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.