Page 41 of Charming Villain

Salvatore notices my distraction, crossing the room with his usual swagger to clap a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You look pale, Luc. You got wedding day jitters? You’re white as a ghost.”

I shrug his hand off with more force than necessary, giving him a short glare before focusing on the elderly tailor, who’s tugging and fussing at my collar like an anxious bird. “I’m fine,” I lie through clenched teeth. “Keep your hand off my new jacket. You’ll wrinkle it.”

He smirks, unoffended by my sharp edges. “Nerves, man. It’s normal. Every groom hates these final fittings. Or so I’ve heard; I’ve never had to go through one myself. Next time, we’ll bet on which of us tries to bolt first. My money’s on you.”

Niccolo laughs from his perch on a leather armchair. “I’ll throw in a hundred if Dante drags him to the altar by force.”

Dante arches an eyebrow from where he’s lounging. “You’re all so sure it’s just cold feet.”

My throat constricts.Maybe it is. Maybe that’s all. Maybe I’m just paranoid.But I can’t shake the pit in my stomach. “There was, uh, we had an incident,” I say carefully, stepping off the tailor’s dais to snag another glass of whiskey from a side table. The tailor fusses, but I ignore him. “With Gianna. A few nights ago.”

All three of them go still, the banter falling by the wayside. They know how we grew up, how any mention of an incident usually means violence or chaos. Dante’s gaze sharpens to a predatory focus. Niccolo sets down his glass with deliberate care. Salvatore stops fiddling with a measuring tape he nicked from the tailor’s back pocket.

“I edged her a little bit,” I say, words clipped. “It was a game between us.” A game I was playing, and she was forced to endure. “She cried. I apologized when I realized what I’d done, and I thought that was the end of it. Hoped it was, anyway.”

Dante exhales through his nose, a sound of relief. “You feel guilty now.” His voice is oddly soft. “But that doesn’t mean anything’s actually wrong, Luc.”

Niccolo nods, running his finger along the rim of his glass. “You’re marrying a Lucatello. They never make things simple. Christine kept me on my toes for months. Had me second-guessing every decision.”

Salvatore offers a half-smile, raising his glass in a lazy salute. “You sure it’s not just thatfinal stretchpanic? You’re giving up your freedom, signing your life away to join families with Giovanni’s last daughter? Everyone gets cold feet—hell, I’d probably be halfway to Canada by now if I were you.”

I stare into the whiskey glass. The groom’s jitters—that’s what everyone would say. The difficulty of bridging two enemy families. The mess of our history. All logical reasons to be uneasy. But logic doesn’t quell the gnawing sense that Gianna’s eyes hold secrets. That her kisses taste too much like a farewell. Like she’s already halfway gone, even when she’s in my arms.

I down the second glass of whiskey in one swallow, the burn scorching my throat. “Maybe,” I murmur, voice hollow. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

But it doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like watching a horizon darken before a storm. A sense that I’m on the verge of losing something I’ve barely begun to call mine.

Salvatore waves the tailor back over, urging him to let me finish my fitting. “It’s all in your head.”

I nod absently, stepping back onto the polished wooden dais. The tailor fusses with the jacket’s collar, tugs at the lapels, and pins the waist, his weathered fingers working quickly. I keep my arms extended and my posture rigid as my mind swirls with thoughts I can’t seem to shake. Dante tries to drag Niccolo into a new argument over which brand of cufflinks best matches the family crest—platinum versus white gold, modern versus traditional—and Salvatore dives in with sarcastic commentary about their shared inability to dress themselves. Their voices blend into a hazy symphony of sibling banter.

I’m only half-listening, my mind caught in an endless loop of doubt and suspicion. If I told them I suspect Gianna is playing me—if I told them that I sense she might be planning something—would they laugh? Would they believe me? Or would they shrug and say,“You’re just scared, Luc. It’s normal,”dismissing my concerns like they’ve dismissed so many others before?

In the mirror, I catch my reflection:a well-dressed groom who should be happy. The tailored suit fits perfectly, and every crease and fold is precisely where it should be. On the outside, I look in control, composed, and ready. Inside, worry festers like an old wound, invisible to everyone but me.

Niccolo sidles up, tapping the mirror with his knuckles to get my attention. “You okay?” He asks quietly, keeping his voice low enough that the others won’t hear.

I force a small, reassuring smile. “I’m perfect.”

He studies me a second longer, then sighs, patting my shoulder. “It’ll be fine,” he mutters. “Trust me. I had doubts, too, but it all worked out.” Then he rejoins Salvatore.

I remain on the dais, letting the tailor circle me. My gut churns. For all my brothers’ talk, for all their reassurance, I can’t shake the feeling that Gianna is slipping through my fingers. Each day, she smiles more readily, kisses me softer, drapes herself over my lap like she was born to be there. And it scares the hell out of me.

Because if I were planning to betray someone, this is exactly how I’d act. And then, when they were most vulnerable, I’d stick a knife in their chest while they slept. It’s what any smart enemy would do, and Gianna is nothing if not clever.

The tailor announces he’s finished marking adjustments, beckoning me to remove the jacket. I shrug it off, handing it over absently. My brothers are back to mocking each other, sipping whiskey, and discussing the post-reception bash. They think everything’s normal. They think I’m just jumpy because I’m marrying Giovanni Lucatello’s daughter.

But my pulse thuds an uneasy drumbeat in my ears. I try to breathe, try to let logic calm me, but the tension in my chest only grows. Gianna’s words echo in my head:I’m not going anywhere.

So why do I feel like she’s already gone?

I linger by the door after Salvatore, Niccolo, and Dante move to the register to settle final costs. They’re still bantering, still comfortable. I should join them, but something about the quiet stretch of the tailor shop corridor beckons me. For a moment, I stand there, ignoring the shop’s opulent decor and the heady swirl of cologne. My phone buzzes in my pocket—just a message from an associate confirming a meeting time for tomorrow. I silence it.

Gianna is lying to me.The idea knots my stomach. I can’t be sure. Maybe she’s genuine, maybe she finally understands me, maybe she finally accepts our fate. Or maybe I’m just paranoid.

Niccolo laughs at one of Salvatore’s jokes, the sound cutting through my thoughts. In a minute, I’ll join them, pay for my tux, and pretend that everything’s fine.

But deep in my gut, a cold certainty coils:Everything is not fine.

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