Page 25 of Charming Villain

Gianna

This place is quieter than my father’s estate—fewer people, fewer footsteps, fewer eyes watching my every move. But every inch of it belongs to one man, and he’s made it abundantly clear:I will do what he says, or I will pay the price.

In a way, I expected this. When I let him order me around the moment I stepped through the front door, when I refused to plead for a bed when he only offered me the ground, he left no illusions that he’d treat me kindly or give me even an ounce of comfort. But living that reality is different from embracing it.

The first days in his home blur into a series of small humiliations that feel more intimate than the cold brutality I endured under my father’s watch. I’ve been here long enough to learn his routine. Morning coffee, breakfast, a tidy living area by noon, fresh towels in the bathroom. He gives me a thousand tiny tasks that keep me occupied and tethered to his command. I’m not naive enough to believe I’m doing this well; I’m simply going through the motions. I remind myself, with every folded towel and every swept floor, that I survived my father’s cruelty by never showing my true feelings. Being meek kept me alive, but I can’t let meekness swallow me whole. Luciano wants me to break, lash out, and beg him to stop. And so far, I haven’t. Every time I don’t give him the satisfaction of my despair, it feels like a silent rebellion.

This morning, I peel myself off my makeshift bed on the floor of the master bedroom and shuffle to the kitchen to start coffee. My bones ache from another night sleeping on hard wood with only a thin mattress for padding. But I push aside the discomfort and focus on the quiet. The house is still. There are no signs of Luciano… yet.

I switch on the overhead lights in the kitchen, ignoring the sting in my eyes from the sudden brightness. The sun hasn’t fully risen, and the sky outside is tinted a pale, dirty, dishwater gray. The coffee machine sputters to life as I spoon grounds into a filter.

I glance at the sugar container sitting innocently on the counter.This is my life now,I think, spooning sugar into an empty mug. Every single morning, I place a cup in front of him, and he either nods or dumps it out and tells me to start over. After he came back the other night, he mumbled an apology under his breath before going to bed. I thought that meant things would change, but they didn’t.

A bitter coil of anger burns in my gut, twisting tighter the longer I think about the position I find myself in. What would happen if I used salt instead? The idea comes in a rush, a tiny spark of rebellion flaring in the darkness. It’s petty and small, but it’s mine—a secret act of defiance in a morning ritual that’s become my prison. It might be the only power I have—the power to ruin his coffee without him even realizing until it’s too late, to watch his face change when that first sip hits his tongue. The thought makes my heart beat faster with a mix of fear and desperate satisfaction. Part of me—the part drilled into submission by my father—screams that this is reckless. But I can’t smother every bit of independence.

The machine beeps, signaling the brew is complete. My heart quickens as I carefully spoon salt into the mug alongside the sugar. Each grain dissolves into the steaming liquid. A chill runs down my spine at the thought of his reaction.Will he explode?Oddly, part of me wants him to. Maybe if he rages, I’ll feel more at home. At least with Giovanni, I always knew where I stood. His anger was hot and loud. With Luciano, I’m torn between thoughtful gestures and cold silence. I hate how a tiny sliver of me wants to see him lose composure just to prove I can make him feel as powerless as he makes me.

I stir, listening to the faint scraping of the spoon against the ceramic. Then, I walk to the living room with the mug in hand. He’s there, sprawled in an armchair with one ankle propped on his knee, wearing dark pajama pants and no shirt. The scar on his chest reminds me of my father, and I feel a pang of remorse for my actions. I know he’s struggling with this new dynamic the same way I am, but where he takes it out on me, I have no one to talk to.

Luciano’s eyes flick up from the paper he’s reading. In the soft morning light, his features are all sharp lines and shadows, with a permanent frown etched into the corners of his mouth. He’s handsome in a dark sort of way, the kind that makes my belly swirl with my desire and my palms sweat. With him, there’s a dangerous attraction I can’t quite resist. It reminds me of our first night together, and I have to force myself to school my expression into nonchalance as I hold out the cup.

“Your coffee,” I say.

He takes it without a word, eyes lingering on my face like he’s searching for the catch. His scrutiny makes my skin prickle with awareness, and I resist the urge to fidget under his stare. My heart thuds once, hard, and the sound echoes in my ears. For a moment, I think he might be able to smell the salt, but his gaze slides to the window instead.

I watch as Luciano lifts the mug, presses it to his lips, and takes a slow sip. My stomach clenches in anticipation, waiting for him to gag, spit, and snarl. But he doesn’t. He keeps sipping, swallowing with silent deliberation, his throat working steadily as if this were any ordinary morning coffee. Nothing crosses his face—no grimace, no glare, not even the slightest twitch of displeasure. After a few seconds, he sets it aside on the end table.

Did he not notice? Is he messing with me?He reaches for a folder resting on the arm of the chair, flips it open, and skims a page like everything is normal. Then, without looking up, he picks up the mug again and takes another sip.

I realize then that his calm is worse than his explosion. At least if he yelled, if he raged and stormed around the room, I’d know I’d gained ground. Instead, he’s so collected and maddeningly composed that I feel small and childlike. My petty act of rebellion has backfired spectacularly. I can’t even sabotage his morning coffee properly.

After a few more sips, Luciano slides the mug toward me. “Another,” he requests.

Shame burns my cheeks, followed by a rush of fury. I expected him to spit it out and call me worthless—that’s what my father would have done. But the total lack of emotion is more unnerving than a slap in the face. The more composed he remains, the more I feel like a foolish child caught in a game I don’t understand. I draw on every lesson I learned growing up under Giovanni’s rule: never show weakness, never let them see your tears.

“All right,” I manage, scooping up the mug. There’s a lump in my throat that I refuse to acknowledge.He’s not giving me the reaction I wanted.Maybe he’s playing the same game, trying to break me by refusing to show that my stunt affected him at all.

I march back to the kitchen, ignoring the tremor in my hands as I rinse the remaining coffee down the drain.Stupid, childish attempt at defiance.I rummage for fresh beans. If anything, I’ve only proven that I can’t rattle him easily, which might make him double his efforts to rattle me.

This time, I brew his coffee properly, adding only the previously requested sugar. When I return, I set the mug on the table in front of him with stiff politeness. He takes a sip, then smirks. No words—just a smug, knowing curve of his lips. My heart gives an uneasy jolt, and I realize I’ve lost this round.

Luciano swirls the liquid in his cup before looking up to meet my gaze. “It’s best not to play games you can’t win, Gianna.”

I dip my chin, avoiding eye contact. “Yes, sir.”

He watches me another moment, as if waiting for some flash of emotion. When none appears, he makes a tsk sound and returns to reading. My eyes lock on the scar across his chest for a split second before I retreat, swallowing the bitter taste of humiliation.

I keep my head down for the rest of the day, dutifully performing every chore he tosses my way: I wipe down counters, load the dishwasher, iron a shirt he only wore for an hour, then re-iron it because he claims I missed a wrinkle. I reorganize his bookshelf twice when he decides the first arrangement wasn’t to his liking. By evening, my back aches, and my shoulders burn from the constant tension of trying to anticipate his next command. Part of me remembers my father’s sneers and his vicious tongue lashings whenever I made a mistake. Another part wonders if Luciano’s quiet cruelty is worse.

Night falls, the sky stained purple and navy, and we gather around a small dining room table for dinner. I place a plate of dinner in front of him—grilled chicken and roasted vegetables—nothing fancy. He picks at it, then dismisses me. My stomach rumbles, but I won’t eat in front of him or ask if I’m allowed to. Instead, I take my portion in the kitchen, huddling over the sink so I can choke it down quickly. I hate how furtive it feels, but I can’t stomach eating across from him. And I won’t if I don’t have to.

I’m scrubbing the last of the dishes an hour later when I sense Luciano standing behind me. Goosebumps flare at the base of my neck.

“Come to the living room,” he says, voice low. “Now.”

I dry my hands on a dishcloth and follow him. He settles into a leather chair with a glass of whiskey in his grip and his hair slightly disheveled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it. The ice cubes clink against the crystal as he takes a sip. Another glass sits untouched on the mahogany table in front of him, but he doesn’t invite me to drink it.

I linger by the doorway, half-expecting Luciano to tell me to leave now that I’ve uprooted myself from the previous task I was working on. Instead, he gestures at the floor near his feet with a lazy flick of his hand. The leather of his chair creaks as he shifts, spreading his legs wider.

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