Chapter 8: Chapter 6

Still a bit unnerved by the baffling hours of push-and-pull with Rafael in his office last night, I emerge from the bedroom, ready to head downstairs for breakfast. But greeting me on the other side of the door is a big white bag with intricate golden handles. An elaborate gold logo gleams on the front panel—Albini’s—printed in a traditional script. Crouching, I carefully untie the gold ribbon bow that’s holding the sides of the tote together.

Inside, nearly a dozen elegant little boxes, and among them, a velvety-looking white card with the same golden logo on the front. Taking it out, I scan the neat masculine handwriting.

You can keep using my wardrobe for the rest of your attire.

R.

I lift one of the boxes, peeking under the lid. A beautiful black lace lingerie set is nestled inside. I’m certain the rest of the boxes will contain more of the same.

“The nerve of that man,” I growl, but I’m unable to stop the corners of my mouth from curving upward ever so slightly. I take the bag inside and leave the contents on top of the bedcovers, my mind tripping over the images of the delicate lace in Rafael’s hands.

A tremor runs through me. I can almost feel the roughness of those hands as they glide across my heated skin, pulling the exquisite black thong and sending that scrap of lace to join the matching bra somewhere over his shoulder.

Diverting my thoughts from a path best not traveled, I head downstairs, ready to confront the scoundrel.

In the kitchen, I find Guido leaning on the counter and holding up a bowl of cereal, his eyes fixed on the phone lying beside him on the wooden top.

No sign of Rafael.

“I hope there is something other than bird food to eat for breakfast in this house,” I say as I pass him on my way to the fridge.

“Doubt it.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“At work. Why?”

“I need to call my family.”

Guido raises an eyebrow at me.

“Based on the system scan I ran yesterday, I’ll be staying here for at least a week. Probably more. I need to let them know I’m alive and well.”

“I’ll check with Rafael, but don’t get your hopes up. He won’t allow it.”

Guido picks up his phone, his thumb working to hit a listed contact—his brother’s, I assume—and then holds it up to his ear. His tone changes from easy-going to irritated, rapidly filling with anger as he argues in Italian. When he passes me the phone, his face is a mask of fury.

“Miss Petrova,” Rafael grumbles from the other end. “I’m listening, but do make it quick. I’m in a meeting.”

“I want to call my family.”

“Yes, Guido told me.” A strange gurgling sound comes through the line, blended with muffled groaning. “That wasn’t a part of our deal.”

“They need to know that I’m okay. My parents are probably going out of their minds without a word from me in three days. Please, I’m just going to—”

A shrill howl explodes in my ear, and I quickly pull the phone away. I gape while the screams continue, loud and clear despite the speakerphone being off, until they slowly transform into whimpers.

“Did I interrupt you beating the crap out of someone?” I ask, cautiously returning the phone to the side of my head.

“Stai zitto!” Rafael snarls at whoever is on the other end. “Maybe. Did you like your present, vespetta?”

“You’re asking me that now?” My eyebrow lifts in astonishment. “If I say no, will you let me call home?”

Another scream erupts from wherever my kidnapper happens to be at the moment, but it’s more subdued this time. “Nope.”

“Then, I absolutely loved it,” I say.

“I’m glad to hear that. You can call your family. No details on where you are, or how you got here, or you know what will happen. Capito?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Put Guido on.”

Based on Guido’s sour expression when I pass him the phone, he’s not happy with Rafael’s decision. They argue for nearly another minute before Rafael’s brother hands the device back to me.

“Twenty seconds,” he barks. “And you make the call right there.”

I stare at the screen, pondering whether I should call Mom or Dad. Dad would undoubtedly lose his shit and start yelling, demanding to know where I am. I won’t be able to say a word until he’s done. My twenty seconds will be lost. Mom it is, then.

My fingers shake as I punch in the numbers, and when the line finally connects, I almost break down and start crying. I lose a precious five seconds trying to pull myself together before I can utter a word.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Vasya?” my mom’s groggy voice comes through the line. “Oh my God! Where are you, baby?! We’ve been going crazy—”

“I’m fine, Mom. Listen, I can’t talk long. I just wanted you to know I’m okay and that I’m coming home in a couple of weeks.”

“What? Tell me where you are! Right now!”

“I’ll call again in a few days, okay? Love you.”

I barely finish before Guido snatches the phone out of my hand and cuts the line. “Time’s up. Can’t risk them tracing the call.”

His tone contains a trace of smugness, as if taking that phone from me is the most gratifying thing he has done in a long time. My teeth squeak from the forceful way I clench them. It’s either that or letting the tears welling in the corners of my eyes burst free.

But I won’t give this little prick the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

Turning on my heel, I march to the wall cabinet on the opposite side of the kitchen, grabbing a chair from the dining table along the way. The damn thing has to be solid wood because it weighs a ton. By the time I reach my intended destination, my arms hurt from hefting the bulky object. I set the chair next to the cabinetry, climb it, then start pulling glassware off the top shelf and setting it on the counter.

“What are you doing?” Guido asks behind me.

I ignore him, focusing solely on my task of reorganizing. It’s the only way I’ll be able to distract myself from worrying about my family.

Blindly, I empty the cupboards of cups and glasses that have all been haphazardly placed on one shelf, and the stemware that was mixed in with tumblers and other cocktail glasses.

“Kакой ужасный беспорядок,” I mumble as I move on to the middle shelf. They even have cake stands wedged in the same place!

“I asked, what the fuck are you doing?” Guido snarls next to me and slams the cabinet door closed, barely missing my fingers.

Eyes fixed on his hand keeping the door shut, I take a deep breath, then face the dickhead. The look he levels me with is loaded with narrowly restrained contempt and malice.

“Do you have a problem with me, Guido?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what problem might that be?” My voice may sound strong, but truthfully, I’m barely holding myself together. I have no qualms about confronting men with an overabundance of testosterone and asshole personalities under normal circumstances, but this fucked-up situation is proving a bit too much. “The last I checked, I’m not here because I want to be.”

Guido’s nostrils flare. He leans toward me, getting in my face. “If you get my brother killed, I’ll fucking murder you.”

Two treacherous tears escape, sliding down my cheeks. Returning his resolute gaze, I make myself smile. “Feel free to try.”

He bangs his fist on the cupboard and storms out of the kitchen. Only after he’s gone, do I lower myself to the counter, sitting down between the rows of glasses and cups, and wipe my cheeks.

Jesus Christ, what did I get myself into?

And why in the hell does the idea of my dad offing Rafael not sound as tempting as it did before?

Magnificent.

There is no better word to describe the woman sitting cross-legged at my desk, mumbling to herself while her fingers fly over the keys as she fixes the mess my IT team purposefully created. Mitch assured me that it would take days just to sort out the financial system, considering how thoroughly they corrupted the software.

It took her a couple of evenings and less than a dozen hours.

Tonight, she’s working on the file management system, untangling the permissions to the subfolders of our data repository. Apparently, this should keep her busy for a week. Mitch’s guys better have done their jobs properly and scrambled it up real good, otherwise, heads will roll.

“Did that pencil do something to offend you?” I ask, eyeing the thing in question.

Vasilisa lays down the pencil she’s been chewing for the past hour and sends me an irritated look. “Nope. It’s just an unwitting victim.”

“Of what?”

“My thought process. The extent of the clusterfuck I’m trying to resolve here is colossal. It’s frustrating. Who set up your NAS?”

“I have no idea what NAS is or who set it up. IT is like hieroglyphs to me.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows arch quizzically. “A man willing to confess that he doesn’t possess absolute knowledge on a particular subject? That’s a first.”

“I’m a rather simple being, vespetta. Give me a goal, and I’ll reach it, brutally obliterating all obstacles in my way. I don’t have the finesse for solving such cerebral problems, I’m afraid. But I have you and your brilliant mind at my disposal to deal with that now.”

Vasilisa stares at me with wide eyes and her lips slightly parted, looking utterly bewildered. Even in the dim light, I can see color creeping into her cheeks. I’ll need to work on delivering my compliments, obviously.

“Um . . . right.” She quickly looks away. “NAS is a data storage device. It should automatically back up twice a day, but instead, the files are being wiped out.”

“Mitch would be the person who could clue you in on whatever you need to know about that.”

“I’d like to have a word with Mitch, then.”

“Okay.” Taking out my phone, I extend it toward her. “Here.”

Vasilisa’s head snaps up. “I didn’t mean right now. Christ! It’s almost midnight.”

“Mitch is paid to be available twenty-four seven. He won’t mind.” I nod toward the cell. “Call him and ask what you need. Now.”

Her eyebrows lift, then she slowly rises and approaches, her steps cautious and guarded. She appears worried that I might pounce on her. And maybe she’s right to be, because the temptation to do just that is a barely leashed torrent coursing through me.

She stops a couple of steps in front of me and looks down at my extended hand.

“And you can’t just let the man sleep and have him called tomorrow?” she drawls, eyeing the phone. “You’re one shitty employer.”

“No, I’m not. Every single man who works for me is amply compensated for their service.”

“So, are they just that? Employees, nothing more?”

“Extremely well-paid employees.” I press the call button with my thumb. “Ask away.”

Vasilisa looks up, her eyes meeting mine. Neither of us can actually clearly see the other’s face in the darkness, but I can feel her gaze boring into mine as she tries to penetrate beyond the surrounding gloom.

“Boss?” Mitch’s voice breaks the silence.

Slowly, Vasilisa’s fingers wrap around the phone on my palm. The instant her skin comes in contact with mine, I close my hand on hers, holding her in place. She tenses immediately but doesn’t try to break herself free.

“I hope your wrists have healed,” I say as I brush my thumb over her knuckles. “I’m sorry you suffered that.”

“They have,” she whispers. “And I hope your forearm is on the mend. But I won’t say that I’m sorry.”

A smile pulls at my lips.

“Boss?” Mitch insists again. “Can you hear me?”

I let go of Vasilisa’s hand. Her fingers feather over my palm as she lifts the phone and puts it to her ear.

“Hi, it’s your boss’s pet hacker speaking,” she quips.

Her eyes are still locked on mine even though she can’t really see them. I’m sure of that the same way I know her fingers brushed my palm on purpose.

“I need some information on the NAS server you set up.”

My gaze follows Vasilisa as she returns to the desk and remains locked on her for the next hour while she listens to whatever Mitch tells her and simultaneously types away on the laptop. None of the mumbo jumbo she mentions makes any sense to me, but I still soak up every single word. She has the most alluring voice—a little husky but honeyed in a sweet way that, listening to it, makes me imagine how she would sound while pinned under me.

It’s not a daydream, but a promise to myself. I will claim Vasilisa Petrova as mine. In every way possible.

I take a sip of my wine and continue watching her as she once again draws the pencil between her teeth, holding the phone wedged between her chin and shoulder. These evenings have somehow become the highlight of my day. I could gladly spend hours simply observing her doing her work, or talking with her to try to figure out what it is about her that has me so enthralled.

Yes, her beauty is beyond compare, and looking at her feels like viewing the most sublime work of art, but her appearance is not the sole reason for my obsession. I’m completely captivated by her tenacity and determination to do whatever it takes to keep her family safe. She hasn’t tried to run even once, according to my security team’s reports on her movements. Neither did she try to slip any information to her family when she used Guido’s phone to speak with her mother the other day. The strength of this girl’s will is astonishing.

So is her daringness to snark back at me. People don’t ever do that. All too afraid of my wrath.

Fear is good. Necessary. It makes it so much easier to get them to dance to my tune. However, I don’t want my vespetta to be scared of me, which is why I’ve taken such great lengths to hide my face from her. I want her defiance. Her banter. And more of her ridiculous-looking doodles.

My lips quirk as I remember the sticky note I found on the laptop after one of our evenings. It took me a few moments to realize that the strange-shaped creature with an apron was a rendition of me. The speech bubble drawn next to it is what eventually clued me in.

“Okay, I’ll try that.” Vasilisa lowers the phone to the desk and pushes away some of the dark strands falling over her eyes before resuming her work.

Tonight, she used another tie of mine to gather her hair at the top of her head. She tried to corral the mass, but a big part of it escaped during the evening and is now falling in tangled strands around her lovely face. My fingers itch to touch the soft tendrils, and I have to keep reminding myself why I can’t go to her and do exactly that.

“I see you decided to expand your garments,” I say, eyeing the jacket from my suit that she put on over one of my dress shirts. The getup looks ridiculous on her—swallowing her small frame. It does look like she’s wearing a tent.

“I was cold,” she mumbles without looking up.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “Cold?”

“Yes. Your jacket works, but I would appreciate something actually in my size. Your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired, Rafael.”

“What else do you need?” I growl. She was cold. Because of me!

Vasilisa’s eyes rise from the laptop screen, focusing on my spot in the corner. I immediately lean deeper into the shadows.

“Letting me go home isn’t an option, I assume?”

“No.”

“T-shirts. Leggings. A hoodie. Socks. Pajamas. And a hairbrush. Oh, and some real breakfast foods. I hate cereal.”

“Is that all?”

“And women’s deodorant, please. I don’t want to keep going around smelling like you.”

My cock instantly turns to granite at the mere idea of her carrying my scent. “Fine.”

She props her fist under her chin and tilts her head. “Why won’t you let me see your face?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Is it so I won’t be able to identify you later? Are you concerned I’ll tell my dad what actually happened, and he’ll chase you down?”

“Maybe.”

“Wise. You should be very afraid of the pakhan’s fury.”

“I’m quite terrified, Miss Petrova.” I take a long sip of my wine. “I’m sure Roman has gotten even more surly than he was the last time we met.”

Vasilisa eyes me with an open-mouthed stare, then rapidly blinks twice with those long black lashes. “You know my dad?”

“We collaborated on a couple of occasions.” I lean further back and watch her face. She’s even prettier when she’s confused. “There aren’t many people who need the services my business offers, or who can afford them. And I personally know most who do.”

“But . . . but you run a private security firm. I checked your company’s website. The basic offered package costs a few thousand a month, hardly an astronomical amount.”

“I wasn’t referring to my front business, Miss Petrova.”

“Then, what were you referring to?”

“That’s between Roman and me,” I tell her. “It’s rather late. Maybe we should continue this tomorrow.”

“Dude! That’s it? You just dropped this bomb, and now you’re sending me off to bed without further explanation?”

I’m greatly tempted to tell her the truth. She can’t be so naive that she doesn’t know what her dear old daddy does. But knowing Petrov, he’s likely tried to shield her from the worst of it. Would she be surprised to learn that over the past decade and a half my teams have eliminated multiple targets for her father? That one of those hits I executed myself?

“Children’s respect and trust in their parents should never be compromised, vespetta. I don’t want to taint your opinion of your father.”

“Oh, you’re such a gentleman, with utterly high moral standards.” She points her chewed-up pencil at me. “I know exactly who my dad is and what he does for a living. What kind of services did you provide to him?”

“The same ones I offer to all my clients. A swift and final resolution of very delicate matters, handled with the utmost discretion, of course.”

“Which means?”

“It means, I kill people.”

Two dark eyes turn into glaring slits. “My dad doesn’t outsource.”

For a few moments, I can only stare at her. “He doesn’t . . . outsource?”

“Correct. When he needs someone gone, my uncle handles the issue.”

I cock my head, observing my little hacker in a new light. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Of course I’m not okay with that. It’s just . . . That’s how it’s always been. How his world works. And by relation, mine, too. I’d rather my dad grow organic tomatoes for a living, but that’s not him. He might be a villain to most people, but to me, he’s just my dad.”

Interesting.

Most women within the criminal society feign ignorance of how their fathers, husbands, or brothers make a living. Even though they have no qualms about spending the blood money, they still profess innocence to the outside world.

“Do you work for your father? I’m sure Petrov finds your skills very useful.”

“No,” she mumbles.

“Why not?”

Vasilisa looks away, disappointment and hurt etched into her doll-like features. “Roman Petrov would never allow his delicate flower of a daughter to dip a toe in anything related to Bratva.”

“Just like the intricate, fragile-looking lily of the valley, perhaps?” I comment. The look she gives me is pure menace. “Which, if used properly, can lead to cardiac arrest and fatality.”

Vasilisa frowns in confusion.

Yes, I definitely need greater finesse when delivering compliments to women. This woman.

“And you know that . . . from personal experience?” she asks.

“I prefer Aconitum in business matters. It works faster. Some contracts have very short turnaround times.”

Rosy lips pressed tightly together, Vasilisa looks down at the laptop screen. I can practically see the wheels turning in her brain.

“What’s your last name?” she asks without looking at me.

Well, well . . . She connected the dots at last. “It’s De Santi.”

“Rafael De Santi,” she rasps. “The Sicilian.”

I smile. “At your service, Miss Petrova.”

Vasilisa nods and squirms in her chair nervously. Her shoulders are slumped, making her look even smaller in my suit jacket. The sleeves have unraveled and fallen nearly half a foot past her hands.

She looks so lost all of a sudden, and that pang of guilt hits me again.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It’s late. I think we should call it a night.”

“Of course. Sweet dreams, vespetta.”

Keeping her eyes glued to the floor, Vasilisa slides off the chair and heads toward the door connecting the office with my bedroom. She’s trying to appear nonchalant, but it’s obvious she’s running away.

When she reaches the door, however, she halts. “What does it mean? That word. Is it an insult?”

I watch her, so beautiful and regal even in that enormous jacket that seems to have swallowed her whole. She truly looks like a princess.

“It means little wasp,” I say.

“Oh.” She throws a quick glance over her shoulder in my direction, then disappears across the threshold.

I wait until the door shuts behind her before I approach the desk and lift the yellow pad of sticky notes. There’s a doodle on the top piece. A dreadfully done stickman holding the handle of a protest sign in his hand.

World’s shittiest employer.

I can’t suppress my laugh.

Peeling away the note, I take out my wallet and slide the new doodle next to the earlier sketch she made.