Page 31 of Charming Villain

For a heartbeat, we just stay there, suspended in this impossible stillness. The kiss deepens a fraction—enough for him to taste my breath, for me to taste his. Then he pulls back, breaking the moment with a ragged exhale. Our eyes lock in a silent exchange of disbelief.What did we just do?

Luciano clears his throat, the tips of his ears reddening, and I see the conflict raging behind his eyes. “Sit,” he says quietly. “At the table.” The words are gentle, but they’re definitely an order.

My heart hammers in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like distant thunder. He’s pulling away, shutting down the closeness, yet not snapping or barking as usual. He nods toward the dining area. “Go. I’ll finish up dinner. I can salvage it.”

Numbly, I let him guide me out of the kitchen, one hand lightly brushing my elbow as if ensuring I don’t trip. The affectionate gesture is so bizarre that I almost flinch, but I catch myself, forcing my muscles to stay relaxed. I move to the table and sink into a chair, my bandaged hand cradled in my lap like a wounded bird.

From my seat, I watch Luciano fuss with the stove, turning down the sauce and checking the fish with a critical eye. He’s no culinary genius, but he’s determined, and that near-frown on his face reveals how seriously he’s taking this. He’s always so serious.

My palm still hurts, but the memory of his lips on mine is a bigger distraction. I replay it endlessly, the tender press, the gentle inhalation of breath like he was afraid to take more than I would give.I shouldn’t want that again.He’s used me, belittled me, made me a captive in his house. Yet, for those few seconds, none of that existed. We were just two people, overwhelmed by the moment.

My feelings are more complicated than I thought. I don’t know if I can define them as attraction or pity or something more toxic. All I know is that I felt a flicker of warmth and safety when I was in the arms of a man who told me he wants to ruin me. And that contradiction rips through my chest until I’m half convinced I’m going mad.

Luciano stirs the sauce, glancing at me sidelong. Our eyes meet, and for once, neither of us looks away immediately. The tension is still there, but the anger has receded. A new tension has taken its place, something uncertain and throbbing with possibility.

“Don’t think this changes anything,” he says, but his voice is soft and lacking its usual bite.

“Of course,” I murmur, not sure if I believe him or if I want to. My bandaged hand pulses dully, yet I feel oddly comforted—like a line has been crossed, and we can’t retreat back to where we were. Not entirely.

We fall quiet again, him focusing on the fish, me wrestling with thoughts I can’t verbalize. The kitchen smells of wine, herbs, garlic, and the sharp tang of lemon mingling in the steam. A normal scene; if only anything else about us was normal. The sizzle of the pan fills the silence between us, and I find myself watching the way his hands move.

Eventually, he plates the fish and pasta, setting them down in front of me with more care than he’s ever shown before. I look up at him, struggling to keep my face neutral, and the swirl of gratitude and confusion shows in my expression.

“Eat,” Luciano says finally, sinking into the chair across from me.

I pick up my fork with my uninjured hand and take a bite. The fish is slightly overcooked on one edge, and the sauce is a bit thick, but it doesn’t matter. It’s edible.

He watches me as if trying to understand each shift in my body language. I watch him back, remembering the brush of his lips and the tenderness that felt like an entirely different language than the one we usually speak. I find myself studying the way his shoulders tense slightly whenever I lift my fork to take another bite.

Maybe it changes nothing. But as I chew, conscious of the bandage on my hand and the heat still lingering on my mouth, I realize I want it to change something.Because, for the first time since I arrived here, I see a glimmer of the man he might be without all the rage and revenge. And that glimmer—that fleeting moment of genuine care—threatens to unravel every careful defense I’ve built.

Chapter18

Luciano

Rain lashes the windshield in long, diagonal streaks as I pull into the driveway. The downpour started a few hours ago when I was running an errand for Dante, and it’s only gotten worse since then. I turn off the engine, listening for a moment to the relentless tap of rain against metal. Normally, I’d go straight inside, but something knots my gut tonight, urging me to wait.

Days have passed since that moment in the kitchen—since Gianna burned herself, and I bandaged her hand and, God help me, kissed her. Actually kissed her. I’ve replayed the moment a million times, loathing how the thought of it loosens something deep in my chest. Kissing her was never part of the plan. Hell, wanting her was never part of the plan. But here I am, letting my desire wreck every piece of my carefully constructed puzzle.

The storm intensifies outside the car, thunder cracking across the night sky like a whip. I grit my teeth and shove the car door open. Damp air slaps me in the face. My black coat offers little protection as I dash up the path, wind blowing sheets of water into my eyes. By the time I reach the porch, my hair is plastered to my forehead, droplets dripping down my collar. Perfect. Another reason to be in a foul mood.

I push open the front door, stepping inside with a quiet click. The house is dim, with only a single hallway lamp casting a warm glow across the hardwood floor. Usually, Gianna has lights on in the living room or the kitchen, especially this late. Why is it so dark?

I close the door behind me and slip off my wet shoes. Water pools on the floor where I stand, but I don’t care enough to find a towel just yet. Something—some instinct—buzzes in my nerves, telling me something’s off. I pass the living room, heading for the faint glow of that hallway lamp. Then, I notice the back door is partly open.

My chest tightens. Instantly, my mind conjures a dozen terrible scenarios: someone broke in, or—God forbid—she ran away. But no, she wouldn’t leave in this storm, and besides, she gave me no reason to think she’d try to run. My security system would have alerted me if there was a breach. Right? The little green light on the keypad still blinks steadily, mocking my rising panic.

I quicken my pace, turning into the hallway that leads to the kitchen, and that’s when I see it: Gianna, standing near the open back door with the wind whipping droplets of rain onto the linoleum. She’s barefoot, wearing a loose T-shirt and some simple cotton shorts, both of which cling to her soaked body. She’s cradling something in her arms—a small shape that trembles beneath her gentle grip.

It’s a cat. A tiny, soaking-wet kitten that’s barely more than skin and bones, with matted gray fur plastered against its frail body. Gianna holds it close to her chest, her expression stricken with pity and worry. In the gloom, her dark hair drips water down her back, creating small puddles on the floor beneath her feet. She’s so focused on the creature, murmuring soft words of comfort as it shivers against her, that she doesn’t even hear me approach.

For a moment, I watch her, transfixed by the scene before me. This woman has been surviving my cruelty for weeks, meeting my aggression with unnerving calm. She’s been stirring my desire in ways that make me want to tear my hair out, make sleep impossible, and control a distant memory. And now here she stands, drenched from head to toe, risking pneumonia because she found a half-drowned cat in the middle of a thunderstorm.

My lips part, searching for the usual biting remark, some cutting observation to maintain the walls between us, but it stalls in my throat. She looks so soft and unguarded. The harsh edges I’ve come to expect from her have melted away like sugar in rain, leaving something raw and pure in their place. Suddenly, I can’t muster the scorn I rely on. Instead, a wave of heat floods me, spreading from my chest to my fingertips.

She must sense my presence because she turns her head sharply. Her eyes widen, guilt flashing across her face. She hugs the kitten tighter against her chest as though expecting me to demand she throw it out. “You’re dripping all over the floor,” I say, and the words coming out more quietly than intended—less an accusation, more an observation.

Gianna looks down at the puddle at her feet, then back at me. “I— I couldn’t leave her out there.” Her tone is defensive but faintly trembling, like she’s already rehearsing all the reasons why this stray cat deserves shelter. The cat mewls, a pitiful squeak that resonates more than I care to admit, its tiny body shivering against her sodden shirt.

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