last few years, the best of my men are scattered across the old continent. Hank and Vinny are on my payroll as bodyguards for the legitimate side—my front company—providing private security. They are capable, but neither is overly bright. I was actually pleasantly surprised that they were able to catch the culprit.

“You have my hacker?” I ask as I get out of the driver’s seat.

“Yes.” Hank nods. “Safe and sound in the wine cellar.”

I take in his charred suit jacket, screaming-red face, and missing eyebrow, then turn to Vinny who’s got a bruise on his chin and an angry scrape under his left eye.

“I see he resisted,” I say as I reach into my jacket to take out my gun.

Hank clasps his hands behind him, fidgeting. “She.”

My hand stills on the gun handle. “What?”

“She resisted. It’s . . . it’s a woman, boss.”

“A woman? Must be a formidable one. Does she breathe fire, as well?” I shake my head and step inside the house, heading toward the stairs leading to the cellar.

The basement door opens with the tiniest screech. Inside, it’s chilly and dark, with only slivers of moonlight and the faint ambient glow from the garden coming through the two narrow windows set high on the opposite wall. For a moment, I don’t think anyone’s here. The space seems empty. I’m about to raise shit over a missing captive when my eyes fall on a petite female figure huddled in the corner. My fire-breathing guest is sitting on the floor with her face pressed to her knees.

I had no idea that my hacker was a woman. If I’d known, I would’ve had her brought to one of the guest rooms upstairs. There’s no reason to deny her comfort while she waits to face me and her eventual demise.

With my fingers hovering over the light switch just outside the room, I stop myself from flicking it on. This woman must be scared. Seeing me would terrify her even more. That would lead to screaming and hysterics, which would transform into crying and pleas for her life. And I’m not in the fucking mood. I just need her to tell me who ordered her to fuck with my business before I quickly and painlessly snap her neck.

Leaving the overhead lighting off, I approach and crouch in front of the girl. With my back to the gaping basement door and the lit-up stairwell beyond, I know my face remains in shadow while the soft glow stretches ahead of me to dimly illuminate the room. My massive frame blocks part of that light, casting its own partial shroud on the tiny heap at my feet.

“Hey.” I reach my hand toward her.

The girl’s head snaps up, and the light from the hallway falls right onto her face. Her very angry, unearthly, beautiful face. For a moment, all I can do is stare at her, my stunned brain cells struggling to process that she’s real. But what strikes me the most is her dark-as-night eyes, glaring at me from beneath impossibly long lashes. I can’t name the expression in them, not with my gray matter turning into a useless mass of jelly, but I’m sure I’ll be picturing those eyes long after her gaze has shifted.

A faint sense of a déjà vu washes over me, as if a long-forgotten memory is clawing its way to the front of my mind. That furious, exasperated look . . . No, I’m a hundred percent certain I’ve never met this woman before.

Too stunned by her beauty, I’m a second too late noticing the broken bottle in her hand. She swipes at me, and I rear back, but not fast enough. Pain explodes in my forearm as a jagged edge shreds through the fabric of my shirt and the skin of my right arm.

“Che cazzo!” I snap and grab her wrists.

The girl cries out, a pain-filled wail. I look down at her handcuffed hands, and rage explodes in my chest. The goddamn stupid cocksuckers didn’t even take the handcuffs off her!

I don’t have a problem killing anyone who dares to fucking cross me—be it a man or a woman—but I draw the line at manhandling defenseless females. Not that this one is missing her stinger. If she left her marks on dumb and dumber upstairs, and with my own blood dripping down my arm as evidence, this spitfire is the furthest thing from helpless. I bet she’s getting ready to deliver her next strike.

Carefully, I take the chunk of the shattered bottle she’s still clutching, then focus on her face again. Her eyelids are half-closed, and her breathing seems shallow.

“Have you eaten?”

“Fuck you,” she mumbles, her voice barely audible.

I take her chin between my fingers and tilt her head up. “I asked you a question. Have. You. Eaten?”

It seems to take some effort, but the girl’s unfocused eyes slowly lift. “Crackers. When I woke up on the plane,” she rasps.

Jesus. That was hours ago and on the back end of a ten-hour flight.

A small whimper leaves her lips, and with her next breath, her head lolls to the side.

Utter stillness.

“Hey.” I lightly tap my fingers on her dirt-smeared cheek, but her body just sags against the wall.

Goddamned shit.

Hank and Vinny likely used drugs to knock her out while en route, and, without any food, she’s obviously still experiencing the aftereffects. Carefully, I slip my head into the loop created by her handcuffed hands, then slide my palms under her thighs. Rising, I hold the unconscious girl in my arms while she unknowingly clings to me like a cuddling koala.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable, vespetta.”

I can feel the girl’s chest rising and falling as I carry her up the stairs to the ground floor. She weighs almost nothing. Her head rolls left and right on my shoulder, then lists to the side. I quickly raise my hand and cup her cheek, keeping her head in place, with her nose snuggled into the crook of my neck. Her breaths are slow, fanning the skin on the underside of my chin. The warm exhales are so soft, like a flutter of butterfly wings.

“Boss?” Vinny hurries over when I round the corner.

“Uncuff her,” I say through gritted teeth. “Gently.”

He takes the key from his pocket and rushes around me to work on the cuffs. The girl tenses, and I barely suppress the urge to take out my gun and shoot the idiot in the head right there.

“Hush, it’s okay,” I whisper into the girl’s ear, then look at my men. “Go outside and wait for me by the garage. Both of you. Now.”

The woman in my arms doesn’t even stir as I climb the stairs to the upper level. If it wasn’t for her kitten-like breaths, I’d think she was dead. How could someone so tiny and fragile-looking fight off two grown men, dealing out obvious damage? There can’t be more than five feet to her, and I bet she weighs less than a hundred pounds, soaking wet. No doubt they underestimated her. I won’t. She might be the size of a nymph, but looks can often be deceiving.

I use my elbow to push open the white door on the right side of the hallway, then bring the girl inside. It’s not until I’m facing the big four-poster bed by the window that I realize where I am. My bedroom. I guess the fatigue thoroughly scrambled my brain, because I intended to take her to the guest room across the way. Now that I’m here, though . . . I can’t picture her anywhere else.

More high jinks from my tired gray matter is my guess.

No one other than me has ever slept in that bed. Ever. Not even my hookups. I’ve always fucked either in my office or taken them to a suite at one of my hotels. Having this woman here is uncanny.

The moment her cheek touches my pillow, she lets out a purr-like sigh and curls into a fetal position. I tilt my head to the side, observing my little hacker. Asleep. In my bed. Tangled strands of jet-black hair partially cover her sweet face, so I reach and push them aside, and then just stare. Like some hypnotized fool.

She’s young, in her early twenties most likely. Her slight build, however, makes her appear even younger. The bedside lamp casts soft light on her delicate frame, and it only heightens her perfect features. Even with dirt on her face and messy hair, she’s so damn beautiful—almost mythic. I wish I could see her eyes again. They were mesmerizing.

My gaze wanders over her sleeping form, stopping on her wrists. Immediately, rage reignites within me.

Fast, painless death is what I had in mind for her up until the moment she swiped that broken bottle at me in the cellar. Hurt, scared, and barely conscious, but she still fought back. Still lashed out, even when her captors could squash her with one blow.

I thought I’d seen it all during my years as an active member of my assassination crew. Every target tries to fight back. Initially, at least. But then, there’s a switch to crying. Or begging. Some offer money to let them go. To let them live. Men, twice the size of this slip-of-a-girl, would piss themselves in fear. Eventually, they all reach that point—that one moment common to them all. The moment they realize there’s no way out. That’s when the fight leaves them. Their will gives out. The weeping and pleading continue, of course, but they stop fighting back.

But, not her. She tried to kill me, even though she must have known she didn’t stand a chance. Her weapon was too inadequate to cause any serious damage. Maybe if she actually managed to hit my carotid artery by some crazy luck. Still, when she met my gaze, just before she swiped that smashed bottle at me, there was so much courage and determination in her pretty yet delirious dark eyes.

I pull the blanket over the girl, then head into my bathroom to get some gauze and antibiotic ointment for her wounds. Her wrists are raw and screaming-red, and there’s dried blood where her epidermis broke. I put a hefty amount of the cream on her skin, then secure a thin layer of dressing around her slim carpal joints. This woman may have been a major source of my agitation recently, but for some reason, I can’t stand the idea of her enduring even a smidgen of pain.

With one more look at my beautiful and gutsy hacker, I leave the room.

Hank and Vinny are hanging out near Guido’s car where it’s parked out in front of the garage. I approach and level a heavy look at them both. “Did you enjoy manhandling a woman that’s a third of your size?”

“She torched my face, boss,” Hank replies, avoiding my gaze. “The fucking bitch is crazy. She must have grabbed a can of deodorant from the jet’s bathroom, and then she turned it into a goddamned flamethrower when all I did was offer her the smoke she asked for. Then, she almost stabbed Vinny’s eye out with a toothbrush. She’s seriously nuts. When we first nabbed her, she hit him with her backpack, swinging it like she was batting at Wrigley Field, for fuck’s sake.”

“Who put the handcuffs on her? Her wrists are scraped raw.”

“Um, I did.” Vinny fidgets from foot to foot. “She wouldn’t cooperate. It was easier to drag her around with those on.”

Drag her. I nod, then reach inside my jacket and pull out my gun. “Do you remember your training and the lesson on manners?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, his eyes frantic and focused on the silencer I’m screwing into place. “But . . . you were going to kill her. Why does it matter if—”

He never finishes his bullshit excuse because I press the gun to his forehead and pull the trigger. Blood splashes onto my brother’s car, tainting the windows and the sleek body lines of his prized possession. Hank gapes at me from next to his dead buddy, face draining of color as the reality of his worthless future settles in. There’s blood and brain matter on his cheek and in his hair.

“Give me your hand,” I order.

“Boss, I . . .”

I shove the gun to the bridge of his nose. “Now.”

Slowly, he extends his left hand toward me—palm up—his fingers shaking. Before he has a chance to start pleading his case, I’ve got the barrel butted up to his middle finger and I’m squeezing the trigger. An agonized howl explodes into the night.

“Touch her again, and it’ll be your skull next,” I bark and head back inside, still fuming. I don’t understand why, but I can’t get the sight of the girl’s wounded wrists out of my mind.

Guido’s apartment is on the ground floor, in the east wing of the estate. I find my brother sprawled on his couch, watching TV.

“Had a look at your hacker?” he asks, still focused on his movie. “Did you kill her already?”

I round the couch, grab the front of his shirt, and yank him up. Then, I punch him in the face with my free hand.

“Fuck, Raff!” He presses his hands over his bloody schnoz. “What the hell was that for?”

“Next time you see a woman being mistreated and do nothing, I’ll do much more than break your nose.”

“I didn’t think you’d care. You wanted the hacker dead.”

“I didn’t know that he, is in fact, a she!”

“It never mattered before.”

He’s right. It never did. Man, woman, a damn unicorn sprouting rainbows and sparkles out of its ass—it never mattered. You mess with my business, I destroy you. So why the fuck am I standing here, after knocking my brother’s mug, thinking about the woman in my room upstairs, and wondering if I should head up and toss another blanket over her to ward off the chill?

“If you want, I’ll off her,” he adds.

“You will not touch her,” I growl and hit him again.

Guido stumbles backward, falling onto the couch. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he mumbles into the cushion he’s pressing to his face. “And you’re bleeding on my rug. What the hell happened?”

Yes. What the fuck is wrong with me? I grab a discarded T-shirt from the back of the recliner, then take a seat and start wrapping the garment around my forearm. “The girl cut me with a broken wine bottle.”

Guido blinks at me, confusion written all over his face. “Is she a trained agent or something?”

“I don’t think so. She just caught me off guard.”

“Rafael De Santi. Caught off guard.”

“Yes.” I nod as I secure the makeshift bandage on my arm. “Do we know her name? She fainted, so I didn’t get the chance to ask.”

“No. But I took a picture of her. I’m running it through facial recognition and cross-referencing Illinois DMV records and some local government databases in Chicago. I’ll see if we have a match.”

Guido rises off the couch and heads toward his desk that’s shoved to the side and overflowing with crap. “And it looks like we have a match. She’s— oh, shit.”

“What is it?”

He glances at me over the screen of his laptop, a slightly frantic look in his eyes. “Vasilisa Romanovna Petrova. She’s Roman Petrov’s daughter.” He swallows, hard. “We kidnapped the Russian Bratva’s princess.”

“You don’t say.” I lean back and throw my arm over the back of the recliner. “Small world.”

“We have to take her back. Right the fuck now! I’m calling the pilot to get the plane prepped.”

Yes, sending her home would be the wisest course of action. It’s been close to twenty-four hours since Hank and Vinny grabbed her off the street. Knowing Petrov, he’s already gathered his men and is ready to annihilate whoever is responsible for his daughter’s disappearance.

My mind drifts to the woman I left sleeping in my bed. “Put down your phone.”

“What?”

“Now, Guido.”

“Fucking with Bratva is a very bad idea. And I’m not talking about kissing potential future jobs with them goodbye. Even if it was a mistake, Petrov can’t be reasoned with if it affects any of his people, never mind family members. She’s flying back to Chicago tonight.”

“I’m not sending her back. Not yet, anyway.”

Guido lowers his cell while he stares at me in disbelief. “Are you out of your fucking mind? What are you going to do with her?”

“I haven’t decided, yet.”