Page 40 of Charming Villain

Luciano breaks away slowly, resting his forehead against mine. “Stay with me,” he murmurs. “Be my wife. We can make this work.”

Everything in me screams to say yes, to surrender to whatever this is—comfort, belonging, passion. But in the quiet corners of my mind, the vow I made roars.I’m running away. I’m leaving and I’m never coming back.This is my last chance to save my soul from a man who doesn’t know if he wants to love me or ruin me.

I force a small smile, though my heart aches with the weight of the lie. “Luciano,” I whisper, letting his name fall from my lips like a prayer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I see relief and naked hope flash across his face, the hard lines around his mouth softening. He pulls me tight against his chest, burying his nose in my hair and breathing deep like he’s trying to memorize my scent. My heart cracks down the middle. I let him think he’s won. Let him believe I’ve chosen him, and I curse myself for how easy it is to sink into his arms and melt into his body as if I belong there.

But as the sun sets outside the living room window, I know tomorrow is already set in motion. I have a bag hidden in the closet of the spare bedroom. I have some money to get me on the first bus out of town. I have a plan. My heart may be in ruins but I can’t stay here. No matter how gentle this one kiss is, no matter how sweetly he whispers my name, he’s still capable of changing his mind and forcing me to my knees. He’s still the man who wants me pliant or destroyed.

Luciano’s arms tighten around me as his lips brush against my temple. I can feel the tension leeching out of him, replaced by a fragile trust. He’s letting himself believe me. I hold him for another heartbeat, letting the moment sear into my memory, because it might be the last time we stand like this—on the brink of something that could have been love in a different life.

And in my mind, I vow again:I’m running away. I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back.

Chapter23

Luciano

The air in Santoro’s tailor shop smells like wool and money. It’s the kind of place that offers complimentary whiskey in cut-glass tumblers while a man with a pin cushion strapped to his wrist flutters around you, fussing with fabric and murmuring about sleeve length. I’ve always hated it here. But there’s no avoiding it. Not when I’m about to be married in front of half the Midwest mafia network.

My brothers are inside, leaning against a mahogany counter cluttered with swatches of cloth and measuring tapes that have measured more made men than I care to count. Niccolo’s rummaging through a tray of gold and silver cufflinks like a kid in a candy store, Dante is sipping whiskey with a bored look on his face that says he’d rather be anywhere else, and Salvatore is chattering at the tailor, trying to barter down an already exorbitant price with the same smooth talk he uses to negotiate territory deals. Some things never change—put the four of us in a room together, and we fall into our usual roles.

I pause at the threshold for a moment, letting the sight sink in: the Terlizzi brothers, fully at ease in a place that used to make us all squirm as kids, back when our father would drag us here for Sunday best and First Communion suits. We’re adults now—monsters, kings, husbands.

“About time,” Niccolo calls, pushing off the counter with a grin that hasn’t changed since we were teenagers stealing cigarettes behind St. Thomas More’s. “We were about to start without you.”

Salvatore raises his glass of whiskey in a mocking salute. “Don’t worry, Luc. We left you a double. Couldn’t let the groom suffer through these fittings without proper lubrication.”

Groom. The word sets my teeth on edge. Guilt and annoyance flare in my gut, but I smother both. I nod in greeting and step into the shop. The tailor, in a crisp white shirt, bustles over. “Signore Luciano,” he says in a syrupy tone, “so good to see you. We have your final tux—let me show you.”

He beckons me deeper into Santoro’s, where a row of polished mirrors stands like an inescapable tribunal. “Whiskey first,” I grunt, casting a glance at the tumbler on the side table. Salvatore smirks. He thinks I’m stalling.

I grab the glass and inhale the faint burn of an aged label the tailor probably can’t pronounce. The shop hums with quiet luxury: the muted conversation of employees, the shuffle of cloth sliding across marble floors, the soft whir of a distant sewing machine. A seamstress sings quietly under her breath as she checks the stitching on a black vest, her fingers moving precisely over the fabric. It sets my teeth on edge because inside, I’m anything but calm.

Niccolo comes up beside me, sipping his own drink with a wry smile. He’s the one who’s been through this wedding fiasco most recently—marrying Christine Lucatello when all hell broke loose in the process. We beat the shit out of Giovanni and Marco that night. “Ready to join the club?” He teases, clinking his glass against mine. “You don’t look too excited.”

I take a sip. The whiskey slides down my throat, promising to take the edge off. “Just get this over with,” I mutter, forcing a half-smirk that feels more like a grimace. “Unlike you, I didn’t plan to jump into holy matrimony.”

Niccolo barks a laugh. “I didn’t plan it either, but I wanted it. I wanted her.” His voice softens on the last words, and there’s no mistaking the genuine affection there.

His easy grin irritates me. He married Christine under complicated circumstances, and now he’s happy, so maybe I can be, too. But it’s not that simple. There’s tension in my chest whenever I think of Gianna, a constant weight that makes it hard to breathe. I swallow more whiskey, ignoring the sour churn in my stomach and the voice in my head telling me this is all wrong. The amber liquid doesn’t wash away my doubts, but at least it dulls them.

Dante lounges on a nearby settee, swirling the liquid in his glass with a critical eye. “If you can put up with a fitting,” he drawls, “you can put up with a wedding.” He drags his gaze over my shoulder, meeting my eyes in a steady, assessing way. “Though I’ll be honest—I’m a bit surprised you said yes to all the frills.”

“Saverio wanted a spectacle,” I reply flatly. “We’ll give him a spectacle.”

Salvatore rolls his eyes, abandoning his conversation with the tailor. “Spectacle, indeed. Another Terlizzi wedding. The last one ended in blood. Giovanni’s, not ours.” The unspoken truth: the ending of the last wedding was probably the beginning of this one. “Yours ended with a bullet or two, right?” Salvatore turns his attention to our oldest brother.

Dante shrugs, taking a long swig of whiskey that empties half the crystal tumbler. “Something like that.” His voice lowers, and a faint grin plays on his lips—he’s never minded the chaos. “But your wedding should be calmer. Not that Niccolo’s was peaceful either,” he adds, side-eyeing Niccolo.

“I’m a real cautionary tale.”

Salvatore picks at the sleeve of his tailored jacket, fidgeting with a loose thread the tailor missed. “At least I’m free.” He makes a production of stretching his arms overhead, joints cracking dramatically. “Another one bites the dust.”

I finish my whiskey and clench my jaw, ignoring the jab. The tailor returns, arms laden with black fabric, stepping behind me and guiding it over my shoulders. He murmurs, “Arms up, signore,” and I comply automatically, slipping into the fitted jacket. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, but all I can see are the lines of my face etched with worry, the memory of Gianna pressed against me, whispering,I’m not going anywhere.

It’s been four days. She’s more compliant than ever, almost docile in her movements around the house. She doesn’t flinch when I touch her and doesn’t tense up like she used to. She lets me hold her at night. She cooks my favorite dishes without being asked, seasoning everything exactly the way I like it. She kisses me back with a gentleness that threatens to undo every defense I have. On paper, it’s perfect; it’s everything I wanted.

But something’s off. I don’t have proof, but it gnaws at me like a dog with a bone.

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