Page 49 of Charming Villain

My hands tremble on the wheel, tears scalding the corners of my eyes. For a split second, I let the grief break me. A single sob tears from my throat, raw and guttural, echoing in the cramped car. Then I bury it, letting it fuel the madness in my veins. I press the accelerator again as a new vow forms: I’ll prove to her that I can be better. I’ll prove it if it kills me.

And if Gianna is pregnant, I’ll fight the entire fucking planet to show her that our child can have a life outside these blood-soaked walls. That I can be more than the man who threatened to ruin her.

I will find Gianna. I swear on everything we could have been and on everything we still might be.

Chapter28

Gianna

Islump into the last row of a dimly lit bus, keeping my head low. Hours have bled together since I ran from the Terlizzi estate and abandoned my wedding. Hours since I walked out on the one man who both terrifies and captivates me.

The world outside these windows feels grimy and gray, a far cry from the carefully tended lawns of Dante Terlizzi’s property. Raindrops speckle the glass, and each streak on the window distorts flickers of passing headlights into splotches of smeared neon. The seat cushions smell of must, stale fast food, and old cigarette ash. It’s not exactly the escape I’ve dreamed of, but it’s better than where I was.

My reflection in the dark window glances back at me, a pale ghostly shape with hollow eyes. I press myself tighter against the seat, trying to disappear into the cracked vinyl. The possibility of being pregnant sinks talons into my thoughts no matter how hard I try to shove it away. I grip the metal bar next to me, focusing on the hum of the bus’s engine. If I’m pregnant, if that suspicion proves real, what then? A jolt of guilt stabs my chest: I ran from the father of my child. But how could I stay in that world?

I shake my head, freeing my thoughts of the idea that I might be carrying a child. Maybe it’s just stress. Maybe I’m not carrying anything but a broken heart.

I let my gaze drift to the handful of other passengers scattered through the bus. A woman in a thin jacket nods in and out of sleep. Two teenage boys in hoodies slump side by side, mumbling to each other. A heavyset man near the front coughs into his fist every few minutes. Nobody looks like they want conversation, and that suits me just fine.

After an interminable ride, the bus squeals to a stop at a small depot lit by a flickering fluorescent sign in the middle of western Kansas. My stomach twists, and I force myself to my feet. I need to keep moving. If I stay on one bus for too long, it’s only a matter of time before somebody checks the passenger list or a camera and sees me. The mafia touches everything. With enough money, they’ll find me eventually. I refuse to make it easy for them.

When the driver announces a fifteen-minute break, I snatch my bag and hurry down the aisle. A wave of fresh air hits me as I step onto the curb, the chill stinging my cheeks. The depot is nothing special—a squat building with peeling paint, a couple of vending machines, and a single streetlamp in the adjacent parking lot. Fewer than a dozen people mill about, most dragging suitcases or smoking cigarettes in the shadows.

I keep my head down, tucking my hair into the hood of my sweater. My hand trembles as I dig in my bag for some cash. Exhaustion weighs on me, but I need a plan, or I’ll collapse and have nowhere to go.

Inside, the depot’s overhead lights buzz with a dull electric hum that makes the corners of my vision waver. There’s a cramped ticket counter along one wall where a bored-looking clerk scrolls through her phone. A line of plastic chairs stands opposite an ancient soda machine, and a row of pay phones—two out of three clearly broken—lines the back. The entire place smells like burnt coffee and disinfectant.

I spot a small, dingy café corner in the same room. My stomach rumbles, and nausea churns in tandem. Despite the roiling in my gut, I figure some hot food might help me think clearer. So I shuffle over. A single worker mans the counter, a teenage girl with a dyed pink undercut. Her eyebrows arch at me like she’s already bored.

“What can I getcha?” She asks in a monotone.

I open my mouth, but a wave of dizziness washes over me. I press my hand against the counter to steady myself. “Just coffee,” I manage. “And fries… I guess. Something cheap.”

She punches buttons on the cash register. “Four eighty-two.”

I fish out a few crumpled bills. I wish I had a credit card—my father gave me one once, but it was for emergencies only. Not that I’d use it now since that would be a beacon pointing to my location. I silently vow to ration my limited cash better.

The girl hands me a styrofoam cup and a small receipt. “Name?” She asks, nodding toward the receipt. My heart stalls. Right—she wants a name for the order. My mouth goes dry, and panic sparks in my chest. Out of reflex, I scrawlGiannaon the slip. The pink-haired clerk snatches it away too quickly, tapping it into a battered metal ring.

I swallow, forcing my features still. She glances up. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, stepping aside. “Just tired.” My pulse thunders as I shuffle away, coffee sloshing dangerously in my styrofoam cup. I find a seat at one of the plastic tables. The café’s overhead TV crackles with local news, but the volume’s too low to catch anything. Good. The last thing I need is to see coverage about a runaway bride from two feuding mob families. Yet my paranoid mind wonders if a segment might pop up any second—Missing bride. Possibly pregnant.My throat tightens around a sip of coffee, bitterness coating my tongue.

Someone behind me shifts, footsteps scuffing the tiled floor. My spine stiffens. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see a policeman, my father, or one of the Terlizzis, but it’s only an older man gathering bus schedules from a rack. I let out a slow breath, cursing my jittery nerves.

The teen clerk calls my order. I shuffle over, forcing a polite nod when she hands me a bag of fries. My gut still churns with nausea, but maybe a little food will help. As I’m turning back to my seat, I catch a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye—a man, older, maybe in his fifties, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face. He’s eyeing me or maybe the overhead menu. It’s hard to tell. My pulse hiccups, but I clamp down the panic. He glances away, focusing on the pastry display instead. It’s probably just my imagination.

I settle back at the plastic table, nibbling on a fry that tastes like salted cardboard. The coffee is lukewarm, but I drink it anyway. My mind turns to the next step: another bus or a taxi, or maybe I should find a cheap motel to grab a few hours of rest. I can’t keep going like this—my eyelids feel like sandpaper, and every muscle in my body aches with fatigue.

The overhead speakers crackle again, announcing my bus’s departure in five minutes. This route was never going to take me far enough, but it’s better than nothing. I gather my trash, stuff it into a nearby bin, and head for the exit. Maybe I’ll keep bouncing from bus to bus, city to city, until I can get enough distance between me and the Midwest. I just need to vanish.

Outside, the bus idles by the curb. I board, flashing a ticket I purchased hours earlier, and slump into a seat near the middle. The driver closes the door, the bus lurches forward, and we’re off again. As the bus merges onto another highway, I try to zone out, my head resting against the cool glass. The darkness outside is a blur of streetlights, reflective road signs, and an endless stretch of asphalt. A swirl of loneliness washes over me. If I was sure I wasn’t pregnant, maybe this wouldn’t hurt as much. But the not-knowing tightens fear in my belly until my eyes sting with tears.

I doze, slipping in and out of a restless half-sleep. In some twisted dream, I see Luciano’s face as he reads my note. Hurt carves lines of anguish into his features—anguish morphs into fury, fury morphs into heartbreak. I jolt awake, heart racing, and have to remind myself that heartbreak is better than living the rest of my life afraid of what my husband will do to me.

Eventually, the bus squeals to a stop at a roadhouse diner. The driver announces another fifteen-minute break. Passengers file off wearily, some to smoke, some to grab coffee or use the restroom. I realize I need the restroom, too, so I follow.

Inside, the place is small, with a few vinyl booths and a counter along one wall. A battered jukebox stands in the corner, silent. The stench of fried grease slaps me in the face, making my stomach roll again. I hurry past the kitchen door toward a cramped restroom. I lock the door the second I step inside, approaching the sink and bracing my arms on either side. My reflection stares back, hollow-eyed. The ring of the faucet clangs as I turn it on, spitting water in erratic spurts. I splash it on my face, letting the cold shock re-center me.

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