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.
