Page 27 of Charming Villain

“Get up,” he snaps.

My legs burn from kneeling, but I push myself to my feet without letting it show. Luciano follows suit, fists clenched at his sides as though considering a dozen possible punishments to dole out upon hearing my refusal. His knuckles whiten with barely contained rage, and a muscle ticks in his jaw.This is it, I think.He’ll lash out now. He’ll hit me.But instead, he just glares.

“Go to bed. We’ll continue this conversation later.”

I nod stiffly and turn to walk away, spine rigid, not daring to look back at Luciano lest he change his mind. My entire body trembles in the aftermath of our confrontation, my mind swirling with conflicting emotions. Fear, anger, defiance. And, beneath it all, a tremor of betrayal at my own involuntary response to his touch. I hate him for igniting any spark of want in me; I hate that he almost brought me to orgasm… again.

And the worst part of it all is now that I’m alone in our shared bedroom, all I want to do is touch myself, exactly as he ordered.

Chapter16

Luciano

Four bedrooms, three bathrooms—it’s more space than I need—yet it’s never felt claustrophobic until Gianna moved in. Now, every room echoes from the unspoken war between us.

She’s been here for days, tiptoeing through my life with infuriating composure. Our routine has settled into something twisted: I demand she serves me—cooking, cleaning, and a thousand menial chores—and she complies with barely a flicker of emotion. It’s like she’s refusing to give me the reaction I crave. There’s no shouting, no tears, no pleas for mercy. Just obedience.

And I hate it. Because it means I’m the only one simmering with anger. I want her to lash out and snap so I can unleash the anger that chews through my insides. But she won’t give me that satisfaction. Her passivity feels more like quiet defiance every day. It’s a presence I can’t ignore, and it poisons every corner of my home.

A thud from the hallway drags me out of my thoughts. Gianna is in there, probably finishing the laundry or folding fresh towels. I push off the couch and head toward the noise. If I find a single speck of dust or a single towel folded incorrectly, I’ll have an excuse to punish her—to break the eerie calm settling between us. Part of me wants that confrontation,needsit if we ever plan to move past whatever this is between us.

But when I round the corner into the hallway, she’s simply hauling a basket of neatly folded clothes. She pauses upon seeing me, spine straightening, chin dipping just enough to acknowledge my presence without looking me in the eyes. Her hair is twisted into a loose bun, a few dark strands brushing her neck. An image flashes through my mind: her hair undone and tangled, her lips parted as I toyed with her body in the middle of the living room.

The memory sends heat pulsing through my veins. Rage or lust—these days, I can’t tell them apart, can’t separate the urge to shake her from the desire to pin her against the wall and fuck the obedience out of her.

“You’ve finished the laundry?”

“Yes,” Gianna answers quietly.

“And dinner?”

“It’s keeping warm on the stove.” Her fingers tighten on the laundry basket, knuckles going white against the plastic rim.

“Hmm.” A noncommittal sound. The truth is, I’m not hungry. At least, not for food. An uneasy restlessness gnaws at my gut.You wanted to torture her, but now you can’t stop thinking about her, can you, you pathetic bastard?If my brothers were here, they’d set me straight.

Dante would tell me that there are worse things I could be doing than forcing my soon-to-be wife to do my laundry. After all, he kidnapped and imprisoned the woman he married, and they built a beautiful life and family together. He’d laugh at my hesitation and remind me that sometimes, the most reluctant brides make the most devoted wives.

Niccolo would say any woman liberated from the clutches of Giovanni Lucatello should be grateful. His wife is Giovanni’s niece, and he is all too familiar with the criminal acts required of a man to save a woman from a fate worse than death.

Salvatore would remind me that I could always marry Gianna and take up a mistress on the side. Women in this lifestyle can be as important or as disposable as you make them. But then again, he’s never been a man in love. Maybe if he were, he’d understand why I could never do that to her. The mere thought of touching another woman makes my skin crawl, and I hate myself for it.

I force my lips into a sneer, returning my attention to Gianna. “Follow me.”

Her gaze flickers with reluctance, but she sets down the basket and trails after me. I lead her into the living room and drop onto the leather couch. The television is off; I haven’t bothered turning it on in days. Instead, I’ve occupied my mind by finding new ways to push Gianna’s buttons.

She stands a few feet away, hands at her sides, posture neutral. Everything about her screams self-control.I’ll fix that.

“Sit,” I say, patting my thigh. “Here.”

Gianna hesitates. Her eyes flick to the couch cushion, but I keep my hand on my leg, making it clear I expect her in my lap. The uncertainty that crosses her face is the closest thing to a real reaction I’ve seen in days. A muscle twitches in her jaw and her fingers curl slightly at her sides—tiny tells that betray the battle between her training and her pride. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.

Slowly, she steps closer, gingerly lowering herself onto my lap. Her body is stiff, arms crossed protectively over her chest. Her weight is disconcertingly pleasant—a warmth that stokes an unwanted glimmer of desire. I loop an arm around her waist and yank her flush against me, my nose near the curve of her neck. She smells faintly of soap and something sweet.

Leaning in, I let my breath ghost over her ear. “Comfortable?”

Gianna doesn’t reply, but her shoulders tighten, and her spine straightens. Her heartbeat thrums so loudly that I can feel it through her skin. Triumph flares in my chest, spreading like warm honey—finally, a sign that she’s not made of stone.

“You know,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against the soft skin there, “this is how you should act as my fiancée, hmm? Eager to please. Compliant. After all, you sure seemed eager enough in that motel room.” I savor the way her pulse jumps beneath her skin.

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