Chapter 10: Chapter 8

Clang.

I squint my eyes open, then quickly shut them again. My head is killing me. It feels as if someone is drilling holes through my temples.

Clang. Clang.

“Sbrigati, idiota. Ho bisogno di quella vernice.”

More ruckus. People talking loudly in Italian.

What’s going on?

I drag myself out of bed and walk onto the balcony to look over the railing. Two men in white overalls are propping up a huge door against one of the massive stone pillars on the terrace below. The third one is approaching them with a bucket of paint in one hand and a small brush in another. Further to the left, amid the flower beds, another man is trimming the branches of a shrub and singing while he works.

Behind me, the sound of running feet echoes through the hallway outside my room, followed by female voices. Several of them. What the hell is happening? I scrunch my nose and walk to the door. Cracking it open, I peek outside. There’s a maid plugging a vacuum cleaner into an outlet on the landing, saying something I don’t understand to another girl with a stack of folded towels in her hands. I stare at them in amazement until the woman with the vacuum notices me.

“Hi there.” I wave at her.

For a split second, she simply gapes at me, then looks at the towel girl and barks a few quick Italian words. The other girl yells something back, throws the towels at the first one, and dashes down the stairs.

Ooookay.

I shrug and close the door. Turning around, I’m ready to hit the bathroom when my eyes fall on the red velvet box lying on the coffee table. The lid is open, revealing the beautiful necklace Rafael left as a gift for me. He must have brought it in here while I was sleeping. Next to the jewelry case is a tasty-looking fig. Is this one stolen, also?

I approach the coffee table and sit down on the sofa, right in front of the box. The sunlight streaming through the windows falls directly on the gray gems, making them sparkle like tiny brilliant flames. Accepting necessities like clothes and toiletries from Rafael is one thing. But this? Absolutely not.

How can I accept a gift from a man who keeps me prisoner? It would definitely send the wrong message.

Hesitantly, I reach out and stroke the string of diamonds with the tip of my finger, incapable of suppressing the small smile tugging at my lips. The color certainly does go well with his shirts. How would Rafael react if I actually wore the necklace? Its Y drop is rather long, so the prominent gemstone would probably reach the valley between my breasts. The mere notion of having Rafael’s eyes on my cleavage stirs up the butterflies in my stomach.

I bite my lower lip, then take the magnificent necklace and put it around my neck. Just as I thought, the diamonds at the bottom of the Y-shaped linear strand end up nestled between my girls. Closing my eyes, I slide my fingertips across the pretty stones, imagining it’s Rafael’s hand. His scent fills my senses, and I realize the faintest traces of it are in my hair, likely because he carried me last night. Or maybe it’s just his shampoo.

Whatever the reason, I like it.

Usually, I’m concerned with making sure men’s hands remain off me. It’s the other way around with Rafael. Every time he’s been close, my skin tingled with the need to feel his touch, but most of those times, he’s kept his distance. Because of his apparent indifference to me, I initially thought he wasn’t attracted to me in the least. Now, however, I’m pretty sure I was wrong about that. It’s not indifference, but rather caution. I bet he thinks I’d be scared of him.

I will never forget the expression in his eyes when he stepped under the light last night, allowing me to see him for the first time. So hard. Feral, even. I’m certain he expected me to scream in terror after viewing his face. But scars don’t scare me. Where I come from, most of the men carry some kind of battle wounds, both on the outside and where no one can see.

Mikhail—my father’s interrogator—doesn’t only have a heavily scarred face, but is also missing an eye, as far as I know. I still find him hot as hell. Even with an eye patch.

Then, there’s my uncle Sergei, who still has his psychotic episodes from time to time because of his PTSD. If his wife isn’t around when it happens, bystanders often end up hurt or worse.

Every single person who gets dragged into the criminal world must deal with the aftermath. It’s the reality, and we all live it. Still, I wonder . . . What happened to Rafael’s face?

It doesn’t make him any less attractive, though. If the circumstances were different, I wouldn’t mind going out with him. If I’m being honest with myself, I quite enjoy the time we spend together. Especially the bickering. I’m drawn to the aura of menace he seems to be wrapped in. Captivated by it like a moth beguiled by a flame. And now I crave his touch. The caress of a man who keeps me captive. Who holds the power of life and death in the palm of his hand, and won’t hesitate to use it against my family. Me wanting him is beyond twisted.

I quickly unclasp the necklace and put it back in its box. Then, picking up the fig from the table, I head into Rafael’s office to return the gift, all the while munching on the fruit with pleasure.

Thirty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom, clad in a dove-gray dress shirt that reaches below my knees and a black necktie that serves as my belt. My freshly washed and brushed hair is braided down my back, and secured at the end with a length of dental floss. Faux-fur slippers are the finishing touch on my elegant attire. I’m ready for my shopping trip.

This day can go one of two ways. One, I get back to the mansion with some suitable clothes. Or two, I end up seated in a padded room across from a guy in a white coat, answering questions like: Do you hear voices?

Descending the wide stairway to the ground floor, I notice several more maids rushing around, cleaning the already rather clean surfaces. Two workers whom I saw on the terrace earlier are removing one of the windows to the left of the front door. Through the gap, I spot a gardener, not the same one as before, kneeling by the flowerbed next to the driveway, pulling out weeds.

The notes of an Italian song reach me as I approach the kitchen. I stop at the threshold and glance inside. A tall dark-haired woman in a simple black dress is working dough on the island, while music plays from the tiny old-school radio on the windowsill. The smell of freshly baked bread tingles my nostrils, making me salivate just from the scent.

“Um . . . Good morning,” I say.

The woman looks up from her work and scans me from the end of my braid, that I pulled over my shoulder, to the tips of my toes peeking out beneath the fluff of my slippers. The expression on her face runs the gamut from surprise to absolute confusion.

“Sei la ragazza di Raffaello?” she asks, her eyes wide.

“I’m not sure where Rafael is. Sorry.”

“Me, Irma.” She points one flour-covered finger at herself, then at me. “You. Rafael’s girl?”

“Um . . . definitely not. Rafael’s prisoner would be a better term.” I point at myself. “Vasilisa.”

The woman tilts her head to the side, giving me another once-over, her eyes stopping on the tie I used as a belt.

“Rafael’s girl.” She nods. “Good match.”

“I’m not his—” I try to clarify but Irma has already turned her back to me and is taking something out of the oven.

Leaning over the kitchen island, I’m floored by the large pan of what looks like a thick-crust pizza in her hands. And, my God, it’s not even burned.

“I see you’re up.” Guido’s voice comes from behind me. He sounds almost friendly.

I reach for the plate with a big slice of pizza that Irma passes to me and turn around. “I see your staff are back.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, then meets my gaze. “I’m sorry for going off on you the other day. When it comes to my brother, I tend to get overly protective.”

“Rafael doesn’t strike me as someone who needs anyone’s protection.”

“Only when it comes to protecting him from himself,” Guido says, eyeing my tie-belt. “Finish the job you need to do here. As fast as you can.”

“Well, that’s the plan.”

“Plans change.” He looks up, meeting my gaze. “I hope this one doesn’t, or, I’m afraid, we’ll end up waist-deep in dead bodies.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Be careful. When my brother claims something as his, there’s no force on this earth that would make him let it go. Finish the job. Then, go home, Miss Petrova.”

I watch Guido’s back as he busies himself with the coffee machine, wondering what the hell he meant by his cryptic words. The clock on the wall shows a minute past ten. Stuffing the rest of my breakfast into my mouth, I leave the kitchen and rush across the entry hall where a couple of maids are mopping the floor.

A badass gunmetal gray Maserati SUV is parked outside the front doors, its black-tinted windows reflecting the morning sun. Leaning on the side of the vehicle, with his arms crossed over his chest, is my jailer himself. He’s wearing black dress pants and a vest, with a gray shirt underneath, all immaculately tailored to fit his large frame. The sleeves of his button-down are rolled to his elbows, revealing heavily inked forearms that are corded with muscles. His dark hair is slicked back, and only now do I notice that he has a small metallic hoop in his left ear.

“Good morning,” I murmur while feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. God, I can’t believe I actually voiced that thing about men making me scream last night.

Rafael cocks his head to the side, observing me. The sun is shining directly onto his face, allowing me to see every single imperfection. It’s plain as day that he must have been incredibly handsome before suffering whatever it was that happened to him. A car accident maybe? He still is, though. Gorgeous. Despite the scars. And then, there’s that dangerous vibe he has going for him that’s seriously alluring. It’s as if the very air around him is charged with unrestrained energy, warning me to stay away, but at the same time, beckoning me closer.

“I wondered where that tie was.”

My hands go to my waist, adjusting my “belt.”

“Second drawer on the left, with the rest of them. Um . . . I reorganized your walk-in.”

“I noticed. It took me ten minutes to find what I needed this morning. You sleep like a log, by the way.”

“You can’t just venture inside my bedroom,” I grumble, approaching the car.

“Your bedroom?”

“Fine. I’ll move my stuff to some other room.”

“No, you won’t,” he says, opening the passenger door.

I take the hand he offers me and step up into the SUV. “Why not?”

“My house, my rules.”

The door latches shut with a hollow thud.

Rafael’s steps are unhurried as he rounds the front of the massive vehicle and takes a seat behind the wheel. He reaches for the aviator sunglasses on the dashboard and puts them on.

“I hope breakfast today was to your liking.”

“Yup. Homemade pizza is every prisoner’s wet dream.”

“Good. If you want something in particular to eat, just tell Irma and she’ll prepare it.”

“You mean, I can choose?” I shift, leaning my back on the side window and drawing my legs up and under me on the seat cushion, mere inches from the gearshift. Despite my racing heart, I’m hoping the position makes it seem like I’m not a ball of twisted nerves. It also allows me a direct view of his profile.

“That’s how personal chefs usually work. You tell them what you want. They make it happen.”

“Maybe in your household.” I shrug. “At home, we usually have to pick from a selection of marginally burned, charred, and completely inedible. Our cook is actually a heavy machinery mechanic with zero finesse when it comes to kitchen appliances.”

“You can fire him.”

“Fire him? Igor taught me to tie my shoelaces and let me and Yulia braid satin ribbons into his beard when we were kids. He’s practically a family member.”

Rafael turns onto a wider road that meanders between the hill on the left and an olive orchard on the right. When he shifts the gear stick, his knuckles lightly brush my knee, sending a shockwave of tingles through my whole body. My mind instantly wanders to last night, to him carrying me from the garden. I might have been drunk, but I remember every detail of how it felt to be held by him. The low thrumming in every fiber of my being, from the top of my head to the ends of my toes. The awareness of each point of contact between our bodies. The feeling of wanting to be nowhere else but in his arms.

Why am I so attracted to this man? I shouldn’t be, all things considered. I should despise him, or, at least, be wary of his games.

Maybe it’s because he’s never been patronizing toward me. He actually listens to what I say and doesn’t just nod like a dummy while ogling me, hoping that pretending to listen will make it easier to drag me into his bed. Or maybe it’s because, with him, I don’t need to pretend to be something I’m not.

My entire life I’ve been surrounded by hard, dangerous men. They’re who I’m used to, and I can’t see myself making a connection with some nice, unassuming guy. I’ve tried. I’ve truly tried. None of the guys I ever dated made me feel an ounce of the thrill I do simply sitting in the same car as enigmatic Rafael De Santi.

“Can’t you find some other role for him, then?” he asks.

“Who?” I blink in confusion. What were we talking about?

“Your cook-mechanic.”

“Oh, yeah. Um . . . Igor really likes to cook. And bake, unfortunately,” I mumble. “It’s always Igor and my mom who make birthday cakes. You don’t want to know how those end up.”

“Why?”

“Because Igor is the one giving instructions. And my mom prepares the thing.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Igor doesn’t speak English. And my mom knows exactly ten words in Russian.”

“What a peculiar family.” He glances my way, his mouth arched in a teasing smirk which does funny things to my lady parts.

When he focuses back on the road, I steal a look at his left hand gripping the top of the wheel. Usually, I don’t like it when men wear jewelry—it makes them seem overstated somehow. Rafael has three rings—white gold, or maybe platinum. Two on his forefinger and one on his thumb. There are also several chain-link bracelets around his wrist. They shouldn’t look good paired with his stylish attire, but just like that hoop in his ear, they actually work for him.

The back of that hand, just like his face, is heavily scarred. I glance down at his right hand resting on the gearshift. More rings. Another bracelet, open-cuff this time, on this wrist. And even worse scarring than on his left hand. Maybe it wasn’t a car accident. Did he get these marks on one of his “jobs”? A failed assassination attempt that saw him captured and . . . tortured?

“What about your family?” I look up and over, focusing on the landscape beyond the windshield. “Do they know what you do for a living?”

“Our father was killed when Guido was just a baby. And since our mother died, it’s just been Guido and me. Been that way for about twenty-five years now.”

I furrow my forehead. I thought his brother was in his late twenties. “How old is Guido?”

“Twenty-nine. He’s ten years younger than me. I’ve raised him since he was four.”

“But, that would mean you were fourteen at the time.”

“Correct.”

No, that’s not possible. At fourteen, he was basically still a child himself. I stare at Rafael, wondering for a fleeting moment if he’s simply fucking with me. But I don’t think he is.

“How?” I choke out.

“Determination and tenacity, with a hefty load of stubbornness in the mix, can achieve many things. I promised Guido that I wouldn’t let us be separated.” He glances over at me. “And I always keep my word.” His voice sounds rougher. “You should remember that. That way, if at some point you happen to get an idea of running away—please, don’t.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Please?”

“Yes.” He turns to face me. “Because I will execute your family if you do.”

I break our locked stare and turn back to watching the landscape out the window. I don’t care how he got those scars. I don’t give a rat’s ass about anything to do with Rafael De Santi. Just like Guido said, I’ll do the job, then go home.

And I’ll never see this heartless man again.

* * *

I take Rafael’s extended hand and get out of the jeep (the seat is rather high, otherwise I wouldn’t have done it). Several feet in front of me, a man in a suit is holding open the door to a boutique. The whole building is baroque-style architecture, with elaborate floral motifs and smooth stucco framing the doorway as well as the windows on the upper floors. The ground floor has a lot of rough stone and is segmented into sections separated by thick white stone columns. Right above the entrance is an unobtrusive plaque displaying the same gold logo as on the shopping bags Rafael left outside my room.

“This doesn’t look like a place that sells jeans and hoodies,” I comment.

“I’m sure we’ll find some,” Rafael says and, placing his hand on the small of my back, ushers me forward.

“Signor De Santi!” A man in his early sixties, wearing a suit and dark wire-framed glasses, rushes toward us as soon as we walk in. “Benvenuti!”

“English,” Rafael says next to me, then nods toward a couple by a display of handbags at the back. “Get them out.”

“Of course.” The man bows ever so slightly to Rafael and turns toward the security guy standing by the door, speaking to him in Italian. After a brief exchange, the security person nods and walks up to the couple. Almost without a word, he practically drags them outside and locks the door.

“That was exceptionally rude,” I whisper.

Rafael leans down, bringing his lips right next to the shell of my ear to whisper back, “I don’t give a fuck.”

I tilt my head to the side, my nose bumping with his. “I thought Italians were nice people.”

“Not all.” His green eyes bore into mine as if searing right through me.

“Yeah, some like to kidnap helpless women.”

“Exactly.” He straightens to face the older dude with the glasses. “This is Baccio Albini, the owner. He’ll make sure you find everything you need.”

“Absolutely. And the girls will help with sizing, pairing recommendations, or whatever else is required.” The proprietor motions to three women in tailored gray dresses standing in front of the antique glossy-white checkout counter. They look almost regal as they pose with their hands clasped demurely before them, but they can’t hide the expression in their eyes. Each one is staring at me as if I’m some kind of three-headed alien. I guess they don’t get many customers wearing nothing but a man’s shirt that’s ten sizes too big.

“Um . . . Thank you. ” I offer a smile to the older man, then head toward the rack of blouses.

Fifteen minutes later, I step inside a luxurious space that apparently serves as a dressing room. In the middle, a white chaise lounge and two matching armchairs that look like they came straight from the Victorian era have been arranged around a plush round area rug, creating an elegant sitting nook. Toward each end of the room, there’s a dais with a standing three-paneled wall mirror in a gilded frame that faces the seating area. The two platforms are each surrounded by an overhead track with a set of satin drapes that could be drawn to offer privacy to whoever is making use of the 360-degree view.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try anything else, miss?” the sales assistant holding the clothes I’ve picked out asks.

“I’m sure.” I smile and take the pile consisting of two pairs of jeans, four blouses, and a pair of flats from her. “Thank you.”

The other two saleswomen are hovering behind her with looks on their faces that teeter between confused and appalled. Mr. Albini, however, appears as if he might get sick at any moment.

“Is our selection not to your liking?” he chokes out, beads of sweat glistening along his hairline. “I can assure you, every piece here is of exceptional quality. We pride ourselves on offering the finest apparel in the whole of Sicily. Please, let me show you our designer dresses. Only the finest mulberry silk and Alençon lace from France.”

“Your merchandise is beautiful, but I don’t need anything else at the moment.”

“But . . . but Mr. De Santi mentioned you need everything. Twenty-plus pairs of pants. Tops to match. Shoes that complement each combination. Dresses. A few cardigans, perhaps.” His tone escalates from overly concerned to outright panicky. “How can I go out there and tell him that aside from these select things, you were not able to find anything you liked?”

“Really, I don’t need anything else but these.”

“Please, miss . . .” Albini pleads, twisting his fingers in front of him. “Mr. De Santi will be very displeased with me. Can I show you our selection of evening gowns, at least?”

I shake my head and walk out of the room, patting the old man’s arm as I pass him. “I’ll be right back.”

The outer area of the boutique is huge, filled with white wooden shelving and racks that match the antique front counter displaying the best of the haute couture. Off to the side is an elegant sitting area with a big leather couch. I assume this is where husbands, boyfriends, or lovers typically wait while their better halves shop. It appears that kidnappers are welcome here, too, since that’s where I find Rafael. He’s leaning against the cushions with his arms spread across the back of the sofa and one ankle braced on the opposite knee.

“Is something wrong, vespetta?”

My eyes turn into narrow slits. Damn him. Why couldn’t he have picked a cliché moniker like “beautiful” or “angel”? I hate those. “Mr. Albini is in there nearly peeing his pants because, evidently, I failed to pick up all the items on your shopping list. He’s so terrified, I’m worried he’s going to have a heart attack.”

“He’s just afraid I’ll kill him if he doesn’t get you what you need.”

I roll my eyes.

“I want you to be comfortable during your stay here, Miss Petrova. If my intent is derailed because of Albini’s inability to provide acceptable service, I’m going to punish him. Therefore”—he nods in the general direction of the clothing racks—“you better resume choosing things you like. Something other than shapeless jeans and baggy tops, if at all possible.”

“I like jeans and baggy tops.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . I . . . I just like them,” I say and look away.

I detest shapeless jeans and baggy tops.

Pretty dresses. Tight tops in bright colors. Skinny jeans paired with silk blouses and sky-high heels. That’s what I love to wear. It makes me happy. The heels especially because I feel less like Thumbelina from the fairytale Mom liked to read to me when I was a kid. Too bad that’s exactly what makes people see me as an empty-headed bimbo every time I doll up.

“You don’t want Albini to end up in the emergency room on such a lovely day, do you?”

“Fine.” I cock my hip and point a finger at him. “But just so you know—buying me a shitload of expensive clothes won’t make me like you any better.”

A small smile tugs on Rafael’s lips as he props his chin on his palm and watches me with amusement dancing in his eyes. “You have no idea how astonishing I find that little fact.”

Ugh. I pivot and storm off toward the rack with blouses while Raphael’s deep laugh chases me. As I’m browsing the nearest selections, out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mr. Albini and the three sales ladies peeking around the slightly opened dressing room door, their heads stacked in a row like tilted face emojis.

It looks like my little hacker is trying to get back at me for making her buy more clothes . . . by picking up everything at the store that’s available in her size.

I fold my hands behind my head and take in the sea of white bags spanning the floor around the front counter. There must be at least fifty. She’s made Albini one happy camper, that’s for sure. I don’t recall ever seeing him as excited as he is at this moment while ringing in the twenty-third pair of heels.

“I think that’s the last one, Signor De Santi,” he says as one of the saleswomen places the box in a bag.

“Not yet.” I rise from the couch and walk up to Vasilisa, who looks like a deflated balloon amid the whiteout of her purchases. When she started piling items on the counter over two hours ago, she was looking very smug. She threw me a look that said You asked for it, beaming a rascally smile at me. I bet she expected me to stop her. When I did nothing to curtail her efforts, she kept bringing more and more things to the front, and her face slowly shifted from that mischievous grin to an exasperated countenance. Now she just looks tired. No wonder, after nearly three hours of trying on clothes and shoes.

“I don’t think they have anything else in my size,” she grumbles.

“You forgot a dress.”

“I don’t need one.”

My eyes sweep the store, halting at the display of elegant gowns. The centerpiece is a floor-length gold dress. The square neckline exposes the shoulders and instantly brings to mind timeless beauty and elegance. The sheer tight-fitting bodice and long sleeves are embroidered lace, featuring an intricate floral design, but the pleated skirt is all flowy solid-colored silk. And, along the front on the right side, a full-length slit that reaches the upper thigh. The dress is sophisticated and decadent at the same time. It would look beautiful on any woman. On this one in particular—it would look sexy as fuck.

So would a pair of black stilettos with a wide ankle strap adorned with a gold clasp. The shoes are sitting on the small nearby stand, but I can already see them on the shapely legs of my unwilling houseguest.

“Albini,” I say and nod toward the gown. “Shoes, as well.”

“That won’t fit,” Vasilisa mumbles following my gaze.

“Albini will make sure it’s adjusted. Go try it on.”

Vasilisa’s dainty teeth sink into her lower lip, brutalizing that soft pillowy flesh as she regards the store attendants removing the gown from the display. With her eyes twinkling and filled with wonder, she exudes pure innocence and ravenous yearning, similar to a child longing for their favorite candy while knowing they can’t have it before finishing their lunch.

“Okay,” she whispers and trails behind Albini as he carries the gown toward the dressing room.

I wait a few of minutes, then follow. The owner has stationed himself at the door, hands clasped in front of him.

“It’s the most exquisite garment we have, Signor De Santi. Every stitch is made by hand, sewn with a golden thread. I’m sure the lady will—”

I turn the knob and step inside the fitting room, closing the door in Albini’s face. The drapes on the far side are drawn, but there’s a narrow gap between the panels. As I approach, I catch a glimpse of Vasilisa. Those sexy black stilettos are on her feet, and she’s got the skirt of her dress pulled up a bit and seems to be twirling in place.

“Um . . . I think I’ll need help with the buttons.”

I cast a look at the saleswoman who was just about to offer her assistance. “Out,” I whisper.

She tenses, then rushes out of the room, taking the other two attendants with her.

“Well, it’s not as bad as I figured. Only half a foot too long,” Vasilisa continues from behind the curtain.

Seizing the two sides of the heavy drapery, I slide them apart, revealing Vasilisa as she holds up the skirt and examines the hem.

“But these buttons at the back are hard to”—she looks up, her eyes widening upon seeing me in her space—“reach.”

“Turn around.”

For a few moments, Vasilisa remains unmoving, her onyx-colored eyes staring into mine before she slowly pivots. Our gazes clash again in the mirror, and I hold her eyes captive while finding the first button at the small of her back. It’s tiny and round, and it takes me two tries to fasten it.

Is it because of my big fingers?

Or is it simply her, messing with my concentration?

I move my hands up to the next button, lightly brushing the silky skin along her spine with my fingertips. She trembles at my touch.

Is it in fear?

Button number three, done.

Another shiver.

Or is it from the uneasiness of having someone like me touch her? Does she find me repulsive?

I gently stroke along her skin, languidly this time, and enjoy the prolonged contact.

Vasilisa’s breathing becomes rapid. Maybe the dress isn’t enough. It’s just a piece of cloth, hardly suitable compensation for her consideration of my advances. More jewelry, perhaps? She hasn’t worn the necklace I bought her. Maybe it’s too heavy for every day? A bracelet, then. I’ll drop by my jeweler and see what he has in his latest collection.

There’s only one button left, the final one between her shoulder blades. I place my thumb at the base of her neck and slide it down, over the peaks and valleys of her spine, marveling at the feel of her soft skin. Then, I fasten the last button and just watch my Russian princess in the mirror.

The delicate floral lace wraps her upper body like a second skin, the pattern accentuating her little waist and elegant arms. The flowy silk skirt falls around her gorgeous legs, hiding them from my view, except for her right foot, which peeks out from between the folds.

She looks ethereal. Like she came from another world.

I take a step closer, so my front touches her back, and bend until my chin rests on top of her head.

“Tell me, Miss Petrova, how many hearts of men have been stomped by your tiny feet so far?”

Those dark eyes narrow in the mirror. “None.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“To be able to crush someone’s heart, it must be given to you first, Rafael. But, male pride on the other hand . . . Yeah, there have certainly been a few victims who saw theirs trampled.”

“That, I do not doubt.” I reach out and lightly stroke the dip of her neck. Her bare neck. “Where is the necklace I bought you?”

“In the box. Back in your office.”

“Why?”

“You can’t expect me to accept presents from you Rafael.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem buying out half of the boutique. Why would one more little trinket matter?”

“That was me getting back at you for agitating Albini, and you know it. But I won’t wear jewelry bought by a man who’s keeping me as a prisoner. Do you shower all your hostages with gold and diamonds?”

“In my experience, people will choose to dismiss or ignore many things if the offsetting gift is expensive enough.”

“Well, sorry to be the one to break it to you, but money can’t buy everything.”

Her words slash through my chest like a knife. Is she alluding to me holding her against her will or to my looks? I’m guessing, the latter. The gown idea was stupid. Anybody can buy a dress. I need to give her something more astonishing. More exquisite. Something that will help her see beyond my fucked-up face. But what if there’s nothing that will get her to do that? Would she ever be able to?

Gritting my teeth, I take a step back. My hand falls away from Vasilisa’s neck, but my fingers keep tingling from that too-brief contact. Irritation and fury roil in my chest as I give her one final look in the mirror.

“Time to get going,” I say in a clipped tone and leave the dressing room.