Beautiful Beast: An Age Gap Forced Proximity Mafia Romance (Mafia Legacy – Perfectly Imperfect Book 1)

The sun is on my face. I can feel its warmth. A faint scent of brine is in the air, mixed with a masculine fragrance. Strange buzzing not too far away. Crickets? No, it can’t be. There are no crickets in Chicago.

The sound of steps. Retreating.

“Mom?” I mumble into the pillow. “Draw the damn drapes.”

More footsteps, but further away now. The unmistakable click of a shutting door.

I squint my eyes open. Then, spring up in bed, madly looking around the unfamiliar room.

The walls are the color of pale-terracotta, adorned with stucco detailing and oil paintings depicting Mediterranean landscapes. An aged white wooden bookshelf, filled with dozens of leather-bound tomes, occupies the space between two sets of opened balcony doors. Long sheer curtains sway with the morning breeze.

I scramble down from the bed and do a quick assessment of myself.

My feet are bare. Someone removed my sneakers and socks, but I’m still dressed in the same outfit as yesterday—gray jeans and an oversized shirt—wrinkled to hell from sleeping in it. And then, there are my wrists. Both are wrapped in gauze, right over my injuries from the handcuffs.

Bewildered, I focus on the two doors on the opposite wall, wondering where they lead. As I head across the room and past the couch that faces the fireplace, the soft plush rug tickles the soles of my feet. That masculine essence in the air is stronger around this spot, but there’s another smell here, as well. Coffee. I look down at the low table in front of the couch. A single espresso cup sits atop it. The tiny cup is half-empty, as if whoever was drinking the rich-brown nectar left in a hurry. As heavenly as that aroma is, the male scent lingers. Cypress and orange.

Panic grips me. Someone was here while I slept.

“I see you’re up and about. I hope you like your accommodations.”

My head snaps up, eyes zeroing in on the blond dude from yesterday. He’s in jeans again, and a bright-green T-shirt. Leaning on the doorjamb, he’s holding a plate overflowing with food. My mouth waters just looking at it.

Swallowing hard and willing my stomach not to rumble, I take a step back. “Were you here the whole night, creep?”

“Excuse me?”

“You left your coffee.”

His gaze slides to the espresso cup, eyebrows furrowing, then casually strolls inside, lowering the plate onto the coffee table right next to the abandoned drink.

“You’re free to roam around the house and go outside on the patio, but please don’t try to run away. The property is surrounded by an electric fence, and cameras monitor the grounds. The security staff are authorized to shoot if they find you trying to escape. Rafael will come to see you later today to discuss your situation.”

“My situation?” Eyes flaring, I can’t believe he has the gall to make that remark.

“Exactly. It would be to your benefit to behave until my brother returns.”

“Your brother? So he’s in charge around here? I assume he’s the one who ordered me kidnapped?”

“Yes. Yes. And yes, again.”

“Then, kindly relay this to your brother.” I fist my hands and march across the room until I’m standing right in front of this arrogant pissant. “When my father finds out about this, he’s going to chop both of you into tiny little pieces. And then, he’ll throw those to our dogs. I’m going to enjoy watching them feast on your flesh while I drink margaritas and relish the sound of your intestines being chewed to bits. After, I’ll happily wait until the pooches shit out your digested remains.”

Guido’s lips widen into a lopsided smile. “Thank you for such a detailed explanation, Miss Petrova. I’ll be downstairs if you happen to need anything.”

I gape at his back as he leaves the room and shuts the enormous door behind him.

The bastards found out who I am. Or, more importantly, who my dad is. Well, no wonder I got upgraded from the basement to this lavish bedroom. I’m certain the “high-and-mighty Rafael” is currently quaking in his boots, trying to find a way to fix his fuckup. I can’t wait to see all these assholes on their knees, begging for their lives—in vain.

I reach out and snatch a pastry off the plate, letting the sweetness of the flaky buttery dough and custard dissolve on my tongue. As I’m chewing, I approach the first of two doors on the left side of the room. It opens to a huge office space. The decor is all dark colors, with more bookshelves along the walls. On the far side, an oversized recliner and an occasional table are set on another thick area rug. But toward the front, a massive desk faces the opened French doors that lead to a balcony.

Hurriedly chewing on the croissant, I rush toward the desk, hoping to find a phone or a laptop, anything really, that would let me contact my family. I come up empty. The blond guy—what the hell was his name? Guido?—said I’m free to roam through the house, and I intend to do just that. Just as soon as I go to the bathroom, because my bladder is about to burst. I head back into the bedroom and straight toward the door I’ve yet to explore.

As I’m drying my hands and planning on returning to the office to search it again, my eyes fall on the enormous bathtub. It’s one of those vintage claw-foot tubs, big enough to fit at least three people.

I throw a look at the mirror, eyeing my reflection. Dreadful doesn’t even come close to describing my current appearance. My hair is tangled, my shirt and pants are filthy, and I have dirt smeared all over my face.

Lovely.

I’m betting the bossy Rafael probably already called my dad, which means he and Mom are on their way here to come get me. If they see me looking this ragged, God knows what they’ll think happened to me. Mom will cry. Dad will lose his ever-loving shit. Likely before I get the chance to tell them I’m fine.

It would be better to clean myself up before the ’rents arrive.

I fill the tub, then take off my clothes and submerge in the warm water, letting the images of my kidnappers writhing in pain on the ground crowd my mind. Although I haven’t yet met Rafael, I picture him looking similar to his brother. Blond hair cut close to the scalp, green eyes, an athletic build, but more lean than muscular.

Oh, I can’t wait to see them all pay.

I surge back up and search for a shower gel. There’s only one option, and a bottle of shampoo next to it. Both with that distinct manly scent. I guess I’m staying in Guido’s room, using his toiletries. I squeeze a hefty amount of the body wash onto my palm and continue cleaning myself while the crickets’ chirping carries inside through the open window overlooking the garden.

Only after I’m bathed and dried, do I realize that I don’t have a change of clothes. Holding the fluffy brown towel tightly around me, I tiptoe out of the bathroom directly to the walk-in closet I spied while snooping. There have to be T-shirts and shorts in there. I can’t say I find the idea of wearing Guido’s clothes appealing, but it’s either that or my soiled outfit.

The door to the walk-in opens soundlessly. Several small pod lights flick on, revealing the huge interior and its contents.

Suits. Dozens of them line the rack on my right. Black. Gunmetal gray. Charcoal. I lightly glide my fingers over the exquisite fabrics. I’ve always found men in suits hot. Maybe because of the serious air that seems to engulf a man dressed in a fine suit. There’s always something commanding about his presence. Potent. Seductive.

A few months back, there was a party at Don Rossi’s house, with a specific dress code for the evening. Long elegant gowns for women. And of course, suits for men. My ovaries nearly imploded just from the sight alone. Unfortunately, my excitement was short-lived. At Yulia’s insistence, I wore her body-hugging black gown with a high slit on the side. My sister also did my makeup. Every man who approached me ended up either staring at my face or my boobs and mumbled nonsense. A few who managed intelligent words, quickly turned whatever meaningful conversation we were having into something they thought would make me fall into their bed.

An almost identical script, with very few minor variations. Do you know you’re the most beautiful woman in the room? Or, You look like an angel who descended from the heavens. And my absolute favorite: Marry me. We’ll make such beautiful babies. Really, dude? And my sister wonders why I don’t go to parties more often.

There is absolutely no worse feeling than chatting with a guy you’re beginning to like and realizing he doesn’t actually give a fuck who you are, what your interests are, or even what you’re talking about. It makes me feel so . . . hollow. Like I’m nothing more than my looks.

I’m a person, damn it! Not just a shiny trinket to play with.

I have thoughts and feelings, and if any of them bothered to ask, I’m actually capable of getting things done. Things where being a female has no bearing.

Maybe, one day, I’ll meet a man who’ll like me for who I am on the inside, and won’t simply be enamored with my exterior. And who won’t hightail it when he meets my dad.

Maybe, he’ll be a suit guy.

I let go of the lapel on the light-gray jacket I’ve been fondling and move over to the shirts. Guido, with his laid-back attitude and washed-out jeans, doesn’t strike me as someone who likes to wear suits, but he must, considering the obvious. I have only a vague recollection of last night. The post-adrenaline crash and drowsiness hit me hard, but I remember trying to slash Guido’s throat with a . . . broken bottle. Guess that didn’t work out for me. Then, I was floating. Probably, being carried up the stairs. And there was a rough palm against my cheek. The blondie had to have brought me to his bedroom. That faint scent I smelled when I woke up, I recall inhaling it while I was draped around his neck. Such a shame that a tool like him has such nice taste in clothes and fragrances. I can only hope he wears one of his bespoke suits when Dad kills him.

White. Black. Gray. His button-down shirts are even nicer. I pick a black one (less chance for my boobs to show through the material since I don’t have a bra) and slide it off the hanger. My forehead creases as I hold it out in front of me. What the hell is the size of this thing? It looks gigantic. Glancing at the label, I snort. The number makes absolutely no sense to me. All I can think is it must be the Sicilian way of indicating “tent-size.” Guido didn’t seem that large to me. I check out a few more shirts, but they’re all the same measurement. Maybe blondie lost a lot of weight? No wonder he no longer wears these.

Slipping my arms into the shirt, I peer down at myself. I look just like Mom when she wears one of Dad’s button-downs. The hem literally reaches past my knees, and the sleeves are almost double the length of my arms. At least no one will be able to tell I’m not wearing panties. I fold the sleeves over my forearms (half a dozen times), then grab one of the ties from a drawer and wrap it around my waist as a belt.

Next step—find a way to contact my family and determine when they’re arriving.

* * *

Ten thousand square feet of living space and not a single phone. I’ve even considered trying to use a browser app on a TV, but I didn’t find one in any of the common areas. No other people either, excluding the guards I spied making rounds along the formidable-looking barricade of closely spaced thick metal posts connected by row upon row of smooth cable wiring. That must be the electric fence Guido mentioned, and it seems to encircle the property. I think one of the guards was following me, too, because I felt eyes on me from time to time, but I never saw anyone.

I stumbled upon Guido working on his laptop out on the terrace just off the main living room. When I asked about the “lord of the manor’s” plans for gracing me with his presence, he just shrugged. The boss man is probably hiding in some hole, chewing his nails to the quick while pondering what kind of casket to order for his own funeral.

After that, I went down to a small beach that can only be reached using narrow stone steps cut into the side of the bluff. No one tried to stop me. Maybe because it’s a dead end, with high cliffs on the three sides and an endless sea on the fourth. Zero escape options. I lounged on the warm sand for almost an hour, then returned to the villa and checked out all the rooms again. One set looked like someone’s private living quarters with vastly different décor from the rest of the house—more modern—but some of the doors within were locked. Must be the abode belonging to the “mighty” brother.

Holy shit, there’s more life in the catacombs than in this beautiful but devoid place. After hours of exploring, I did bump into a maid while she was wiping down the kitchen counter, and then again when she carried folded towels up the stairs. But both times, as soon as she saw me, she hightailed it to God knows where.

Continuing to drift aimlessly from room to room, I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. Several ready-to-eat packaged entrées are stacked on the shelves. I move mushroom pasta to the side (I tried some of it earlier in the day) and pull out a chicken salad.

I stab a piece of meat, but after a moment, just stick everything back into the fridge. I’m not hungry. I just want to go home, damn it. The round white clock on the wall shows it’s almost eleven in the evening. Why am I still here?

There’s an opened bottle of red wine on the fridge door. I don’t remember seeing it here before. The label is the same as on the bottle I broke in the cellar, and that memory instantly pops into my mind. I pour myself a glass and meander out of the kitchen.

A warm breeze blows my hair as I step out onto the wide terrace overlooking the sea and prop my elbows on the railing. If I weren’t a prisoner here, I’d be enjoying the breathtaking view and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Out in the distance along the coast, several tiny twinkling lights are aglow. Straining my eyes into the darkness, I lean forward, trying to decipher what they are.

“Fishing boats,” a deep male voice rumbles behind me.

I swing around, startled, and the wine splashes everywhere, including all over my borrowed outfit. With no lamps on the terrace, the only illumination is the ambient light spilling from inside the house through the massive French windows and doors. There’s not enough of it, though, to chase away the shadows outside. The figure of a man—a very broad, muscular man—is sitting on the wicker recliner at the patio’s far side. His face is hidden by the darkness, but I can see that he’s wearing dress pants and a button-down, with a vest over the top. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. A length of white bandage is wrapped around his right forearm.

“I got your message.” He lifts the wineglass in his hand and takes a sip. “Very eloquent, Miss Petrova. I especially liked the part about defecating dogs.”

Goose bumps run down my arms from the rich timbre of his voice. It’s hoarse and gruff, but the strong Italian accent makes it sound less gravelly. There isn’t a single soft note in it. With his powerfully built body laid back so casually, I feel like I’m facing an indomitable large feline. One who’s eyeing his next meal. Me.

“Rafael, I presume?” I swallow as I take him in. He doesn’t seem like he’s been quaking in his boots, concerned about his life. “When is my dad arriving?”

“I wasn’t aware that Pakhan Petrov intended to visit Sicily.”

“He’s coming to take me home.” I retreat a step while panic begins to rise from the pit of my stomach. “You told him I’m here.”

“Have I? Why would I do that?”

“Because you know who I am. And because my father is going to kill you if you don’t let me go.”

He takes another sip of the wine. “Who your father is has no bearing on my plans.”

“What . . . plans?” I manage to ask as panic ratchets into terror.

“You will be fixing the mess you created when you intruded into my company’s network system, for starters.”

“I . . . I have no idea what you’re talking about. What system?”

“Please, Miss Petrova, let’s not play dumb. I had my brother complete an extensive background check on you. You studied computer science. Graduated with a bachelor’s degree earlier this month and have been accepted into an advanced software engineering master’s program.” An aura of impending doom descends with his every word. “Was it your father who put you up to this? Got you to breach my company’s firewalls and create back doors to the network? What was your goal? Find your way to my client list?”

“What?” I choke out. “No. My dad had nothing to do with that.”

“So it was you, after all.”

Shit. I look away. “Yes.”

“What was the purpose of your actions?”

“Your IT security is good. It was a challenge to break it. And I was . . . bored.”

“You were bored?” His voice is hushed, but there is a dangerous edge to it now. “I have four people working on identifying whatever malware or shit you downloaded into my systems. What you did has left a clusterfuck that they still haven’t managed to untangle.”

This conversation isn’t going the way I expected. I was sure he’d apologize, then stumble over his feet to send me home as soon as possible. This is the furthest thing from that.

With the wind blowing in my face, hurling my hair into my eyes, I take another step back.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, okay? It’s just a tiny bit of code. I can fix it the moment I get home. Can you please let me go?”

“One’s actions bear consequences, Miss Petrova. That’s how the real world works. Your little game left my company vulnerable to more cyberattacks. So, no, I will not let you go.” He lifts his ankle onto the opposite knee and leans back. “I want to offer you a job.”

“A job?” It comes out as a shrill while I stare at this lunatic. “You had me kidnapped, drugged, flown to another continent, thrown into a goddamned cellar, and now you expect me to work for you?”

“Yes, I think that sums up the situation rather well. I’m offering three million for your services.”

A hysterical laugh escapes me. He’s insane! “You can take your millions and shove them up your ass! I demand to be sent home. Right the fuck now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.” Rafael takes out his phone and tosses it to me. “Play the video.”

I almost don’t catch the thing.

The still image displays high-rise rooftops. The familiar play control taunts me from the center of the screen. I press the triangle, starting the video.

Sky. Rooftops. The camera pans, focusing on a man in an all-black tactical outfit, lying close to the building’s edge. He’s holding a sniper rifle pointed at something on the ground, his eye is trained on the scope.

The view shifts to the left, zooming in on a top-floor window of the building across the street. Another man with a long-range weapon.

I swallow past the knot in my throat, and my grip on the phone tightens.

The camera moves again, to the sidewalk thirty or so stories below. Then, the angle suddenly changes—the same sidewalk, but now the video is being taken from street level. The shot is of a couple, standing with their backs to the lens. The woman has long black hair, and she’s clutching the man’s forearm in a viselike grip while he holds a phone to his ear. He looks down at the woman and shakes his head, then lowers the phone. They turn around, and rush down the street.

The wineglass slips from my hand and crashes on the stone tiles beneath my bare feet, shards ricocheting everywhere around me.

Mom and Dad.

“You bastard,” I whisper. My lips tremble as I stare at the screen.

“Everyone has a price.” Rafael’s deep voice breaks through my stupor, sounding closer than earlier.

Turning in the direction of that baritone, I come abreast of the broad male chest. I tilt my head up. And up. The light from inside the house has turned Rafael’s enormous form into a silhouette, and his face remains hidden by shadows.

“What do you need me to do?” I nearly sob.

His hands take hold of my waist, lifting me. I drop the phone, grabbing at his forearms and kicking my legs.

“Let go of me!”

Rafael ignores my protests, hoisting me higher until our faces are nearly aligned. His breath fans my skin while the woodsy aroma of cypress and citrusy notes of oranges tingle my nostrils. It’s the scent I smelled in the upstairs bedroom. His bedroom. A small shudder runs down my spine, but this time, it’s not from fear. His presence is so profound, I’m finding it hard to draw enough air into my lungs. He seems absolutely unperturbed by the possible consequences of his actions, and I don’t think he’s faking it. He actually doesn’t give a fuck, completely unconcerned about my father’s wrath.

“What do you want from me?” I ask again.

He pulls me a little closer. The way he casually holds me, a foot off the ground, is distressing. But in a ridiculously sensual sort of way.

“I want you to overhaul my digital security systems, Miss Petrova.”

Rafael

Barely containing my laughter, I watch the expression on Vasilisa’s face change from confusion to absolute shock. You’d think I just asked her to kill someone for me.

“You kidnapped me so I could upgrade your firewalls?”

Did I? I’m not exactly sure. When I ordered my men to deliver the fucking hacker, I intended to torture the stupid dick for a bit as punishment for screwing around with my business, and then dispose of him. I never expected a slip-of-a-girl. One who gave my men a beatdown, then tried to slice open my throat. I think that’s the first time ever a woman has tried to kill me. And I find it hot as hell.

“Not just the firewalls. I want you to analyze the digital environment used by my company and then rewrite the security protocols for every IT system.”

Vasilisa’s eyes widen in pure astonishment. With the light at my back reflecting in her dark-as-night irises, those expressive orbs seem aglow. Between her fury and determination, this unpredictable woman has fire in her doe-like eyes. Beautiful doesn’t even come close to describing her.

A soft, creamy complexion. Thin, arched eyebrows that frame those mesmerizing onyx eyes. Prominent cheekbones tapering gently to a narrow chin. Small, straight nose. And then, there’s her delectable pink mouth, with rosy, kissable lips. The lower one is slightly fuller than the upper, beckoning a man to pull it between his teeth. Every part of her facial features is perfect, so much so that the entire thing defies reality. The sight is simply unearthly, and it’s impossible to look away from her.

“That could take days,” she blurts out.

Yes, in theory. In reality, however, it will take as long as I want it to take. Vasilisa Petrova might be the most beautiful creature who has ever crossed my path, but for the first time in my life, I’m drawn to a woman because of more than just her looks.

She’s bold. Courageous. Feisty. But also kind of grumpy, in such an adorable way.

And I don’t intend to let her slip away from me.

I tilt my head and behold the strands of her silky hair that have fallen over her diamond-shaped face. Jet-black, just like the night sky overhead. The tendrils flutter on the breeze, partially obscuring my view of her slightly frantic eyes. I wish I could sweep the wisps behind her dainty ears, but my hands are occupied, wrapped around her slender waist.

“You’ll stay as long as it takes. Until you’re finished,” I say and blow a breath across her face, puffing away the glossy strands.

Vasilisa blinks, then furrows her eyebrows. She still has a hold of my forearms, but her grip has mercifully loosened, and I’m grateful since her nails were digging right into the cut she made last night.

“Why did you do that?” she mumbles.

“I like looking people in the eyes when I speak with them.”

Glass crunches under my shoes when I carry my prisoner over the shattered stemware, then slowly lower Vasilisa to the ground next to the guardrail edging the terrace. She tries to step aside, but I plant my palms on the railing at her back, caging her with my arms.

“A word of advice, Miss Petrova. Don’t test me. If you try to escape or contact anyone to let them know where you are, I’ll give the order to have your family executed. Not just your parents. Your brother and sister will be included in that. But, if you follow the rules, when your work here is complete, you’ll be free to go. Are we clear?”

Her body quivers, and I expect weeping to be not far behind. Instead, she juts out her chin and levels me with that stubborn gaze. Bravado, not tears, pours out of her. But as much as she tries to hide her fear, I can see the leashed alarm in her dark glossy depths.

“Why should I believe you? What guarantee is there that you’ll let me go after I fix your systems?”

“End goal. It’s why I’m trusting you not to run and letting you stay in a nice bedroom instead of keeping you tied up in the cellar for the duration of our deal.” I lean forward. “Do you want to go back to the basement?”

Those dark eyes narrow at me in disdain. “I hope you die a very slow and extremely painful death.”

“I’ll take that as a no. Good. Mutual trust is the foundation for all successful endeavors. We’ll start tomorrow evening, after I return from work.” I let my gaze slide down to her chest, eyeing the cleavage peeking out between the lapels of the man’s dress shirt she has on. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

“What? I thought it was your brother’s,” she bites out, eyes flashing in exasperation. “If I’d known— You know what . . . never mind. I’ll just go find him and ask if he has something I can borrow, if it bothers you that much.”

Rage surges inside me. Just a thought of her dressed in anything that belongs to another man, even my brother’s, makes my skin crawl. “No. You won’t be wearing Guido’s shit.”

“If I’m being held prisoner here, I need clothes!”

I guess she does. But I quite like how she looks in my shirt. “Feel free to help yourself to anything you want from my closet.”

Vasilisa leans back. “Not happening.”

She’s going to fall off the damn terrace. My hand slides to the small of her back, holding her steady. “Then, you’ll walk around naked.”

“Fuck you,” she says through her teeth. “Get your hand off me.”

Reluctantly, I pull away but allow my fingers to graze her arm in the process. “I look forward to doing business with you, Miss Petrova.”

“Well, the feeling is most definitely not mutual.” She steps around me and storms inside the house.

I follow her with my eyes as she dashes across the living room and up the stairs, then head back to my lounging spot. My bedroom is just above the terrace, so I have a clear view of the figure that steps onto the upper balcony five minutes later.

The breeze makes her hair float around her face as she leans over the railing, gaze focused on the fishing boats bobbing in the distance, and her bare toes peek out through the guardrail posts. Retrieving my glass of wine from the patio table, I shift further into the shadows, leaning on the stone wall at my back, and keep my eager eyes on my feisty Russian princess.

* * *

“What do you mean ‘she’s staying here’?” Guido gapes at me. “I thought you had our team shoot that video to pressure her not to reveal our identities to Petrov after we send her back.”

“That video is insurance. But for another purpose.” I lean back on the couch. “I offered her a job.”

“You offered a job to a woman you had kidnapped?”

“Yes. I offered her three million dollars for her services. She declined. Her exact words were: ‘Take your millions and shove them up your ass.’”

Guido sighs and sits on the recliner across from me. “Fucking Christ. What kind of services?”

“It looks like our network crashed unexpectedly. I want her to fix it.”

“Other than the back door she somehow created, there’s nothing wrong with our systems.”

“There is now. I called Mitch and ordered his guys to scramble our root directories and applications until they barely function. Miss Petrova has been persuaded to remain as our guest until all of the issues are resolved. Since she was not receptive to my money, I was forced to find a currency that she could not reject. Seems she likes her family and is willing to fix our IT systems to deter the threat on their lives.”

“So how long is this ‘fix’ going to take?”

“I instructed Mitch to keep up the sabotage, covertly of course, until I say otherwise.” I glance down at my bandaged forearm and smile.

“You like her.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus fuck, Raff. I know you’re accustomed to getting anything you want, women included, but this? Blackmailing this girl to stay here by threatening to kill her parents? There are hundreds of women—beautiful women—who would rush to your side. All you need to do is snap your fingers.”

“You mean, wave my credit card.”

“Rafael—”

“The subject is closed,” I interrupt. “I’m going to pay a visit to Calogero tomorrow. One of his goons has been seen at the Catania Port. Our godfather will keep his butt in Palermo, as we agreed, or he won’t enjoy the reminder I’ll mete out. I won’t allow him to infringe on what’s mine.”

When I returned to Sicily, Mancuzo—the Cosa Nostra Don at the time—had already lost his hold over most of the eastern part of the island. The territory from Catania to Ragusa was ruled by gangs. It took me two years to rectify that situation and take control of the area. After Calogero stepped into his role within the Family, I agreed to his dominion across western Sicily, but the east coast is under my reign.

“Calogero is bleeding money from using the cruise ships and passenger ferries to transport his product. He needs access to the main cargo shipping lines, and those all run through the Port of Catania. I don’t think he’ll let it go, Raff.”

“Not my problem. I don’t want his drugs in my port.” I grab my jacket off the back of the sofa and stand up. “I’m going to bed.”

“And where will that be, if I may ask? Since, apparently, you gave up your bedroom to our hostage.”

“Guest room.”

“Why not move her there instead?”

I meet my brother’s gaze. “Because the only bed she’ll be sleeping in from now on, is mine.”