Page 15 of Charming Villain

Luciano

It takes another hour for Saverio, Dante, and Giovanni to sort out the details. I sit there and watch Gianna the whole time, but she stubbornly refuses to look at me.

I should have told Giovanni that his daughter is a whore, that I know for a fact she isn’t a virgin, but something stops me. The air of control, I think. Gianna Lucatello is the Devil I know, even if I don’t know her at all. She might have lied to me and proven that she’s unpredictable, but if I don’t marry her, it’ll be someone else. And at least I know what I’m getting into with Gianna.

But somewhere deep down, I know it’s more than that. We shared one night in a shitty motel room, and I can’t get it out of my mind. The way she looked at me, the way she touched me, the way she begged for more. I’ve spent the last four days trying to shake that memory, and I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see Gianna’s face twisted in pleasure and feel her nails digging into my shoulders. The memory of her breathy moans haunts me like a ghost I can’t exorcise. That night revealed something raw and real within me, and part of me needs to know if it was genuine or just the whiskey and depression.

When the meeting comes to an end, I tell Dante that I’ll head out with Giovanni and Gianna. “I want to personally oversee the packing process and make sure my future bride arrives at my home intact. Have Nic and Sal bring us a car.” Dante wants to argue, or at least ask me what the fuck I’m doing, but he knows not to do that in front of outsiders.

“We’ll talk later, huh?” He claps me on the back and gives me a knowing look.

“Of course,” I reply smoothly.

Outside, I climb into the Lucatellos’ SUV and settle into the back seat with Gianna and Giovanni across from me. I can’t stop throwing sidelong glances at my fiancé, though I keep my focus angled out the tinted window. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, her chin dipped. The faint pastel pink of her dress looks almost innocent in the harsh daylight, as if she’s someone’s naive little sister about to go to Sunday school. But I know better.

I’m still furious that she lied to me. She called herself Allegra and let me tear her apart in that hotel room with zero inclination that we’d ever meet again. Worse, she’s the daughter of the man who branded me like a fucking animal. Yet every time my gaze flicks to her, memories stab hot and vivid of the hours we spent together.

She must sense me looking. Her spine stiffens fractionally, but she keeps her gaze pinned to the partition that divides us from the driver, her face devoid of expression. She is docile now; she is demure in a way that sets my teeth on edge. And even though a part of me hates it, another part recognizes it for what it is: survival. I know something about that.

Giovanni is the only other passenger. The bastard who nearly ended my life sips whiskey from a flask he produced without any ceremony and pretends we’re all old friends.

“Things worked out nicely,” Giovanni muses, lifting the flask in a mock toast. “Wouldn’t you say, Lucky?”

I stare at the passing shops on Aggieville’s main strip: bright signs, couples strolling with iced coffees, the faint smell of exhaust, and fried food seeping in through the vents. It’s so normal it makes my skin crawl.

Giovanni exhales a bored sigh, swirling his liquor before taking another swig. “I suppose I owe you an apology for that little incident five years ago.” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “You know how it is. Power plays, debts to settle. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Little incident?”

He gives a dismissive wave of his flask. “Nothing personal, of course. You understand business is business. I’m sure we can consider that water under the bridge now—especially given your upcoming nuptials.”

A savage laugh escapes my throat before I can stop it.Water under the bridge.Sure. Let’s rewrite history as if I didn’t spend weeks recuperating, learning to breathe past the searing pain in my chest and the violent PTSD-riddled nightmares. “We can pretend it didn’t happen.”

Quickly, I unbutton my suit jacket and the top couple of buttons on my shirt. I catch Gianna’s posture stiffen in my peripheral vision, but I don’t spare her a glance. Instead, I tug the fabric aside, revealing the jagged outline of the scar where Dr. Stone had to burn over the Lucatello family crest. The skin there is warped and uneven—a permanent reminder that can’t be erased.

Giovanni’s lips part, but no words come out. The flicker of unease in his eyes is worth all the whiskey in the world.

“See?” I smile despite the bile swirling in my stomach. “Good as new. Like it never even happened.”

I let him stew for a moment, then fasten the buttons with methodical precision. Gianna hasn’t moved or spoken, but I sense her awareness.She knows what her father did to me.She must. Though I suspect she was shielded from the worst details.

Giovanni downs the rest of his liquor, draining the flask and pinning me with a glare. The rest of the ride passes in near-silence. Good. I’d rather let him choke on the silence than issue another fake apology.

We reach the Lucatello estate half an hour later, the gates swinging open when they see the car. A mansion looms at the top of a gentle slope, every inch of it meticulously manicured. It’s a fortress of granite that looks more like a tomb than a home.

Giovanni disembarks first, adjusting his jacket and striding up the steps. A guard stands at attention by the door, offering a respectful nod. My chest tightens with the urge to punch something.He has all these men, all these luxuries, after what he did.The injustice burns. Then again, the mafia thrives on injustice.

Gianna slides out of the SUV with practiced grace; her head bowed just enough to appear polite but not subservient. I follow, my shoes crunching on the driveway’s gravel.Fuck this place.

Inside, the air is cooler than I expect and scented faintly of fresh polish. Chandeliers glimmer overhead, and a grand staircase spirals upward. The banisters gleam with gold trim, and a hush pervades the space. Giovanni heads off in a different direction, speaking to one of his men in hushed tones. He doesn’t bother with Gianna or me at the moment, assuming I’ll handle collecting my bride without further drama.

I turn to Gianna. She stands near the entrance with her arms folded and her posture rigid. When she notices me staring, she flinches—just a micro-movement, but enough to remind me she’s not as calm as she wants to appear.

“You have fifteen minutes to pack.”

She lifts her head, dark eyes flicking to meet mine. For a moment, I see a flash of rebellious spark. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by weary acceptance. “I know.”

The quiet resignation in her tone prickles my skin. Part of me wants her to fight back, to spark the same fire I tasted in that hotel bed. Another part insists this is exactly what I want: compliance so I can keep her under my watch and figure out her angles without further complications.

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