Page 11 of Charming Villain

Iwake with a start, disoriented by my unfamiliar surroundings and the stale smell of the motel carpet. Instinct jolts me upright, and I realize two things almost simultaneously: I’m alone, and my head feels like someone took a baseball bat to it and then ran over the pieces with a truck. A nauseating blend of whiskey and regret lingers in my system, making my tongue feel like sandpaper.

Memories from last night rush back in disjointed flashes: meeting a woman at Finn’s, her dark hair and teasing smile, a searing energy that crackled between us. She called herself Allegra, but even then, I sensed that wasn’t her real name, the same way Luca sure as hell isn’t mine. We were two liars looking for oblivion, not honesty. Still, I didn’t expect her to vanish before dawn—no note, no phone number, not even a parting kiss. It shouldn’t matter. She was supposed to be nothing more than a distraction, a wild, desperate escape from the train wreck that is my life. But I can’t shake the bitterness pooling in my gut.

Staggering out of bed, I paw at my clothes scattered across the floor. One sleeve of my shirt is twisted inside out, the fabric smelling faintly of lavender and sweat. I push aside the phantom image of her from last night and the echo of her moans when I made her come. My chest tightens, anger flaring at how easily she left me behind—as ifI’mthe forgettable one.

* * *

Ican’t recall if I asked the front desk about her. My head was splitting from leftover booze, and I remember feeling like a goddamn idiot when the clerk stared at me blankly. I know that by mid-morning, I’d abandoned the hotel, writing her off as a nameless, faceless fling I’d never see again. I told myself it was better that way.

But the human mind is fickle. Allegra has haunted me for the last four days—she is an itch I can’t scratch. Her memory sneaks into my thoughts at the worst times, more potent than any whiskey burn. Stupid, right? She was supposed to be an afterthought, yet I can’t shake the images of her parted lips, the way she clung to me like I was her lifeline.

Now, though, I have bigger problems than a missing one-night stand. I’m in the back seat of an SUV, forced to attend some twisted peace summit with the Lucatellos. The morning sun glints off the tinted windows as we wind through Aggieville’s business district, passing boutiques and bars I barely register. Dante sits up front with Saverio Castiglione, the puppet master of our entire Midwest operation, while Salvatore and Niccolo ride next to me.

Dante’s voice is low but firm, discussing the parameters of our new alliance, tossing around words likeunityandstability. Bullshit. All I hear is marriage.Mymarriage, specifically. Arranged by Saverio, Dante, and Giovanni Lucatello. Fuck all of them. They’re bartering away my future like I’m some prized stallion at auction, and the worst part is, I can’t say a damn thing about it.

My stomach knots with residual fury. A marriage to end the feud, they said. A show of goodwill between the families. That’s the party line. But to me, it’s a death sentence, as if they’re slapping a ring on my finger and telling me to share a bed with the man who nearly carved me in half.It’s not Giovanni I’d be marrying,I remind myself.It’s his daughter.The knowledge does little to soothe my anger.

Niccolo, seated on my left, glances my way. He can probably feel the tension radiating off me in waves. “You good?” he murmurs, voice low so only I can hear.

I grit my teeth. “Peachy.”

He sighs, a soft sound of resignation. Of all my brothers, Nic has the gentlest heart—he’d do anything for the family exceptjointhe family outright. But that changed when Christine entered the picture. She was the opening shot to this gory picture that is now my life. Sometimes, I wonder if he regrets that decision, if he ever lies awake at night wishing he’d stayed away from all of this and stayed true to his original path. But then, none of us really have a choice in the end.

Saverio, in the passenger seat up front, half-turns to address us in the back. “We’re almost at Nico’s.” His tone is casual, like we’re going to brunch instead of my funeral. “Remember: we’re here to finalize the agreement. Giovanni wants this done quickly, and so do I.”

Dante nods, never taking his eyes off the road. He’s driving, knuckles white on the wheel. He’s calm as ice most days, but even he can’t hide his distaste for how Saverio is playing us. Still, he leads our family on a local level—and Saverio outranks all of us. We have no choice but to obey.

The SUV slows, turning onto a narrower street lined with brick buildings. Aggieville, especially around midday, thrums with energy—people hustling between shops, the smell of strong coffee drifting from Bluestem Bistro. My mood sours further when I spot the discreet sign: Nico’s, an upscale Italian restaurant that has been used as neutral ground for business. Once upon a time, Niccolo thought Giovanni was going to beat him to death in the parking lot here. The irony that we’re meeting at Nico’s to celebrate my union with a Lucatello is not lost on me.

We pull into a small parking lot behind the restaurant, and the moment we come to a stop, Saverio twists to pin me with a measured look. “Remember, Luciano,” he says, voice dripping with condescension. “If we want this alliance to stick, we need to show them we’re serious.”

I bite back a snarl. “I’m not an idiot.” Though I’d love to put Giovanni through a window, I’m not stupid enough to sabotage a sanctioned deal.Just watch me sabotage the marriage later.

He narrows his eyes but doesn’t press the issue. Dante kills the engine, and we all climb out onto the sun-warmed asphalt. The late spring air is mild, with a gentle breeze carrying the aroma of fresh bread from inside the restaurant. It does nothing to quell the fury churning in my gut.

Salvatore gives my shoulder a quick squeeze—a silenthang in there—and Niccolo shoots me a tight, sympathetic smile as we head for the back entrance. Saverio marches in front, Dante at his right, exuding that big-dog energy that makes lesser men step aside. I follow, heart pounding with rage and disquiet.

Inside, the restaurant’s main dining area is eerily empty, with all the tables cleared except one large round set up in the center. Plush red booth seats line the walls, and paintings of the Italian countryside hang on the brick. Usually, Nico’s bustles with waitstaff and customers. But today, it’s deathly quiet, every booth vacant. They’ve cleared it for us—no witnesses, no eavesdroppers.

At the lone table, Giovanni Lucatello sits with two of his associates, both wearing dark suits that match his own. My scar itches at the sight of him: the broad shoulders straining against Italian wool, his hawk-like nose, the implacable stare. He looks older now, with streaks of gray at his temples and deep lines around his mouth, but he is no less imposing. If anything, the years have only hardened him.

He rises the moment we enter, forcing a thin-lipped smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Saverio.” He tips his chin politely at Dante, Salvatore, and Niccolo. Then his gaze lands on me. His smirk grows. “Good to see you, Lucky.”

My pulse kicks up a notch, but I clench my teeth, refusing to show any outward reaction. He might read the hate in my eyes, but that’s fine. Let him know I’d burn him alive if I could, watch him crumble to ash with a smile on my face. I’m only here because I have no choice.

“Giovanni.” My voice comes out level despite the tang of bile in my throat.

Giovanni’s men shift, glancing warily between our group. Saverio breaks it first by striding forward with a broad, politician-like grin, clasping Giovanni’s hand in a show of unity.

“Shall we sit?” Saverio suggests, gesturing at the table.

We file around, Dante on one side, me on the other. I end up half a seat away from Giovanni, close enough to smell his aftershave. Memories swell, blackening my vision for a second. I drag in a breath and force the rage down. Not now. Later, maybe. But not now.

A member of the waitstaff—some unfortunate soul roped into serving us—delicately sets out glasses of water and then retreats. I don’t bother with mine. I’m too angry to feel thirsty. My mouth is dry, though, from suppressed anger and an odd swirl of anticipation. Rumor has it that Giovanni’s daughter—my soon-to-be wife—is sheltered and naive. Possibly beautiful. Possibly nothing but a pretty puppet for her father to control.

Dante and Giovanni exchange pleasantries, each trying to outdo the other in false warmth. Salvatore and Niccolo contribute a few curt words, while Saverio discusses logistic nonsense: joint business operations, territory lines, and the strengthening of families. I’m half-listening, half-lost in my head.

Then Giovanni turns to me, forcing an ingratiating smile. “My daughter is quite lovely,” he says. “I regret that you haven’t met her yet.”

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