Page 39 of Charming Villain

I nod again, docile. He leaves the room, and the moment he’s gone, I let out a shaky breath. My entire body feels too heavy. My gaze drifts over to the bed—his bed,ourbed, where he wants me to sleep from now on. The last place I want to be, yet exactly where I need to be if I’m to fool him long enough to run away. My shoulders stiffen at the thought. Even as my chest aches with guilt, I cling to the promise I made myself: I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back. I will not let this man destroy me.

The next day, I’m yanked from the house by my father to pick out a wedding dress. Luciano argues that he should be allowed to attend. On one hand, I want him there to prevent my father from lashing out at me—Giovanni’s always more careful when others are watching. On the other hand, I need space. I need to put some distance between me and my future husband. In the end, Luciano doesn’t come, and he isn’t happy about it.

In two days’ time, I’ve gone from being forcibly pinned to a mattress, to softly coddled in bed, to being strapped into a white gown with layers of tulle and satin. The transformation is so abrupt it feels surreal, like stepping from a nightmare into a farce. Only it’s all the same nightmare, just with a new costume. My reflection in the boutique’s three-way mirror shows a stranger wearing pearls and lace, a hollow-eyed girl playing dress-up in someone else’s happily-ever-after. The saleswoman fusses with the train while my father dismissively regards me, neither of them noticing how my hands shake as they smooth down the bodice.

My father prowls near the dressing platform to look at himself in the mirrors, adjusting his tie and discarding nonexistent lint. “This is a disgrace,” he snarls under his breath. An assistant fusses at the bottom of the gown, kneeling to straighten the lace and smooth wrinkles from the cathedral-length train. I stare at myself in the mirror, body half hidden under delicate fabric. I should feel some flicker of excitement—most girls dream of picking out their wedding dress, right? But all I can taste is dread, bitter and metallic, like pennies dissolving on my tongue.

“It’s not like I had a choice,” He huffs. “Niccolo took Christine from me. I had to retaliate. Now Luciano is taking you.” Giovanni turns on me, eyes full of fury. The assistant glances up uneasily as she senses the tension. “That worthless piece of scum,” my father snarls, ignoring her presence completely. “The Terlizzis think they can humiliate me with this marriage. Dante’s whore of a sister curled up in Saverio’s lap and whispered poison in his ear until he bent to her will. This would never have been Saverio’s choice. He never would have forced me to give you up to Luciano fucking Terlizzi. I hope the bastard rots. I hope he keels over at the altar and chokes on his own blood.”

“Which one?” I ask quietly, not sure whether he’s cursing Niccolo, Saverio, Luciano, or all of the above.

Giovanni slants me a glare that feels like a punch. “All of them. But especially Luciano.” His lips curl into a sneer. “You see how these animals behave, Gianna? I have to hand you over like a lamb to slaughter because they think it’ll mend fences.”

The gown’s corset digs into my ribs, and I force myself to breathe through the discomfort. The assistant tries to attach a veil, and I flinch at the prickle of pins near my scalp. My father’s voice drones on about the ways the Terlizzis have wronged him—how Niccolo married Christine without asking, how Dante humiliated him by putting him in the hospital. I tune him out because behind his words lies a poisonous truth:if Luciano dies, it won’t save me.I’ll just be imprisoned in the same cage I grew up in. It would be safer, perhaps, because I know the rules—when to speak, when to stay silent, which smiles to fake and which battles to surrender. But a cage is still a cage regardless of who holds the key.

When I look at my reflection again, draped in white like a twisted parody of innocence, I want to laugh at the irony. I am a bride planning her escape when I should be dreaming of first dances and honeymoon destinations. My fingers clutch the skirt, feeling the expensive satin bunch under my grip. I swallow the surge of panic that threatens to choke me, forcing down the acid taste of fear that burns my throat.You can do this, Gianna.I will get through this. I will survive. I have to.

My father storms off to speak with the tailor about final alterations, leaving me on the platform. The assistant meets my gaze sympathetically, but I can’t find it in me to smile. All I can think is how every stitch in this gown feels like another chain tying me to a future I refuse to accept.

The following day, Luciano decides Cupcake should go to the vet. He says there are shots she needs to get and we should make sure she’s spayed. We drive to a small clinic on the outskirts of town. She mewls the entire ride, climbing my lap with anxious claws. I hush her, pressing small kisses to the top of her fuzzy head. Despite everything, I can’t help the softening in my heart when I cradle Cupcake. I’m afraid I won’t be able to take her when I leave; I’m even more afraid of what Luciano will do to her when I’m gone.

Luciano’s hand settles on my thigh as he navigates the streets of Manhattan. His thumb rubs small circles there, each gentle sweep distracting me from my getaway plan. My pulse speeds up, not so much from fear, but from the confused swirl of warmth his touch elicits. It’s maddening how my body still responds to him, even as my mind screams at me to runaway. I need to maintain a facade—the good, obedient bride-to-be—so I force myself not to stiffen. I allow my leg to relax under his palm while I stare straight ahead at the traffic, counting red lights like heartbeats.

At the clinic, we wait in a narrow room that smells of antiseptic, stress, and pet dander. A few plastic chairs line the walls, their blue surfaces scuffed and worn from countless pet owners. A battered magazine rack stands in the corner filled with outdated issues about animal wellness. Cupcake whimpers from inside her soft-shelled carrier and I keep muttering nonsense to let her know she’s safe, my fingers pressed against the mesh where I can feel her warm breath. Luciano hovers by me, never letting more than a foot of space come between us, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.

When the vet calls us in, I carefully lift Cupcake out of the carrier. She shakes as the vet examines her, gives her shots, and checks her vitals. I hold her, cooing soft encouragement. Luciano stands at my shoulder with his arms crossed, watching intently as if verifying the vet won’t harm her. A pang shoots through my chest. He’s so protective.But not just of Cupcake, is he?

The vet compliments us on rescuing her from a life on the street and says how lucky Cupcake is to have owners who care. The wordownersechoes in my head, and my gut twists at how easily it applies to me, too. I’m an asset, an acquisition, Luciano’s pet to be caged.But I won’t stay that way.

We head back to the car. The air outside is cool under a clouded sky, thick with the promise of rain. Cupcake presses her face to the carrier door, a bit drowsy from her shots, her pink nose twitching as she tries to make sense of her altered state. I climb into the passenger seat and whisper to her that she’ll be alright.

Luciano starts the engine, then surprises me by placing a hand on my cheek and tilting my face toward him. “You’re going to make a good mother one day.”

My throat tightens at the gentle note in his tone and I change the topic before I can dwell on its meaning, before those words can sink too deep beneath my skin. “She needed the shots,” I say softly. “I’d do anything for her.” Even lie. Even pretend. Even risk everything we’ve started to build.Maybe I’d do anything for you, too, if you weren’t so torn between falling in love with me and destroying me.The thought settles like a cold stone in my stomach.

Luciano’s thumb strokes my lower lip in a feather-light caress before he withdraws, turning his attention back to the steering wheel. The contact lingers, ghosting warmth across my skin like a phantom touch I can’t shake. My pulse stutters, caught between wanting more and fearing it. “We’ll head home,” he says, almost an afterthought. “Cupcake’s had enough excitement for one day.”

My chest aches with guilt. I keep telling myself just a little longer. If I lean into his tenderness, if I show him the side of me that craves gentle touches and soft words, then he won’t suspect what I’m trying to do. But each time I lean into his kindness, each time I allow myself to melt beneath his careful attention, I confuse myself as much as I fool him. The lines between pretense and truth blur more with every passing moment.

But after a couple more days, I’ve honed my routine of compliance and affection into something that feels almost natural. I cook him dinner, making sure to prepare the dishes he loves most. I surprise him with subtle touches—resting my hand on his knee under the table, brushing my shoulder against his in passing, praising him for letting Cupcake roam the house freely instead of keeping her confined. Each small gesture coaxes a gentler side of him to the surface, like ice melting under spring sunshine. And the calmer he becomes, the more he trusts me, the more his guard drops inch by careful inch. It kills me that I feel a flicker of warmth each time he leans into those touches instead of pushing me away. I hate that my heart skips a treacherous beat when his eyes soften at my attention. I’m getting too good at this game, and sometimes I forget it’s a game at all, that when it’s over, I’ll be on the other side of the continent, thousands of miles from him.

Night after night, I slide into his bed on the opposite side, maintaining a polite distance until he pulls me closer. Some nights, we sleep with Cupcake tucked between us, a small purring bundle of fur who kneads contentedly at the blankets. Other nights, I feel his arm slung heavily over my waist, his breath ruffling the hair at the back of my neck. Each time, I bite my tongue to keep from crying, tasting copper and regret.Don’t get used to this,I tell myself.Don’t be fooled by the comfort.

My father’s words about the wedding swirl in my head. The date is set for two weeks from now, and time feels like it’s slipping away. I have to finalize my plan soon. The day of the wedding, everyone will be busy. If I do it right, I can slip out before the ceremony and vanish into the chaos. I’ve stashed away some emergency cash found in the pocket of one of the suits Luciano was wearing. I set it aside for a couple of days, but he never asked about it. I know it’s not enough to live on, but it’ll get me on a bus.

But even though Luciano doesn’t know what I’m going to do, even though he couldn’t possibly suspect what I’m planning, the whole thing almost falls apart a few nights later.

It’s evening and I’m in the living room reading a book. I’ve been trying to make myself present for Luciano, letting him see me relaxing into his environment, playing the part of someone who’s settling in for the long haul. I flip pages at regular intervals, though my mind is elsewhere, planning and calculating. The more I keep up the facade of normalcy, the easier it will be to leave without him realizing what I’m doing. Every casual moment like this is another reason for him to never suspect I’m about to disappear.

When Luciano walks in the room, I pretend to be surprised. I whirl around, expecting to see a scowl or receive an order to do the dishes. But instead, I’m met with an expression that makes my chest tighten. There’s raw emotion swirling on his face—longing, conflict, guilt. Before I can speak, he steps closer, crowding my space in that commanding way he has.

He reaches out to cup my face in his palms. The move is gentle, reverent even, as if he’s asking permission to exist in my space. My stomach flips. “Gianna,” he says softly. “I know I’ve hurt you.” He swallows hard, his throat working as his eyes flick across my body as if mapping out every mark he’s left on my soul. “But I—I’m going to be better from now on.”

I’m shaking, torn between wanting to shove him away and wanting to let him hold me.But you’ve already lost me. Can’t you see that?But I can’t say that out loud. Instead, I let out a slow breath, force my body to relax, and tilt my head up to give him the tenderness he craves.

And that’s when he kisses me so softly it nearly shatters my plan. All the savage force from before is gone, replaced with a raw ache that seeps into my bones and makes my knees weak. His lips move against mine with such tenderness, such careful devotion, that my chest painfully constricts. I taste regret and desperation, bitter and sweetness all at once. My eyes burn with tears because, in that moment, I see the man he could’ve been if we hadn’t been twisted up in this violent world. The man who might actually love me if given the chance, who might have brought me flowers instead of bruises, whispered sweet nothings in my ear instead of threats. It’s a glimpse of an alternate reality that I will never get to live.

A sob lodges in my throat. My carefully constructed plan nearly unravels right there. My arms slide around his neck, my body molding to his with an ease that terrifies me, and for a heartbeat—one dangerous, traitorous heartbeat—I consider staying. I consider letting him try to be better than his demons. Letting us try to build something from these broken pieces. Because this kiss, it doesn’t feel like vengeance or control anymore. It feels raw and honest, like he’s begging me to be something good in his life.

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