Page 60 of Charming Villain

Before I settle in the chair, I rest a hand on his cheek. “I love you, Luciano.”

He leans into my touch, eyes drifting shut in a moment of pure surrender. “I love you, too, Gianna,” he breathes, as if those words contain a world of gratitude.

When I return from my tests—blood draws, an ultrasound to check on any sign of viability—Luciano’s waiting, perched on the side of my bed. The doctor is behind us, flipping through notes on a digital tablet. She’s calm and composed, the kind of presence you crave in a crisis. She acknowledges Luciano with a polite nod. “Mr. Terlizzi, Miss Lucatello. We have some results.”

She glances at the chart. “You’re still at risk, but the bleeding has slowed significantly, and your hCG levels are still climbing at a steady pace. This is a promising sign after everything you’ve been through. We’ll continue monitoring you every couple of days for the next week or two, but for now, it seems the pregnancy is still viable.”

A ragged breath escapes my lips. My hand clenches Luciano’s so hard I worry I’m cutting off his circulation. His eyes close as he exhales, and I see a gleam of tears on his lashes.

The doctor warns us about stress, about medication schedules, about how I’ll need to rest. I nod through the instructions, hardly able to absorb them. My mind is stuck on the simple phrase:still viable. For now, at least, we haven’t lost our baby.

When the doctor is finished, she leaves with a warm smile, promising release paperwork soon. Luciano lowers himself to his knees beside the wheelchair, pressing his forehead to my hand. We’re not out of the woods yet, but the crushing dread eases.

“So,” I break the silence. “We might have a future after all.”

His lips curve into a smile. “We do. And I don’t want to waste another minute of it.”

Luciano slips onto the mattress with more grace now, easing me gently against his side. I nestle in, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my ear. The sound is like a lullaby, soothing my frayed nerves. His arms envelop me, both protective and apologetic. I sense he’s still grappling with how to make amends, but for the first time, I’m not afraid we’ll tear each other apart.

We talk in low voices, confiding the smaller details we once kept secret—like the moment he first realized he cared about me or how I used to watch him work out at dawn. Each revelation is another stitch, slowly mending the tapestry of hurt that we’ve caused one another.

At one point, he murmurs, “I think the day of our wedding sometimes—how it was supposed to be this grand event. But all I remember is your eyes, how frightened they were when I found you in that motel room. Thank you. For giving me a second chance, or maybe a tenth chance.” He smiles ruefully. “I swear, I won’t waste it.”

My chest tightens. “I know,” I say, and to my surprise, I believe it. “We’re going to be okay,” I murmur, testing the words against the hush of the room.

Luciano strokes my hair. His voice is quiet but resonant. “Yeah. Maybe even better than okay.”

Chapter33

Luciano

Three months later, the sun graces us with one of those perfect afternoons—warm but not stifling, the light tinted gold as it filters through climbing ivy and rose trellises. I stand at the end of a modest aisle lined with white chairs, my heart pounding in a way I never thought it could. Not from anger, or fear, or a thirst for vengeance, but from something far more astonishing: a deep and grateful hope.

We chose a small venue tucked behind one of Kansas’s prettiest chapels. It’s the kind of place a person would never think to look for a mob family’s wedding, which is exactly why Gianna and I picked it. Tiny twinkling lights are draped between tree branches, winking in the mild breeze. At a glance, it looks like a garden party for maybe forty people—no more. A few family members, a handful of friends. No lavish spectacle, no suffocating crowd. Just us, the people we trust most, and the promise of a new beginning.

My palms sweat despite the temperate air. If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be here—heart in my throat, wearing a tailored suit I chose solely because Gianna once said I looked handsome in navy—I would’ve laughed in your face. But everything changed the night I almost lost her. Everything changed when I finally let go of my hate, focusing instead on the love I have for her.

Dante stands beside me, hands folded. He smirks a little when he catches my expression—probably because I look like I’m about to pass out. In a sense, I am. I’ve faced bullets, brawls, and betrayals, but none of those compare to the raw excitement I feel as I wait for my bride.

Bride.

A wave of tenderness crashes into my chest at the word. This time, it isn’t forced for the sake of an alliance, a contract, or a scarring brand of revenge. This is a vow chosen freely by two souls who found a reason to move together in the same direction.

A hush sweeps the small gathering as the music starts, a soft instrumental track played live by a violinist we hired. I tear my gaze from Dante’s knowing grin and turn toward the chapel doors. My heart trips over itself. The short aisle feels like a thousand miles away.

And then she appears.

She steps into view, guided by Salvatore, who’s acting as her escort today since her father is gone. We buried our feud with him. Salvatore offered to walk her down the aisle, and she accepted. She doesn’t know him very well, but she will in time.

None of that matters the moment I see her. She’s radiant. Time slows as I take in the ivory lace that skims her curves. She insisted on something simple, a dress that didn’t weigh her down. The design flows over her shoulders and frames her slight bump—a gentle swell at her midsection that reminds me how far we’ve come. She’s in her second trimester now, safe enough that the nightmare of losing our child has begun to recede.

The sight is so beautiful it steals the breath from my lungs. Gianna isn’t just pregnant—she’s glowing, her cheeks flushed a soft pink, her hair pinned back with delicate flowers. It’s as if she’s become the living embodiment of everything hopeful in this world. Her dark eyes find mine, and I swear I see tears glistening there, reflecting the same teary awe that’s choking me up.

Salvatore whispers something to her, probably a teasing comment about not tripping in her shoes, and she smiles. Then they begin the walk. Everyone is silent. Lucia stands near the front row, a grin lighting her face as she catches sight of me. Saverio stands beside her, looking mildly amused by the turn of events. For once, there are no manipulative strings to be pulled, no overshadowing tension to be ignored. Just acceptance. We’re forging a life that belongs to us.

At last, Gianna reaches me. Salvatore offers my bride’s hand with a solemn nod, and I catch a glimpse of a rare softness in his expression. He kisses her cheek gently—like a brother might. The tension in my chest melts away. We’re rewriting the script that fate tried to force on us and turning it into something we can make a life out of.

I take Gianna’s hand, and every muscle in my body sings with the rightness of it. Her fingers tremble, but her grip is sure. Up close, I see the flicker of tears on her lashes and notice the subtle hitch in her breath. We turn to face the officiant, a retired chaplain who agreed to do the ceremony with minimal fuss.

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