“Everyone said it was because ‘the professor wanted to bang me.’ Not because I worked my butt off studying.”

“Why do you care what anyone thinks?”

I look up and meet Rafael’s gaze. The space between my temples feels strangely light and airy. I should probably cut back on the wine. Especially since my tongue has gotten loose. Why is it so easy to talk to him?

“People are not islands, Rafael. We don’t exist alone, detached from everything. You can’t just ignore others’ opinions.”

“I don’t agree.”

The lantern hanging among the grape leaves above our table swings in the soft breeze, casting an intermittent glow over his harsh features and making the lines on his face even more pronounced in the interplay of light and shadows. His thumb resumes its gentle caress on my chin, sending pulses of pleasure along my skin. My fingers itch to do the same to him.

“Oh? And yet, you spent days hiding from me. Why?”

“People have very strong reactions when they see my face for the first time. Women especially. I didn’t want you to be afraid of me.”

“There are many things that scare me, Rafael. Your face isn’t one of them.”

“Tell me what they are, and I’ll vanquish each one.”

“Heights. Water creatures. Malls.”

“Shopping malls?”

“Yes. I can’t handle them.” I hold his gaze. “But my worst fear . . . is of my loved ones getting hurt. Will you please pull your henchmen whose crosshairs are aimed at my family?”

The muscle in Rafael’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t reply.

“Please,” I whisper. “I promise I’ll keep to our deal and stay until my job is done.”

It doesn’t feel so unbearable anymore. Staying here. With him. If I were brutally honest with myself, I’d admit that my heart constricts as if it’s being squeezed by a viselike grip whenever I think about leaving. I quite enjoy our everyday bickering. I like spending time with him. I like . . . him. My God, why couldn’t we have met under different circumstances? I have no doubts that I would have totally fallen for Rafael then. But maybe, regardless of our situation, I already have? No. Absolutely not. It’s simply the wine talking.

Rafael takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as his eyes sear into mine, then leans back in his chair and pulls out his phone. My heart thumps so fast it could break through my ribs as he dials someone and puts the phone up to his ear.

“Guido, recall the team on the Petrovs . . . Yes, now.”

“Thank you,” I say when he hangs up.

Rafael’s hand shoots out, grabbing the back of my neck. His gaze locks with mine, his green eyes glistening with menace. “Break your word, and you know what’ll happen. Do you understand?”

“I won’t break it.”

“Good. Let’s order.” He gestures at the waiter offhandedly.

The diners at the other tables keep throwing covert glances in our direction throughout our meal. They don’t think they’re being obvious, but I catch every single look.

By morning, everyone living in the area will know that I had dinner with an unknown woman. Taormina is a small town, and here, I’m the primary subject of gossip.

There are two popular topics of speculation. The first—what happened that caused me to look like this. Theories are endless, from a car crash in the US to being tortured by Mancuso before I made my escape as a kid. The second revolves around my love life. Guido told me that every time I’m seen with a new hookup, there are bets on whether she’ll be the one who’ll capture my alleged heart.

I don’t have a problem with prying eyes trying to catch glimpses of us. But I do have an issue with men ogling my woman. Like the guy sitting at the table to our right. He’s been salivating over my Russian princess for the past few minutes. It started with an occasional subtle peek as soon as we walked in, but his stares have been getting bolder. Making sure Vasilisa is still engrossed in choosing her dessert, I take the paring knife from the rustic citrus board that had accompanied our platter of a whole roast chicken. It’s small but extremely sharp.

“What are these?” Vasilisa asks, looking over the selection of sweets the waiter brought out.

“Cannoli,” I say, testing the tip of the knife with my thumb. “They have a creamy sweet ricotta cheese filling, as well as other variations with vanilla, chocolate, and pistachio.”

Pinching the blade with my fingertips, I assess the distance, then flick my wrist and send the knife sailing in a slight arc. The tip lodges in the wooden tabletop, right between the fucktard’s dinner plate and his hand holding a fork. The man tenses, gaping at me. I motion with two fingers to my eyes, then point to the knife protruding inches from his flesh, silently letting him know that it’s the only spot he’s allowed to look at. The guy quickly nods, his eyes snapping down to the table surface.

“Why did you do that?” Vasilisa asks, her gaze zeroed in on the knife. I hoped she wouldn’t notice.

“There was a cockroach. Nasty little buggers.” I take one of the cannoli from the serving tray and lift it to her mouth. “Delectable traditional filling. Try it.”

Vasilisa blinks, her eyes bouncing between mine and the pastry, then slowly leans forward and takes a small bite of the offering. Powdered sugar and some of the cream end up on her rosy lips, broadcasting flashes of her sinful mouth wrapped around my cock straight to my brain.

I’ve been probing the entire evening—small touches here and there to garner her reaction to me. She hasn’t recoiled once. I’m tempted to conclude that those ruby earrings did make a difference, even though she returned the gift. Still, even with the incentive, her behavior is unlike anything I’ve come to expect from a woman. Vasilisa’s eyes remain locked on mine as I brush the remnants from her lips with my thumb and keep stroking the plumped flesh even after the confection is gone.

Time stops as my finger traces her mouth, until my phone vibrates on the table with an incoming message, breaking the spell.

“Um . . . thank you,” she mumbles and straightens quickly.

“Anytime.” Amused by the look of confusion on her face, I smirk and pick up my phone. The text is from Guido, letting me know that several of Calogero’s men were seen in Catania earlier tonight. “I’m afraid we have to leave.”

“Yeah, um . . . sure,” she stammers through her words. “I left a diagnostic program running on the server I fixed yesterday. It should be done by the time we get back, so I can resume working.”

“As much as I’d like to spend the evening watching you work, it’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I have to go to Catania as soon as I drop you off.” I rise and remove my suit jacket, holding it out in front of me.

Vasilisa glances at the jacket I’m offering, then back up at me, arching her eyebrow. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“There are goose bumps all over your arms,” I growl. “Put it on or I’m going to force you into it. Now, please.”

Grumbling something in Russian, she turns around and slides her arms through the sleeves. When she faces me again, my eyes sweep over her, marveling at the sight of my little trickster in my suit jacket. I’m extremely territorial when it comes to my personal things, clothes especially. Allowing anyone to wear something of mine is too intimate. And I don’t do intimate. But seeing Vasilisa dwarfed by my huge jacket has the same effect on me as seeing her wearing my shirts. It makes me instantly hard as granite.

Every man who sets eyes on her now will know that she’s mine. The thought makes my cock swell even more, aching painfully behind the zipper of my pants. Maybe I should throw away all the clothes I bought her and have her walk around in nothing but my shirts again?

“You know, this deal of ours would be concluded much faster if you let me keep the laptop and work throughout the day,” she says while trying to fold the sleeve and squinting her eyes.

“Exactly.” I gently move Vasilisa’s hand away and begin rolling up the sleeve for her. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Just two glasses. Maybe three.” She tries to pull her arm free, stumbling backward in the process. My hand shoots out instantly, wrapping around her waist to keep her steady.

I pull her flush with my chest as I glance at the wine left on the table. The bottle is nearly empty, and I only drank half a glass. I guess she resorted to getting wasted to endure looking at my deformed face for a couple of hours. She’s not the first. One of my past hookups always got drunk before meeting up with me.

I move my hand off Vasilisa’s waist and take a step back. “Let’s go.”

She barely manages two full steps without swaying. Fuck. I wrap my arm around her again and slide the other one under her knees, lifting and cradling her to my chest. With her face only inches from mine, I can’t help but expect her to scream or wince. But, just like that night in the rock garden, she only bats her long lashes at me. Her unfocused gaze meets mine, and I recall that she was drunk then, also. Maybe that’s the reason for her lack of reaction.

“You can close your eyes if it’ll make it easier,” I say.