Page 50 of Charming Villain

I want to buy a pregnancy test, but that’s a pipe dream at nearly midnight in the middle of nowhere. Even if I found a 24-hour convenience store, it would be a risk. They might have cameras, or I might slip up and show my face. I can’t risk it. I’ll have to wait. The idea sets my teeth on edge. If I keep going without answers, I might go insane. But there’s no safe alternative.

A knock on the restroom door rattles me. “Hurry up,” a voice mutters. I realize I’ve been standing here too long. With a shaky breath, I unlock the door and slip out. A man in a trucker cap scowls at me as I rush past. His eyes rake over me with vague suspicion, or maybe it’s disinterest. I can’t tell. Everyone feels like a potential threat right now.

Through the big plate-glass windows, I see the bus driver returning from his break, a coffee cup in hand. That’s my cue. I hurry out, crossing the small parking lot, weaving past pickup trucks and half-dead streetlights. I climb on, find a new seat toward the back this time, and let my eyelids droop.

Again, I slip in and out of fitful half-sleep. My dreams swirl with images of Cupcake meowing in an empty house, searching for me. I see Luciano’s haunted eyes as he storms through the front door, reading my letter for the hundredth time. Then, there’s my father sneering at the news that I’m gone. The nightmares force me awake once more. My seat neighbor across the aisle—a middle-aged woman crocheting something in pastel yarn—gives me a startled look.

Finally, the bus announces a terminal stop in some small town with a name I don’t recognize. The crocheting lady stands and gathers her things. We all file off slowly. The driver flicks a switch, bathing the interior in a harsh fluorescent glow, then leans back in his seat with a sigh. “End of the line, folks,” he calls.

End of the line.The phrase snags in my thoughts. I hoist the bag over my shoulder and trudge down the aisle. My entire body is begging for rest. I guess I’ll figure out some cheap motel for the night. The sign near the bus station says the next bus out is in six hours. That’s too long to just wander. I need a bed, even if it’s a flea-ridden mattress in a hole-in-the-wall pay-by-the-hour motel.

I step onto the sidewalk, the bus behind me hissing as the driver switches off the engine. Across the street, I spot a neon sign for a local diner. Next to it is a small convenience store with bars on its windows. A battered sign points to a motel two blocks down. My legs practically groan in relief at the prospect of lying down. I brace myself and start walking. Distantly, a dog barks, and I glance behind me to see if I’m being followed. The empty street should comfort me, but it only heightens my paranoia.

I reach a dilapidated single-story structure two blocks away, just as the sign predicted. The office door stands propped open, casting a rectangle of light on the gravel lot. Inside, a bored clerk stands behind a metal desk. Public spaces mean cameras, but maybe a dingy place like this doesn’t bother.

The clerk—a tired-looking woman with watery eyes—barely glances at me. She leans forward and braces her elbows on the desk. “Need a room?”

“Yes.” My voice cracks. “Just for tonight.”

She slides a form across the counter. “Name?”

I think about giving a random alias, but I’m so exhausted I might forget who I’m pretending to be. I’m too sleep-deprived to think straight. “Gianna,” I say carefully. “Gianna… Lynn.” It’s not a great alias, but it’s something. She nods, unimpressed, and scrawls it on a battered ledger.

“Fifty for the night,” she mutters. “Cash?”

I nod, rummaging through my bag. I produce a pair of twenties and a ten, shoving them across the counter. My fingers brush the clerk’s as she picks them up. She sets a heavy key on the counter. “Room eight, all the way to the left. Towels are in the bathroom. Don’t expect much.”

“That’s fine.” I accept the key, ignoring the surge of anxiety in my chest. “Thanks.”

She yawns, turning back to a magazine as I leave. No cameras in sight—maybe I’m safe.

I find room eight, jam the key into a rusted lock, and shove the door open. Inside, the smell of must hits me like a gut punch. The carpet is a dull brown, stained from decades of uncertain spills. The bedspread is an unappealing floral pattern, worn so thin the colors have bled into each other. A small TV stands on a chipped dresser, and a single lamp glows beside the bed.

I let the door lock behind me, sliding the chain for good measure. For a moment, I stand there, knees threatening to buckle. Tears sting the back of my eyes. A bitter laugh bubbles up: This is the glorious life I left a five-star wedding for—a motel room that looks like it’s going to give me a communicable disease.

I sink onto the bed, and the mattress springs creak beneath my weight. The room spins in exhausted, slow motion. My entire body craves sleep, but fear lingers, warning me to keep watch. I slide off my shoes and let them drop to the floor. Dragging the scratchy bedspread aside, I crawl onto the mattress. The pillow is lumpy, and the sheets are stiff and overused. But it’s a horizontal surface, and my body wants to collapse. I tug my sweater tighter around me, not even bothering to change out of my clothes. A tear slips free, hot against my cheek, and I let out a shaky breath.

I left Luciano. I left our wedding, left the possibility that my husband might have chosen me over vengeance. A sob threatens, but I swallow it down. My head throbs as I close my eyes. There’s no time for regrets. I am free, or as close to free as I can manage in a world where men like my father and men like Luciano hold all the power.

Chapter29

Luciano

Ihaven’t slept since I left Dante’s. My eyes burn with fatigue, but the night stretches on. The only thing anchoring me to reality is the raw, gnawing need to find Gianna. If I let myself stop—if I let my head hit a pillow—I’m afraid I won’t wake up. So I keep driving, keep searching, keep asking questions that yield nothing but shrugs and blank stares.

My body is in revolt. My stomach twists with acidic hunger, and my head pounds so hard I see shadows behind my eyes. The minimal sips of gas station coffee do nothing but make my insides churn. There’s an ache settling deep in my bones, but I can’t rest. Not while Gianna’s out here, terrified, alone, possibly pregnant. The mere thought makes me grip the wheel until my knuckles go white. I can’t lose her—Iwon’tlose her. She might be carrying our child. That single possibility is a thread of pure electricity sizzling in my veins, propelling me forward no matter how many miles I drive.

I open the window, letting night air whip inside. Russell, Kansas. That’s what the last sign I passed said. I can’t remember if that was a few hours ago or a few minutes ago. Time has lost all meaning. The highway is dark, punctuated by flickers of headlights from the occasional eighteen-wheeler roaring past. My phone buzzes in the cup holder—another missed call from Salvatore or Dante or some other concerned party from the Terlizzi estate. I ignore it. I can’t answer their questions or listen to their demands that I come home and do some damage control regarding this fiasco of a wedding. None of that matters. Gianna is all that matters.

I slam my palm against the steering wheel. “Where the hell are you?” The words echo in the car. A question with no answer.

This is my fault. Every mile of road, every second of frantic searching—it’s my punishment for failing her. I was supposed to keep Gianna safe. She was going to be my wife. It was my duty to protect her. Instead, I pushed her away. I was too consumed by my need for revenge to see that I was hurting her. In pursuing justice for my family, I’ve lost the only person who made me feel whole again.

My chest tightens, the guilt coiling around my lungs and squeezing. I see her eyes in my mind, always brimming with that wariness, always uncertain whether she could trust me. Now, it’s too late to convince her otherwise. Gianna’s gone, scattering only fragments of clues behind her. But I will find her. I will drag her back if I have to. I will prove to her that I’ve learned from my mistakes.

Another exit sign blurs by, and I veer off without thinking. My car groans in protest when I brake too hard. The empty road leads to a single gas station, fluorescent lights flickering overhead like a dying heartbeat. The wind gusts across the flat land, rattling a plastic bag against a chain-link fence. I screech to a stop beside the lone pump, but I don’t need fuel. I need answers.

I climb out, and the cold slices through my thin shirt. An ache pulses at the base of my skull. The station’s glass door is plastered with discount soda ads. Inside, a bored attendant barely glances at me. I shove a battered photo of Gianna across the counter. It’s a screenshot from a security camera feed Niccolo hacked a few hours ago. The angle is poor, and her face is partially turned, but she’s still recognizable. “Have you seen this woman?” I demand, my voice harsh from disuse.

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