Page 22 of Charming Villain

“Hungry?” Luciano asks without looking at me. His voice is neutral, like he’s asking about the weather.

“I could eat,” I answer cautiously.

He gestures to a spare plate on the counter, then tilts his chin at the pan on the stove. “Help yourself.” His words are abrupt and almost reluctant; he’s fulfilling some unspoken requirement to feed me, but he takes no joy in it.

I don’t mind. I’m just glad theirs food. I was afraid I’d have to beg or worse. I fill my plate carefully, every sense attuned to Luciano’s presence. I slide into the chair across from him, the table feeling far too small for the tension between us.

As we eat in silence, I study him. I notice the subtle shift of muscle in his jaw and the way he slices into his eggs with precise, controlled movements. It is as if every action is deliberate. He’s a man who refuses to waste an ounce of energy. He’s all about control. Even the arch of his brow when I swallow too loudly feels like a condemnation of any tiny misstep. His fork never scrapes the plate, and his movements are economical and graceful in a way that makes my own fumbling attempts at politeness feel childish.

A few minutes pass before I realize he’s waiting for me to top off his glass of water. There’s a pitcher sitting near me, well within reach, and I see him cast a quick glance at it, then at me. His grip on his fork tightens just a little when I don’t move immediately.

Luciano expects me to read his mind and serve him without being told.

I let an extra heartbeat or two slip by, watching him stiffen like a statue. Then, I calmly lift the pitcher and pour water into his glass. The tension in his shoulders dissipates, but he shoots me a narrow look that sends a quiver of satisfaction through me. He doesn’t realize it, but he just revealed a crack in his stoic facade: he’s impatient when his unspoken expectations aren’t instantly fulfilled, and that knowledge feels like a small victory.

We finish our meals in a strained hush. He gets up first, plate in hand. I expect him to leave the dishes for me to do. Instead, he silently rinses his dish in the sink before heading out of the kitchen, leaving me behind. There’s no formal order, but the expectation lingers—clean up after the meal, clean up after yourself. That’s fine. I prefer the normalcy of routine to aimless wandering anyway.

By evening, the hush between us hasn’t diminished. Luciano instructs me to cook a dish he claims to enjoy—some sort of pasta with a sauce that requires precise measurements and timing. He stands behind me in the kitchen while I sauté garlic and onions, correcting me in clipped tones whenever my technique doesn’t match his exacting standards.

“Not so much oil.”

“You’re stirring too slow.”

“You didn’t chop the parsley fine enough.”

I bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him that I was never taught to cook. My father had expectations of his children, but cooking was not one of them. He hired chefs for that, men and women who knew recipes from Italian villages as well as they knew the back of their hands. I am not as familiar with cooking, but I endure Luciano’s instructions and carefully adjust each step until the sauce simmers. My hands grip the wooden spoon tighter with each correction, but I force myself to maintain my composure.

When I set the table, I grab two glasses from the cupboard, not realizing I’ve chosen ones that are mismatched—a slightly smaller and more robust glass for me, a taller, more slender glass for him. Except, apparently, he never uses the tall, slender glass. We sit, and he takes a sip, then sets it down with a sharp crack that makes me flinch. “That’s not my cup.”

I blink, genuinely confused, my hands frozen mid-reach for my own drink. “Oh... I didn’t know you had a specific cup.” Aren’t they all his cups? I study the seemingly identical pieces of glass before us, trying to spot what makes one more special than the other.

Luciano gives me a look that’s equal parts annoyance and suspicion, his jaw tightening as though he can’t decide if I’m messing with him on purpose. His fingers drum once, twice, a third time against the table’s surface.Am I messing with him?I’m not sure myself. But it doesn’t matter. “Fix it,” he says, the words leaving no room for discussion.

Heat creeps into my face. Why does it feel like I committed a sin by grabbing the wrong glass? I stand, fetching a glass that matches my own, and swap the wine over with trembling hands. I wonder if he’ll lash out; my father would have. But he doesn’t. He just watches me coolly, letting the moment stretch until my nerves buzz with self-consciousness.

Finally, he nods his approval, a slight tilt of his head that releases me from my frozen state. I return to my seat to pick at the pasta and try not to overthink his reaction. It’s a small thing, choosing the wrong glass. But in a world of control and routine, disrupting that pattern unsettles him.

He leaves before I finish eating. Not just the dinner table but the entire house. I notice the faint jingle of car keys, followed by the thud of the front door closing and then the purr of an engine coming to life.He didn’t tell me where he was going.

But this time, I don’t stay idle. After finishing my dinner alone, I wander the halls with a purpose. My bare feet pad silently across the hardwood floors as I venture into unexplored corners of the house. He said I could roam freely, that I wasn’t going to be chained to a radiator, so I might as well learn where everything is. Besides, understanding my surroundings might help me understand him.

I start in the living room. During my first walkthrough, I only noticed the furniture, the big TV, and how it felt almost staged. But now, I spot details I missed. A few framed photographs on a shelf. One shows him with three men with similar features, all wearing suits and smiling awkwardly for the camera. The men from Nico’s—his brothers, I think. The second photo includes a woman with curled hair and bright eyes, her arm around him casually, but not romantically. A sister, perhaps? The resemblance in their features is striking—the same confident tilt of the chin, the strong jawline, even the way they smile is the same. They share that unmistakable look of people cut from the same cloth. Another photograph is older, with corners slightly yellowed. He stands beside an elegant woman with kind eyes. She must be his mother. The realization makes my chest tighten: he has a family he cares about.

He’s not a man wholly shaped by cruelty, then. He has people he loves. My father doesn’t have pictures like these on display. Everything in his mansion is curated for appearances—gaudy portraits, expensive vases, but never real family photos. Giovanni doesn’t care enough to keep reminders of affection lying around.

I brush my fingertips along one of the frames, tracing its simple wooden border. The glass is smooth, but a thin layer of dust coats the edges as if he rarely touches them because he’s content just to have them near. My heart gives a small, confused ache: this man who’s threatened to destroy me has people whose smiles he’s chosen to preserve and display. The contradiction is dizzying. I struggle to reconcile two completely different people inhabiting the same skin.

How can someone capable of so much warmth also harbor so much darkness?

Chapter14

Luciano

Ileave because I can’t stand looking at Gianna anymore. It isn’t because she got the wrong glass out of the cupboard or because she can’t cook. It’s the fact that everything I planned for with this marriage—the revenge, the control, the punishment—seems to be slipping through my fingers. It was supposed to be simple.Marry the Lucatello girl. Break her. Let Giovanni suffer.But each time I try to twist the knife, Gianna stares at me with those dark eyes that say she’s not afraid of me.

I dial Dante’s number as soon as I get into my car. The quiet hum of the engine irritates me for no logical reason. Everything irritates me—the way the leather seat creaks under my weight, the faint reflection of streetlights on my windshield, even the perfectly normal evening traffic.

Dante picks up on the third ring. “This better be important, Lucky,” he says, voice carrying a low warning.

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