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

Crickets again. Their song drifts through the open window, filling the room with a melody I found comforting in previous days, but now, it feels ominous somehow.

I fasten the final button on an enormous white dress shirt and glance at my ghostly reflection in the bathroom mirror. My lack of sleep is evident in the shadows under my eyes. I still haven’t been able to wrap my mind around the fact that the man keeping me captive is actually The notorious Sicilian.

Bratva is not huge on gossip. Not like Cosa Nostra—those guys are the personification of the fucking rumor mill—but still, word gets around fast, and whether you want to or not, you hear things. Everyone in our circles knows about Rafael De Santi, a.k.a. The Sicilian.

There are several options for eliminating someone in our world. However, if you need it to be done professionally and fast, and if you have a couple of million to spare, you hire The Sicilian’s team. They’re the only ones with a twenty-four-hour turnaround guarantee, regardless of the location or the target. And no wonder. His front company has branches all over the world. What better strategy than to have his men in position and with relative ease of access because they’ve already infiltrated the security of the most prominent members of high society—bodyguards for his potential future marks? Ingenious.

I look behind me, my eyes wandering around the bedroom I’ve been staying in. My gaze glides over the two men’s dress shirts thrown on the back of the couch, then to the right, taking in the charcoal suit jacket folded on the seat of the recliner. It has a ketchup stain on one of the lapels. My doing.

Considering where I ended up, I should have realized this sooner. But, it didn’t even cross my mind that my Rafael is actually Rafael De Santi. From what I heard of The Sicilian, he should’ve just killed me, regardless of who my father is. Not let me sleep in his bedroom. Or wear his clothes . . . Maybe he does see the “clothes thing” as some weird mind game? A punishment or something? He almost admitted as much. Right?

As I step out of the room, there’s another “delivery” waiting for me in front of my door. Several large white bags sporting the same gold logo as before. I grab the satin handles and carry the load to the couch that faces the fireplace, then start opening them one by one.

A beautiful white cardigan with oversized mother-of-pearl buttons is in the first bag, neatly folded and wrapped with a gold ribbon tied into a bow. I try it on and glide my palms over the soft material. I have a lot of nice things at home, but I don’t think I’ve ever touched something so downy. This must be cashmere or something similar. Hardly anyone ever gets me the correct size when they buy me clothes, and typically everything is at least one or two sizes too big. But this . . . this is a perfect fit.

The next bag has a pack of socks (one hundred percent organic cotton, based on the label), as well as fluffy fur-topped open-toe slippers. I try them on, and my eyebrows hit my hairline. I guess being a hitman requires an unprecedented ability to make precise visual assessments, because the pretty slippers are also the perfect size.

At the bottom of the same bag, I find a black silk nightgown with a plunging neckline. I bite my lower lip as I take out the sexy nightie. The fabric seems to glide like water over my hands. Did Rafael order someone to purchase this for me, or did he do it himself? Something tells me he picked this one out on his own. Was he imagining how I would look in it? And all those lacy panties and bras? Maybe I should put the silky thing on tonight before heading to resume my work in his office, just to see if he’d still be so indifferent.

Whoa. What?

I immediately force that outrageous thought out of my mind and stuff the nightgown back into the bag. No, I am not getting excited by the mere idea of the most dangerous man in this part of the world fantasizing about me wearing this revealing little thing.

The last bag has a hairbrush, a few other toiletries, and two cans of deodorant. A very familiar-looking deodorant. I take them out. The aerosol cans are the same exact product and scent as I found in the bathroom. I snort and look at the bottom of the bag. There’s a rectangular red velvet box with a pearly-looking white card attached to it.

I apologize for being such a shitty host.

The color should go well with my shirts.

R.

I take out the velvety box and open the lid. It makes a tiny creak. Inside, a gorgeous gold necklace is nestled on a satin cushion. A multitude of pale-gray diamonds line the entire length of it. With my mouth hanging open, I carefully lift the necklace from its cradle, noticing how the sunlight bursts off the gleaming gems. If these are the real deal, this must have cost a fortune. Gray diamonds are incredibly rare and hard to obtain. My mom has a ring with one. Dad had to tell her the stone was fake because she wouldn’t actually wear it otherwise.

This pretty thing must be the most beautiful and extravagant piece of jewelry I’ve ever held in my hands. Too bad I don’t accept presents in lieu of apologies. So I put the gorgeous necklace back into its box, set it aside, and head downstairs.

The mansion is vacant, as usual, with only the smell of crisp sea air filling the space. But as I cross the entry hall, a new, sweet aroma drifts in from the terrace and invades my nostrils.

Decadent fresh pastries.

I step outside and can only stare.

The patio table has been relocated to the middle of the terrace and is covered in a white tablecloth. Its surface is overflowing with platters featuring a selection of tasty-looking baked goods. Croissants. Tarts with a multitude of colorful fillings. Then, there are three-tiered stands laden with all kinds of fruit and berries. And jugs of freshly squeezed juice of several varieties.

There’s enough food here to feed an army.

In the middle of the table, leaning against the strawberry custard is a yellow sticky note.

My heart rate ratchets up as I bring it closer, gaping at a drawing. It’s hardly a lifelike masterpiece and is done in plain blue pen ink, but I’m certain it’s me, reclined in the office chair, pencil clenched in the frowny-looking mouth. Rought lines around the face probably represent the stray strands of hair, while the rest is depicted as a glob on top of the head. There’s another bold curve with a wider tip that I’m guessing is supposed to be a man’s tie, twisted around the mass of tresses.

My eyes flit over all the details once more, then I look at a note scribed in strong male handwriting under the sketch.

I want some real food for breakfast.

A small giggle escapes me while warmth surges inside my chest.

Rafael De Santi. The man whose name alone makes people tremble in fear, left me a doodle on a sticky note. I slip the paper into my pocket and look around the terrace, but there isn’t anyone else here. Sighing, I pull up a seat at the table and pick up a slice of tart from the closest platter. For the briefest moment, I hoped Rafael would be joining me for this feast.

My hand stills on a juice jug. I’m attracted to him. Attracted to a man who threatened to kill my family. Who is keeping me a prisoner. And I have no idea what he even looks like.

Peachy.

After I’m done with breakfast, I carry my plate and glass to the kitchen. The jumpy maid is there, putting the groceries away into the fridge, and the moment she notices me, she shrieks.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” I mumble, nodding at the plate in my hands. “I just brought this back.”

The girl blinks in confusion, then rushes toward me and basically snatches the plate and glass from my hands and loads them into the dishwasher.

“Um . . . I could have done that. Okay, I’ll go bring the—”

The maid dashes past me right out of the kitchen. I glance at her retreating back, seeing her scurry onto the terrace, where she starts collecting the breakfast leftovers.

Ooookay. I have no idea what I did, but the woman seems to be terrified of me for some reason. Deciding not to stress her further, I leave the kitchen through the side door that leads to the garden.

As I’m strolling along the driveway, raised voices carry toward me on a slight gust of wind from the direction of the estate entrance. One is male, sounding exasperated but determined. And the other is female, obviously distressed and shouting in a high-pitched tone. With my hands clasped behind my back, I continue down the gravel path, toward the source of the commotion. Poking my nose in other people’s business is not something I usually do, but my curiosity has been piqued. It’s a rare break from the monotony of a lifeless mansion.

The first thing I notice when I approach is a shiny red convertible parked on the other side of the gate. A woman, wearing a tight white dress, is standing next to the car and yelling at the guard while pointing her finger at the house. The man seems to be trying to calm her down, without success. The only thing I grasp from their conversation is Rafael’s name. Suddenly, the woman’s head snaps in my direction, and her long hair—nearly an identical shade to the car—flicks through the air in the process. Her eyes travel down my body, from the top of my head where Rafael’s tie is keeping my bun secure, to the pale-gray shirt of his that I’m wearing.

“Chi è quella?” the redhead sneers through her teeth. It’s more than clear she is not happy to see me here.

The guard rushes to her side and practically manhandles her into the driver’s seat. Glaring at me the entire time, the woman spits out a slew of unpleasantries. Her irate words and hand gestures leave me with no doubt about that, despite the barrier of language. Then, she reverses the car and disappears into a cloud of dust.

I pivot and head back toward the house, while an unexpected pang of disappointment pierces my chest.

Rafael has a girlfriend.

* * *

The warm, salty breeze whips the loose strands of my hair into my eyes. I adjust the soft white cardigan around me and reach for the wine glass I’ve set between the succulents on my left. My gaze is drawn to the distant shimmer of yellow lights scattered across the dark expanse of the Mediterranean. The fishing boats.

I waited over an hour for Rafael in his office tonight. When I arrived at the agreed-upon time, he wasn’t there, and eventually, I concluded that he wasn’t coming and trotted downstairs. I roamed the empty rooms, but as always, it felt strange being alone in such a vast yet magnificent space. Even Guido was nowhere to be found. After a while, I returned to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine and a glass, then came out to the garden.

This is a beautiful site, with a myriad of succulents and wildflowers thriving in crevices and graveled beds built around rocks and boulders along a natural slope. An olive tree with its widely spreading branches casts a shadow onto the massive flat stone I’m sitting on, just steps away from the thick trunk of the evergreen. I found this spot this morning during my exploration of the grounds, and the view from here is even more majestic at night.

The crunch of gravel somewhere behind me startles me, and I almost spill the wine all over my new cardigan.

“I was afraid you managed to slip away, Miss Petrova.”

My body relaxes. It’s just my kidnapper-slash-host-slash world’s deadliest assassin. The fact that this realization brings me comfort is highly concerning.

“Between the cliffs, the electric fence, and your Uzi-carrying security, my options for escape are rather limited.” I lift the bottle to pour more wine. But it’s empty. Crap. “You weren’t in the office when I came by.”

“I had some things that needed to be taken care of.”

I look over my shoulder and find Rafael leaning on the olive tree, swallowed by the shadows.

Always in the dark.

“Your girlfriend dropped by earlier today.”

“Hardly a girlfriend, but an ex nevertheless. She’s not handling the breakup that well,” he says. “Apparently, she’s still mourning.”

“You broke her heart?”

“Worse. I canceled the credit card I gave her.”

I chuckle, then turn back to watching the sea. The sound of his steps over the stones is faint but drawing near. Clothes rustle as he takes a seat behind me. He stretches his long legs on each side of me, and even though we’re not touching, I can feel his heat as his huge frame surrounds me, and his presence seems to envelop my body and soul.

“I left your extravagant gift on your desk.”

“Didn’t you like it?” his deep voice, just next to my ear, whispers. My heartbeat picks up.

“It’s lovely. But gifts do not replace an apology in my eyes.”

“Why not?”

“Well, this might come as a surprise to you, Rafael, but you can’t buy people.”

“It worked well for me in the past.”

“That’s really sad,” I mumble into my nearly empty glass. “You don’t have to hide from me anymore, by the way. I know who you are, so there’s no need.”

“I know.” His warm breath feathers my earlobe. “How do you like my house?”

“It’s both beautiful and scary.”

“How so?”

“There’s no one around, except that one maid who runs away the moment she sees me. Why does she do that?”

“She probably doesn’t know what to make of you. I rarely bring women to my home.”

“Not even victims of kidnapping?”

“No.” His breath fans my cheek. “What’s wrong with my house?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just so damn quiet all the time. I’m not used to it.”

“And what are you used to, Miss Petrova?”

“Noise. Maids running around, arguing with each other. People always coming in and out, and doors banging open and shut. At home, there was always someone yelling. Like, our housekeeper screaming at someone because they tracked mud onto her pristine floors. Or Dad roaring at the gardener to turn off the lawn mower because he’s trying to work with my brother. Our cook, Igor, wailing from the kitchen because Valentina put too much salt into the pot. My sister’s high-pitched shouts from her room when she finds that I took her favorite T-shirt and returned it stained. The quiet here gives me the creeps.” I finish my wine and set the glass between my legs on the rock. “Why don’t you have staff?”

He’s silent a moment too long, and I think he may not answer.

“I have staff,” he finally says. “I just sent them away because I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable with so many unfamiliar people around.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh, how considerate of you. Especially after having me snatched off the street, stuffed into a van with my hands tied and mouth gagged, and then flown to another continent. None of that was an issue. Yet, you sent the maids away so I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable?”

“Kind of.”

I tilt my head to the side, my peripheral vision aligning with his mouth. At least that’s what I figure. With the moon behind us and low in the sky, he’s hardly more than a murky outline. “What do you want from me?”

“I told you. Fix my systems, and you’re free to go.”

“And that’s it?”

“And that’s it, Miss Petrova.”

I nod and look back at the fishing boats on the dark horizon. “Then give me the laptop so I can work faster.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“You really are a jerk.” I sigh. “When will you let me call my family again?”

I feel him shift and hear the rustle of fabric, and then he extends his arm around me. His phone lies in the palm of his hand, the screen lit up with my father’s name.

“Won’t my father know it’s you?”

“This is my private number. Very few people have it, and the pakhan is not one of them. It’s untraceable anyway.” He hits the dial icon, and I gingerly lift the phone to my ear.

“What?” My dad’s growl comes through the line the moment the call connects.

“Hey, Dad,” I choke out. “It’s me.”

“Vasya! Jesus fucking Christ, baby! We’ve been going nuts. Where the fuck are you?”

“Everything’s fine, don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? You’ve been missing for days! Are you with one of those punk friends of yours again? Because if you are—”

“I needed a break, Dad,” I mumble.

“You needed a fucking break? Because I took away your laptop? This is the fourth time I’ve rallied the whole of Bratva to search for you, goddamned terrified that something awful happened! I thought you grew out of your teenage tantrums. I want you home. Right now!”

“I’ll be back soon. Kiss Mom, Yulia, and Alexei for me.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me! Vasilisa!”

“Love you,” I whisper and cut the call, my vision blurring as I scan the vast darkness before me.

The fishing boats are gone, and the waters are smooth as glass, reflecting the distant moonlight. The quiet is tangible all of a sudden. No other sound than my breath.

And Rafael’s, so close behind me.

“That was interesting.” Rafael’s voice breaks the tranquil stillness.

“Eavesdropping on people’s private conversations is impolite.”

“Eavesdropping is defined as secretly listening without the other party’s knowledge. I’m pretty sure that your father’s shouts could be heard all the way in Catania.”

“Semantics,” I grumble.

“What did he mean by ‘this is the fourth time’ that Bratva has been searching for you?”

“I have a record of periodically running away from home for a handful of days. The last time I did it, I was seventeen.”

“Your way of trying to draw attention to yourself?”

“I wasn’t trying to get attention.” I sigh. “My father is an overprotective, controlling, and utterly paranoid man who loves his children more than anything in this world. The way he shows that love, however, can be a bit too much to process. Sometimes, it makes me feel as if I’m suffocating. When I was younger, I didn’t know how to deal with it. So a few times, I slipped away and spent a couple of days with one of my friends to decompress.”

”Did it help?”

“Somewhat. It’s not as if I could confide in anyone. You know, I have no idea why I told you all of this.”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“Maybe.” I pick up a small pebble from the ground and throw it toward the sea. It doesn’t reach it, of course, just rolls down the rocky hill, coming to rest buried somewhere in the grass. “Don’t hurt my family. Please.”

“Keep your part of our deal, and I won’t.”

“They didn’t do anything to you. Why should they bear the consequences of my deeds?”

“Because when you’re engaged in a high-stakes game, vespetta, you’re never alone on that playing field.”

Another sigh leaves my lips. “Will you let me call them again?”

“Yes. If I’m not here, you can ask Guido.”

“I would rather avoid all contact with your brother unless there isn’t another choice.”

We aren’t even touching, yet I instantly feel the moment Rafael stills behind me. “What did he do?” The words sound strained.

“Nothing. He just made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want me here.” I slowly scramble to my feet, needing to distance myself from this man. His closeness is so much more pleasing than it should be. “We have that in common since I don’t want to be here, either.”

The ground seems to be moving under my feet, making me stumble as I take a step forward. A thick male arm wraps around my middle, crushing me to a hard-muscled chest.

“Let go,” I mumble, while everything around me seems to be spinning.

“And watch you take a nosedive?” His cheek brushes my temple as he speaks next to my ear. “I don’t think so.”

“I won’t—”

A yelp escapes me when Rafael slides his other hand under my knees and lifts me into his arms. Since the moment he sat behind me, my heart has been beating double-time, but now, it feels like it’s going to explode. My awareness of him is so consuming that my mind blanks on everything else. I don’t even try arguing. We’re so close that I can feel his breath on my lips. At this distance, I can make out a little more of his face—the short stubble along his chin and the prominent eyebrows over his shaded eyes—but his overall features remain hidden, veiled by the night.

The scent of cypress and oranges tingles my nostrils as Rafael carries me up the uneven stone steps that lead to the mansion. Olive trees line the trail on either side, creating a natural canopy and a tunnel-like atmosphere over the winding path. Once in a while, moonlight breaks through the overhead branches and casts sharp angular shadows that dance across his face. With mere inches between us, I can feel every movement of his powerful frame. The vibrations send an electric current zipping through all of my cells directly to my spine.

And lower.

It shouldn’t feel this good, being snuggled into him like this. But it does. Maybe it’s the wine. I don’t feel that drunk, but I don’t see any other explanation for why I enjoy being held by him so much.

“If I say I’m sorry for being a shitty host, will you accept my gift?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll certainly consider it. But you’d need to actually say it.”

A deep, thunderous roar fills the darkness as he laughs.

“I’m sorry for my insolence,” he says, amusement still lingering in his tone. “And for the treatment you received from my men. Hank has been sent back to Chicago, so he won’t bother you again.” These words carry none of the mirth of the earlier statement.

“Alone? What about his sidekick, Vinny?”

“Vinny . . . has been dismissed.”

“You fired him?”

“Mm-hmm. I guess you could say that.” He bends as we pass under one of the lower branches, and his cheek brushes my forehead. “I’ll have someone drive you to Taormina tomorrow so you can buy whatever clothes you need.” His cologne tingles my nostrils, but not in that irritating way that makes me want to sneeze. Oh no. It beckons me, urging me to get closer and take another sniff.

“Can’t you take me?” I blurt out.

Rafael halts. I can feel his chest rise and fall.

“I can,” he says, his voice sounding clipped as he resumes his stride. “But if you change your mind, I’ll have Otto drive you.”

“Why would I change my mind?”

He does not answer.

We emerge from the rock garden and approach the mansion across the immaculate lawn. There are no more trees around us, just fresh-smelling grass and fragrant flower beds, bathed in the soft light of the moon. Those lines on Rafael’s face which I thought were dancing shadows? They stay in place, despite the lack of branches above our heads.

Rafael

Pebbles crunch under my feet, the tiny sounds fracture the silence around us, as I carry Vasilisa. I feel her eyes on my face as I ascend the terrace steps. The light above the French doors that lead inside the living room is on. The same for the interior of the house. No more shadows to hide within.

My gaze is fixed on the path before me, and I keep moving with measured strides. Will she scream or simply faint in my arms? Somehow I doubt my little hacker is a screamer, so I ready myself for her body going limp. I take that final step and halt directly under the light fixture.

Waiting.

A moment passes.

I take a deep breath.

Look down.

For a second, I’m taken aback by how beautiful she is up close. Two dark eyes focus on me through long silky lashes, skimming over my features just as mine did with hers. A couple of heartbeats is usually the longest it takes before people look away after seeing me. But Vasilisa takes her time, examining every jagged line of the mess that is my face. She doesn’t even bat an eye. Maybe she’s in shock.

Finally, her gaze meets mine.

“I could have sworn you were blond, Rafael.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “That’s it?”

“What?”

“Your reaction. You’re not going to scream?”

“Oh, it takes a lot more effort for a guy to make me scream.”

My cock is instantly hard. “Good to know.”

I resume carrying her through the house, up the stairs—all with the most epic hard-on I’ve had in ages. When I reach my bedroom, I stop outside and gently lower her to the floor.

“Otto will be waiting for you at ten to take you over to Taormina to shop tomorrow. Get anything you want, don’t look at the prices.”

“Can I get my T-shirt and jeans back for the occasion? I’m sure the salespeople will throw me out if I walk in wearing your shirt and nothing else.”

I lean slightly forward. “Don’t worry about that.”

“If you say so.” She tilts her head to the side, simply looking at me for a couple of moments, then adds. “And I haven’t changed my mind.”

In less than a second, she disappears into the room.

I stare at the door for a few heartbeats, then turn on my heel and head downstairs, directly to the east wing. When I step inside Guido’s apartment, he’s just leaving his bathroom, toweling his hair.

“We had a situation in Marseille,” he says, walking toward his closet. “I tried calling you, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

I grab the back of his neck and plaster him face-first to the closet door. “What did you say to her?”

“I guess I don’t have to ask who ‘her’ is?” he mumbles into the wooden surface.

“Answer me!”

“She’s going to get you killed! I don’t get this crazy obsession you’ve developed for this girl, but when Petrov finds out, he’ll fry you!”

“What I do with my life is none of your fucking business!” I tighten my grip on his neck and lean to whisper in his ear. “If you ever upset her again, you won’t like the consequences.”

“Christ, Raff.” Guido shakes his head. “Please, let me arrange for someone to take her back home before she realizes who you are. Because we’re doomed if she does.”

I release him. “Too late for that.”

“Ohhhhh, fuck.” Guido throws the towel on the couch and turns toward the dry bar.

My brother rarely drinks booze and only keeps a few alcoholic options for when Mitch comes over. The two of them go way back to our time in the US, with Mitch following us back to Sicily when we made the move. Guido is not one to share the details of his love life, so I only know the status of his on-again-off-again relationship with his boyfriend based on the presence of those bottles. Little bro hides the liquor when he and Mitch break up. I guess this means they’re back together now.

Guido drops on his recliner a minute later, with three fingers of whiskey in the tumbler in his hand. “What will happen when you let her go, and she tattles to her father?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I tell him. “I need you to get me some house staff.”

“House staff?”

“Yes. As soon as tomorrow morning. Five additional maids. Two gardeners. Does Rigobaldo’s wife still cook at that restaurant in Messina?”

“I think so, yes. Why—”

“Make them fire her. I want her here. She’ll cook for us.”

Guido throws back his drink, getting into a coughing fit as soon as he swallows. “You hate having people in the house, Raff. I’ve been trying to convince you to hire a second maid forever. Now, all of a sudden, you want me to magically get you eight people to work here overnight?”

“Make it twelve, and make sure they can understand English. And I want them to make noise. Order them to argue.”

“What?”

“You heard me. At least four times a day, I want to hear them yelling. Or singing. Or grumbling about something. I don’t give a shit about what, but make sure they’re loud.”

“I swear, you’ve lost your fucking mind. Will you at least tell me why?”

“No. Just do as I said. If Vasilisa asks, they’ve all been working here for years.” I turn to leave but stop at the threshold and toss over my shoulder, “Make sure they slam the doors open and shut. Often.”