“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.”
“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.
