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.
Chapter 7
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.
