Page 46 of Charming Villain

Gathering what remains of my composure, I step carefully across the dressing room and pull on the comfortable clothes I wore on the drive here this morning. They hide the bridal lingerie meant to be peeled off by my husband, but he won’t see them. I grab the purse I brought with me, filled with a few hundred dollars pilfered from Luciano’s pockets. It isn’t much, but it’s a start.

This will not be the moment that breaks me. This will not be the beginning of my end. This will be the start of a brand new story. And if I am pregnant... well, I’ll handle that on my own terms.

I pull a note out of my purse, fingers trembling slightly as I hold the folded paper. I spent a long time agonizing over what to write, crossing out words and starting over until the notepad was nearly empty. In the end, it wasn’t much—just a few lines of closure. It won’t explain everything, it won’t tell Luciano where I’m going, but it’ll give him peace of mind. And maybe he won’t come looking for me. Maybe when he reads it, he’ll realize that he should let me go. It’s better this way... for both of us.

That’s the lie I tell myself as I slip out the door. The hallway is conspicuously empty except for two women dressed in black and white suits, one stationed at each end. They’re probably here to guard me, to ensure the bride doesn’t flee. I make eye contact with one of them, and her eyebrows knit together for a minute before her face becomes impassive and professional. I walk toward her, clutching my purse tightly, and she nods her head at me.

“Getting some fresh air, Miss Lucatello?” She asks, her tone betraying nothing.

I nod, afraid that if I open my mouth and speak, I’ll spill my entire plan or, worse—break down completely.

The woman nods again, something like understanding flickering across her features. “You might find a more peacefulreprieveif you go through the gardens. The eastern path leads to a service gate.”

My jaw drops as I realize she’s not going to try and stop me. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“Best of luck, Miss Lucatello. You’ll need it.”

And she’s right. Getting out of the Terlizzi estate might be the easiest part of this entire escape. Hiding from Luciano and Giovanni for the rest of my life—disappearing from men who own half of the Midwest and have connections across the entire United States—will be the real challenge.

Chapter27

Luciano

Alow hum of conversation thrums through Dante’s estate, layered with the clink of crystal glasses and the soft footfalls of staff weaving between arriving guests. Outside, the afternoon light cuts across the windows in long, slanting beams, illuminating the final flurry of preparations for the wedding. By all accounts, it should be a day of celebration—the kind that merges two powerful families and promises new beginnings. But I can’t ignore the drum of tension pulsing in my gut, a warning that something’s wrong.

My brothers and I gather in the opulent parlor, an expansive room with forest-green walls and gold-framed mirrors that reflect the polished floor below. The fireplace stands cold and unused, but fresh white roses fill the mantel in an arrangement so pristine it’s almost gaudy. A faint whiff of floral sweetness mingles with the sharper tang of cologne and wood. I lean against a carved credenza, eyeing the swirl of staff in their black-and-white uniforms as they ferry trays of drinks to the lounge next door.

Niccolo, Salvatore, and Dante share a laugh by a grand piano near the arched window. The midday sun reflects off their tailored suits, highlighting the careful lines of each ensemble. We’re all dressed to the nines—crisp shirts, shining shoes, jackets that fit like second skins. But no matter how immaculate we look, I can’t shake the unease snaking through my veins.

I clench my jaw, forcing my gaze away from the empty hallway that leads to the bride’s suite. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but it’s just a text from a distant cousin about arrival times. I silence it, dragging a slow breath into my lungs. I’ve told myself a dozen times this is nothing but wedding-day nerves. Still, the coil in my gut refuses to loosen.

Salvatore arches a brow, pushing away from the piano. “You’re a million miles away, Lucky. You sure you don’t have cold feet?”

I let out a humorless snort. “I’m not the type to get cold feet. You know that.” But my voice cracks around the edges, betraying me. I can feel my brothers exchanging knowing looks behind my back, but I don’t care.

Niccolo lifts a glass of whiskey from a tray, swirling it gently as he watches me. “You’re not your usual self, Luc. You’re jumpy.” He raises the glass to his lips and takes a measured sip. “Didn’t sleep well?”

“No,” I admit, although my tone is clipped. “I kept expecting something—someone—to…” I don’t finish. The last thing I need is them making jokes about me being love-struck or paranoid.

Dante moves closer. “Relax. Gianna’s with the stylists. She’s safe. The only threat here is Giovanni’s temper, and that’s what the security team is for.”

I grunt in acknowledgment, but the assurance doesn’t settle me. The morning has been too quiet. Something about it feels like the calm before a storm.

A servant passes by with a tray of slender champagne flutes. Niccolo snags one, offering it in my direction with a raised brow. “Celebrate, will you? Today, you’re the groom. In a few hours, you’ll be a married man—like me. And if I survived it, so can you.”

Before I can retort, a man in a tailored black suit slips quietly into the parlor. He steps up behind me, leaning in to speak near my ear, voice low enough that no one else hears. My body goes rigid at the urgency in his tone.

“She’s gone,” he says simply.

Every muscle in my chest tightens. The world tunnels to this single moment. My hand grips the edge of the credenza, and my heart slams so hard against my chest that it hurts. “What?” I demand, but I already know. My worst fear has come to pass.

“She left through the eastern gardens,” he continues. “Security found her on camera slipping out about twenty minutes ago.”

The glass in Niccolo’s hand is halfway to his lips when he notices my expression. Conversation halts. Dante and Salvatore look over in alarm. Time slows; the hush in the room plunges like a lead weight. My mouth is too dry to form words.

Without thinking, I pivot, grabbing the nearest object—a crystal tumbler someone left on a side table—and hurl it against the wall. It smashes in a brilliant spray of shards. Gasps ring out from staff in the corridor. My brothers flinch, stepping back in shock.

“Luciano!” Niccolo blurts, coffee-brown eyes wide. “What the hell?”

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