Page 16 of Charming Villain

Gianna leads the way up the sweeping staircase. “Your father’s taste in décor is gaudy,” I mutter, glancing at the gold-framed portraits lining the walls. Each one seems to stare down with the same cold, calculating eyes—generations of power on display.

“He likes to appear invincible,” she replies softly, not stopping.

I almost laugh. “Some appearance. I hope the illusions keep him warm at night.”Like all the other lies he’s built his empire on,I think to myself, but don’t say aloud.

She doesn’t say anything else and instead guides me down a long corridor to a set of double doors that leads to her bedroom. The space is large and opulent, with a four-poster bed draped in sheer fabrics, a window seat overlooking the gardens, and everything meticulously tidy. There’s not a single book out of place, a piece of clothing on the floor, or a dust bunny to be found. It looks more like a showroom than a bedroom.

I wander across the space, trailing my fingertips over a vanity stocked with expensive perfumes and lotions. The display is almost museum-like, each bottle carefully arranged. “You live here?” I ask, voice dripping with disdain. “Feels more like a mausoleum.”

Gianna moves to the closet. “It’s my father’s house. Not mine.” She rummages for a suitcase and starts folding clothes with brisk efficiency. I watch her in silence, taking in the careful way she smooths each dress and the tension in her shoulders whenever she glances at me. I wonder if she’s afraid. She should be, after what I’ve threatened.

“You were out that night,” I say abruptly, letting my gaze sweep over her tidy closet. “At Finn’s. Because you wanted a taste of freedom?”

Her hand falters on a blouse as a breath escapes her lips. “Something like that,” she murmurs.

“And how’d that work out for you?”

Gianna doesn’t answer. She zips the blouse into a garment bag, her expression carefully neutral. Her silence grates on me, but I can’t pinpoint why. Maybe because I want her to spit fire, to match my anger, to prove she’s not just some meek daughter of a bastard.

The door swings open behind us, and Giovanni strides in. A sneer carves his mouth when he sees the dresses piled in Gianna’s suitcase. “Pathetic,” he scoffs, crossing the room in three strides. “What are you doing with all these ragged pieces of cloth? I raised you better than this, Gianna.”

He snatches up one of her folded dresses and tosses it onto the bed like it’s garbage, the delicate fabric crumpling against the duvet. Gianna stiffens, her cheeks flushing pink. I stand by with my arms crossed, observing the way her father rips clothes out of the suitcase, muttering curses under his breath in a mix of English and Italian. My stomach knots with a strange mix of revulsion and fascination. She’s clearly used to this; she never flinchs or talks back. However, I can see her anger simmering just below the surface—a slight tremor in her hands, the way her jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically as she watches her belongings being treated like trash.

“You embarrass me,” Giovanni snaps at his daughter. “This is how you dress now, like a whore? You think it’s acceptable to bring these rags to your new home?” He leans in, voice turning lethal.

Gianna’s face turns red, but she keeps her eyes down, pressing her lips together until they form a bloodless line. She barely reacts when Giovanni’s hand lifts, though a slight flinch betrays her composure. Her entire posture goes rigid, every muscle taut, bracing for the blow she knows is coming.

I watch, cold fury creeping through my veins like ice water. The corner of my mouth twitches into a snarl, the taste of bile rising in my throat. She might deserve my anger for lying, but even I can see she doesn’t deserve this level of cruelty. A memory flashes—her parted lips as I fucked her, the raw need in her eyes that mirrored my own, the way she’d surrendered so completely. Something protective flares in me, unbidden and annoying but impossible to quell.

The second Giovanni’s palm threatens to strike, I move. Two strides, that’s all it takes. My fingers close around his lapels, yanking him away from Gianna and slamming him into the wall so hard a framed painting rattles and slides askew. He chokes out a startled curse, his face contorting with shock.

Gianna stumbles into the bedpost, eyes wide as she watches. My grip on Giovanni’s shirt tightens, and my chest seethes with raw hatred. I can practically smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the tremor in his muscles as I hold him.

“Don’t ever fucking talk to her like that again,” I growl.

Giovanni forces out a bitter laugh, though it sounds more rattled than amused. “She’s my daughter,” he hisses, lips curled in a sneer. “I can do whatever I like with her.”

Something inside me snaps, a dam of restraint finally breaking loose. “I already beat the shit out of you once, Giovanni. If you ever speak to my wife like that again, I won’t stop until you’re dead.” My voice comes out in a guttural snarl, each word dripping with lethal promise.

Terror flickers in his gaze for a moment before it’s buried under that Lucatello arrogance. But he doesn’t mouth off again. Not right away. The threat hangs in the air, a razor’s edge just inches from his throat.

I hold him there a moment longer, letting him see the genuine promise in my eyes.I will kill him if he pushes me—Saverio and family loyalty be damned.Gianna’s watching from behind me, I can sense her shock. She’s probably never seen anyone stand up to her father so blatantly. That fact both pleases me and fuels my anger further.

Slowly, I release him. Giovanni straightens his collar, his mask of composure sliding back into place. But there’s a flicker of wariness in his expression as he smooths his shirt. “You’re playing house now, huh?” His sneer tries to hide his rattled state. “Acting like you care what happens to that lying whore?”

He still doesn’t get it.He doesn’t realize Gianna is no longer his to bully. She’s my problem now—my problem, and my weapon if I need to twist the knife in Giovanni’s side. But for the moment, all I care about is that he keeps his hands off her.

“Test me,” I snarl, stepping in once more, though I don’t grab him this time. Giovanni flinches anyway. “And see how that ends for you.”

We lock eyes in a silent standoff. He might have more men, and more resources on paper, but right now, the fury in my veins eclipses whatever bravado he musters. Finally, he scoffs and steps away, eyes flicking to his daughter. “Make sure you pack something decent,” he bites out. “I won’t have the Terlizzi family thinking I raised a tramp.”

Gianna stands rigid, not daring to reply. I can see the color draining from her cheeks again, her fingers tremble around the dress she’s still clutching. Anger roars through me anew, but I keep it in check this time, letting him see I’m not about to apologize for stepping in.

He glances between us, a twisted smirk curving his lips. “You two deserve each other,” he mutters, then spins on his heel and leaves, slamming the door behind him. The walls rattle in his wake.

For a moment, neither of us moves. Gianna’s breathing is ragged, her eyes locked on the rumpled clothes scattered across the bed. I wonder if she’s trying to hold back tears, or if she’s too used to this to cry. My heart pounds relentlessly, a toxic mix of adrenaline and something dangerously close to concern.

Eventually, I clear my throat and break the silence. “Finish packing,” I say, voice not as steady as I’d like. “We’re leaving.”

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