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

20 years later

Present day

Being kidnapped sucks.

Being kidnapped with your bladder full sucks significantly more.

“I need to pee,” I mumble.

The jackass across from me looks up from his phone and sends me a sinister smile. It doesn’t actually have the impact he aimed for because it instantly transforms into a pained grimace. He presses his meaty palm to his chin, patting the big red bruise spreading across his ugly mug.

“No,” he barks and goes back to fidgeting with his device, dismissing me completely. It looks like he’s still stewing over me hitting him with my backpack.

The low rumble of the plane’s engines competes with the sounds of a football game coming from his phone’s speaker. I clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking. Slipping into hysteria would accomplish absolutely nothing, and will likely make my chances of escape even slimmer. I need to stay calm. Or, as calm as possible, considering my current situation.

Easier said than done.

My eyes glide over the swanky interior of the aircraft. On either side of the central aisle, four large recliner seats dominate the space. Toward the front of the cabin, two cushiony sofas face each other. The interior is all pristine beige leather and rich wooden accents. I’ve been in private planes several times, but this one is another level of extravagance.

As far as conditions for being held against your will go, these could be much worse, but nice surroundings don’t abate my growing panic. Jackass number two is sprawled on the sofa on the left-hand side, watching—of all things—a travel infomercial on the big-screen TV mounted to the bulkhead.

My heart continues its staccato beat inside my ribcage, just like it did when these two pricks snatched me off the street and stuffed me into their van. The bastards never told me why they targeted me or where they were taking me. We drove for some time to arrive at a small private airport outside Chicago. The plane was already waiting on the tarmac when we pulled up.

How long have we been flying? An hour? Two? Ten? I’m not sure because they put some acid-smelling rag over my mouth and nose the moment we stepped foot inside this plane. I guess I shouldn’t have kneed the infomercial-loving lunkhead in the balls on my way up the airstairs. Can’t say he liked it.

I turn back to the scumbag sitting across from me. He’s still pretending to be engrossed in the game playing on his phone, but he’s been stealing glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Fucking creep.

“Listen, if you don’t take me to the bathroom, I’ll just pee right here.” I widen my legs as much as my bound ankles allow. “Not sure the fancy leather will fare well, though.”

“Christ!” He leaps from his seat and grabs my arm, pulling me up to stand. “Hank, I’m taking the nutcase to the restroom.”

“Keep your eyes on her hands this time or you’ll end up sporting another bruise,” Hank groans from the sofa, moving his hand to shift his dick as if worried he lost it.

“I can’t walk with my legs tied, idiot!” I snap as the man drags me down the narrow aisle between the seats. “And I need you to remove the handcuffs.”

“Then hop. And I’m not freeing your hands.” He grabs the links between my wrists and pulls.

I cry out in pain. The skin on my wrists is already raw from when he yanked me up the final couple of stairs while we were boarding. That happened after I got up close and personal with his buddy’s jewels. My eyes prickle with unshed tears, but I blink rapidly, keeping the waterworks at bay by sheer will. I half shuffle, half hop between the seats before the knucklehead’s bruteness has me falling flat on my face. When we reach the back of the plane, he opens the lavatory door and pushes me inside.

“You have five minutes,” he growls and slams the door closed.

Like the rest of the jet, the restroom is luxurious. No stainless steel sink and such here; it’s all dark-brown wood cabinetry and beige leather upholstery. There is even a small cushioned bench seat in the corner. The elegant-looking vanity and the toilet are on the opposite side. It takes me four hops to reach them.

I take care of my business as fast as my handcuffed hands allow, then look around while trying to calm my nerves. It doesn’t really work. There’s a sick kind of feeling in my throat, as if I’m going to throw up any second, and the inside of this lavish room seems to be spinning around me. My hands are still shaking, partially from the pain, but mostly from fear. I’ve experienced a few stressful situations in my life. A shooting, when I was four. Two small fires when our cook accidentally set the kitchen ablaze while trying out French recipes. Even an attempted raid on our home when my father was at war with a rival crime organization some years back. But no kidnappings. Maybe I should have expected this, seeing as my dad is the leader of Chicago Bratva.

When I was grabbed off the street, in broad daylight, I was sure it had something to do with my father. Ransoming the pakhan’s daughter can potentially yield someone a lot of money—if the dimwit lives long enough to see it, that is. But now, I don’t think it’s about making a buck from kidnapping. Considering what I’ve seen so far, whoever had me abducted has to be seriously loaded. Is this because of some mob feud? Retaliation for something my father did?

Bang!

“Are you done, yet?” an angry voice seethes from the other side of the door.

“I need a few more minutes!” I yell back as I crouch to open the cupboard under the sink. “It’s not exactly easy to unbutton jeans while your hands are cuffed.”

He barks something in retort, but I don’t hear it, too focused on rummaging through the contents of the cupboard. Toilet paper. Towels. Extra soap. And . . . a disposable toothbrush.

“I can work with that,” I whisper.

I tear the plastic wrap with my teeth and, somehow, manage to stuff the brush up my sleeve. Then, I continue going through the rest of the supplies.

Sponge. More towels. Condoms. Really? Who the hell fucks on a plane? I shake my head and resume. Dental floss. Mm-hmm . . . I rip off an arm’s length, wrapping the two ends around my fingers to make it taut, then yank them apart as much as I can, testing out how sturdy it is. My uncle once showed me how to strangle someone using a garrote and— The shitty thread snaps on the second pull. Yeah . . . that won’t work. I shift my attention to the lower shelf.

Cleaning supplies, but the bottles are too big to be concealed. Plastic gloves. And . . . a spray deodorant. Men’s. Travel size. Perfect.

I grab the container, straighten up, and push the little tube canister into the waistband of my jeans. The door flies open just as I’m adjusting my oversized shirt to cover my hidden stash.

“You done?” the jackass asks. I believe Hank referred to this lug as Vinny earlier.

“Yup.” I hit the button to flush the toilet, then wash my hands while the impatient dick glares at me from the doorway. Ass. Hole.

With no other option, I hop out of the bathroom. All the while, the concealed deodorant digs into my hip. I’m not sure what kind of damage I can do with deodorant and a toothbrush, but we’ll see. I need to try to escape the moment we land and then replace a phone, or I might never get another chance.

My dad has connections all over the US. He’ll come for me right away. Or, if we’re not close to Chicago, Dad will arrange for someone to pick me up and take me somewhere safe until he can arrive. And he’ll kill these bastards . . .

Hop.

. . . in a very . . .

Hop.

. . . very . . .

Hop.

. . . painful way.

* * *

“We’re here,” Vinny says an hour or so later. “I’m going to free your legs now, but if you try pulling anything again, you’ll regret it.”

“Where are we?” I ask meekly, deciding a change in tactics is in order. Maybe if they think I’ve quit resisting, they’ll lower their guard?

The bastard ignores my question. He cuts the zip ties from around my ankles, then grabs my upper arm and jerks me up to stand. “Move.”

I tread between the seats and then down the narrow stairs from the plane to the tarmac, with jackass number one behind me and jackass two leading the way. The air is fresh, and the scent of brine carries on the slight breeze. We’re close to the coast. Florida maybe? It’s much warmer here than in Chicago.

The bastard whose balls I introduced to my knee—Hank—stops at the foot of the stairs, eyeing the dirt road extending away from the runway. I look around, taking in my surroundings. There’s not a soul anywhere in sight, and other than one small building off to the side, no other structures. This isn’t an actual airport at all. Just an airfield. A paved runway. Grass. And rolling hills. I’ve never been to Florida, but I don’t think it looks like this.

A bird’s shrill cry sounds somewhere above me, and I tilt my head up, focusing on the source. It’s a seagull. I squint my eyes because the sun is high in the sky. Midday. It can’t be midday. I got snatched in the late afternoon.

“Guido is late,” Vinny says as he comes to stand by Hank, his meaty grip on my arm unrelenting.

“He’ll be here soon.” Hank shrugs and reaches into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes.

I push thoughts about the time of day aside and fix my eyes on the lit lighter in Hank’s hand. My heart rate skyrockets, adrenaline surging through my veins as I stare at the small flame. This is my chance. But I need my arm to be free.

“Can I have one?” I ask. “Please?”

Hank narrows his eyes at me. “How old are you? Thirteen?”

I suppress the urge to knee him again and smile instead. Similar to my mom, I might be shorter than most women, but I’m sure the asshole can see the swell of boobs under my baggy shirt.

“Twenty-three.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hank snorts, taking a cigarette out of the pack and offering it to me.

“Do you mind?” I yank my arm away from Vinny’s squeezing, sausage-like fingers.

Vinny grunts, but releases me.

I take the offered cigarette and put it between my lips, fighting off a few strands of hair the light wind is tossing in my face. More of the unmistakable sea air invades my nostrils as I slowly move my hands to the waistband of my jeans. Hank flicks his Zippo again and extends it toward me.

My lips widen in a sugary grin. “Thank you.”

I lean back and lift the deodorant can in front of me, pressing the nozzle. For a speck of a second, a crisp manly scent wraps around me, but the next instant, the spray reaches the flame and the delicious male fragrance transforms into the stench of burning fabric and charred skin when my makeshift flamethrower hits its target.

Hank roars and stumbles backward, away from the fiery flow. I never expected to have an opportunity to try out this specific trick Uncle Sergei showed me, but life is full of surprises.

Triumph doesn’t last long, however. Pain shoots across the top of my head when Vinny grabs a fistful of my hair. I scream. Tears well in my eyes, and, for the briefest moment, the urge to simply surrender overwhelms me. No. Not happening. I slide the toothbrush from my sleeve into my palm. Gripping the bristled end with my handcuffed hands, I swing, aiming at the motherfucker’s left eye.

The goon is so massive that my blow merely skims his eyelid, leaving a scrape along his cheekbone. Still, Vinny cries out, and his hold on me slips. The moment I’m free, I turn and flee down the runway toward the dirt road. It’s a narrow trail rather than a regular vehicle path, lined with olive trees on either side. Still groggy from whatever shit they spiked me with, and with wobbly legs from being bound for a long-ass time, running is a challenge. I stumble, twice, but the adrenaline surging through my bloodstream keeps me going. This is likely the only chance I’ll have to make my escape.

I’m halfway to the dirt track when the deep rumble of an engine echoes off the surrounding hills. A cloud of dust rises among the trees, and a car emerges around the curve. The sleek white sports vehicle, looking completely out of place in these rural surroundings, draws near. For a split second, I hesitate, not knowing if the person in the car is a friend or foe, but I have no other options. I keep running toward it.

I only make it a few steps before all air leaves my lungs as two hands grab me from behind and lift me off my feet.

“You bitch!” Vinny snarls next to my ear.

“Help!” I yell as I kick my legs.

“Fucking stop!”

“Never!” I wriggle left and right, trying to free myself, but his hold doesn’t waver.

The white car stops a few feet from us. The driver’s door opens, and a blond man in his late twenties steps outside. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

“Please, help me,” I choke out, staring at the newcomer.

He spares me a quick glance, then looks at Vinny. “What is this?”

His voice is raspy and carries a slight accent, indicative of a non-native English speaker.

“The hacker.” The growled response comes from just behind me.

What the hell? I was sure I’d been kidnapped because of who my father is, and not because of my little hobby. Maybe these guys don’t even know who I am.

Jean guy’s eyebrows hit his hairline. His green eyes shift to me, scanning from head to toe, then back up again to stop on my tangled hair.

“Such an interesting turn of events.” He meets my stare. “Welcome to Sicily, miss.”