His eyes crease at the corners, and then he moves his hand to the small of my back, urging me toward the restaurant entrance.
There are around twenty tables inside, and half that many on the cliffside terrace. Grapevines have climbed and twisted around the pillars and along the banister edging the vista and up across the white overhead arbor, creating a beautiful canopy that must shelter the outdoor tables from the midday heat. Right now, though, as we cross the veranda, bits of the nighttime sky and brilliant stars play peekaboo through the gaps in the greenery.
Whimsical is the only way I can describe the sight around me, and I feel as if I’ve entered another dimension. One that promises romance and an enchanted evening.
If only it were true.
But the ambience in this restaurant is breathtaking. When we pass through the interior, I notice a girl in a pretty, long dress playing the harp in the corner, close to the bar. The subtle tones of the strings mix with the quiet chatter from the people seated nearby.
The hostess leads us to the one unoccupied table at the far side of the terrace, and by the time we reach our destination, the voices of other patrons gradually die down, only the distinctive melody from the harp remains. Every person—both inside and dining alfresco—seems to be intently focused on their meal, their eyes glued to the plates set before them.
“Looks like you’re quite popular around here,” I comment as I take a seat on the chair Rafael has slid out for me. “Are they expecting you to pull out your Remington and off them all before the appetizers arrive?” I look around the place, where people are slowly resuming their hushed conversations.
“I was born here. This is a locals-only restaurant, and everyone in Taormina knows me,” he says. “When I returned to Sicily and took control of the east coast, the people living here became mine. They are under my protection.”
“Their faces don’t give off that ‘oh, I feel so protected’ vibe. Scared shitless would be a much more accurate description.”
“That’s because they know what I did in order to take over.”
“Let me guess. You ‘retired’ your predecessor? I didn’t think that’s how Cosa Nostra worked.”
Rafael sits across from me and leans back in his seat. “I’m not a member of Cosa Nostra. And I did ‘retire’ my predecessor and every one of his followers who didn’t flee to Palermo when I moved back home.”
“Well, no wonder the atmosphere here feels weird.”
A waiter brings a bottle of wine, presenting it to Rafael, who nods his approval without even glancing at the label. His eyes are solely focused on me.
“You don’t seem bothered by uncomfortable social situations.”
“Please.” I snort. “After spending over twenty years with a family like mine, anyone could handle whatever the universe decides to throw up. Especially during social gatherings.”
“Care to elaborate?”
I pick up the glass of wine the waiter has poured for me and take a long sip. This is not how I thought this evening would go. I don’t know what I actually expected, but it certainly wasn’t this pleasant feeling due to just being in Rafael De Santi’s company.
“Well, a few months ago, my dad threw a surprise party for my mom’s birthday. There were around forty people at the table, and we were in the middle of a toast when my uncle barged in, fully armed and covered in blood.”
“That must have been uncomfortable.”
“Not really.” I shrug. “The problem was, he left bloody stains on Mom’s favorite carpet, so my dad started yelling and then shot him.”
“Roman killed him?”
“Of course not. Uncle Sergei arrived straight from work and was wearing Kevlar, so he just sprawled on the floor and stayed there until he caught his breath. Some of the guests got a little nervous, though.”
“Remarkable. ” He leans forward and props his elbow on the armrest, dropping his chin onto his palm. “I still find it hard to believe that Roman accepted your ‘I needed a break’ excuse for going missing.”
“As I said, it’s not the first time I’ve disappeared. And I wouldn’t go so far as to say he ‘accepted’ it, considering the amount of yelling he does every time I call. Maybe I should have told him that I was caught hacking NASA and was recruited to work for the government instead of getting put behind bars.”
“You hacked NASA?”
“Once or twice.” I lift my glass to hide my grin and empty its contents. “I could have complained how the supervisor I was assigned is one mean bastard.”
A deep laugh rumbles out of him. Dear God, even his chuckles are sexy. I’m so absorbed in watching him that it takes me a couple of moments to register the absolute silence that once again descends around us. It’s just like this morning in the kitchen. Everyone has stopped what they were doing, even the waiter who just finished refilling my glass, and is staring at Rafael’s back.
“I’m sure you’re giving him hell.” He leans across the table and takes my chin between his fingers, stroking my skin with his thumb while his eyes bore into mine. “Can you hack into any system?”
Our faces are barely inches apart, but I find myself leaning further into his touch.
“Depends on the system,” I whisper. “And its security, of course. But in theory, yes.”
His thumb drifts to stroke my lower lip, and my breathing ratchets up. The swarm of butterflies nestled in my stomach from the moment I slipped into his car, takes flight. I can feel their fluttering wings as the excitement overwhelms me. Rafael draws nearer, his eyes gleaming. Is he going to kiss me? My lips part in expectation of that first contact.
“Would you hack a certain freight company for me, vespetta?”
My excitement plummets. “What?”
“I’d like you to change the shipping details of a certain container. It’s supposed to be delivered to Genoa next week. I would prefer for it to end up somewhere else. Maybe Shanghai.”
His thumb still stroking my lips is epically fucking with my brain. I can feel his touch all the way to my core, and it’s evoking images of much more than kissing. So, while I’m ready to combust on the spot, he wants to discuss some goddamned shipping details?
I reach for my glass and take a large sip of the robust wine. The server approaches, filling it up again. Good.
“Nope. Why would I do anything for you outside of our agreement?”
“Because I asked you to.”
“And do you always get what you want?”
“Usually, yes. Even if it means trashing your baggy clothes to force you to accept your beauty.”
I suck in a breath, then grab the wineglass and empty it again, my eyes cast downward. “You’ve never called me beautiful before.”
“Because you’ve probably heard that phrase spoken a million times by countless shallow men. Because you must know that you’re beautiful and that men can’t help but notice and sing your praises. And I’m willing to bet that you hate hearing it.” He places his finger under my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his. “It doesn’t work, you know. You can wrap yourself in a fucking tablecloth, and men will still fall to their knees before you, Vasilisa. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Yes, there is.
When I was little, it didn’t matter if you were pretty or not—children just wanted to play.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the attention I started getting when I got older, especially in high school. Boys were always approaching me, saying how pretty I was, asking me out all the time. All the guys wanted to be with me. And the girls wanted to be me. I enjoyed it a helluva lot. God, I was so vain then. Or simply too young. But, little by little, things started to change. More accurately, actually, I started to change. And I remember the exact day that was the tipping point.
Our tenth-grade music and theater teacher announced that I’d been cast as the lead in the school play. I was so happy and proud of myself because of how hard I worked to get the role—learning the whole script by heart and spending hours practicing in front of the mirror. I even skipped my sister’s birthday party so I could rehearse a bit more before my audition the following day. But after the announcement, I heard other students whispering: Oh, everyone knows she just got the role because she’s pretty. Everybody kept saying it, and by the time the classes let out, even I believed it. The next morning, I told my teacher that I quit. Then, I went home and cried.
After that, similar things happened quite often. It wasn’t my paper on world hunger that got me chosen to speak during a school event, but rather because she would look good on the poster. And I didn’t graduate high school with a 4.0 GPA because I had taken extra online courses, it was because she got extra credits for flashing her tits at the dean.
“You know, I got the highest grade in my cryptography class last semester. The best result in the past decade,” I say.
“I’m not surprised.”
