Page 4 of Charming Villain

My heart flutters, half in terror, half in anticipation. I’ve never seen a place like this, never stood in a space so unrefined and gloriously unguarded. No one looks up to see who I am; no one bothers to judge my dress or my posture. They’re all lost in their own nights, their own problems, their own victories. The anonymity is liberating in its simplicity. Here, the usual social protocols that have governed my every breath seem to dissolve into the haze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses.

I make my way to the bar, dodging a tipsy man who winks at me as he stumbles past. My nerves jangle.

A bartender with a weathered face and a shaved head wipes a glass with a rag, raising an eyebrow when I approach. “What can I get for you?”

I freeze a moment.What do normal people order?A drink from Allegra’s stories surfaces. “Lavender gin fizz?” It comes out uncertainly, my voice barely audible over the din.

He laughs but nods. “Fancy. Sure thing, sweetheart.”

Heat prickles my cheeks, half embarrassed, half amused by his casual address. But I don’t bristle. I’m not sure if it’s the adrenaline or the thrill of finally doing somethingunapproved. Maybe both. While he prepares my drink, I glance around, my eyes adjusting to the low light. The bar stools are mostly taken by men leaning in to whisper at women with smoky eyes and half-empty glasses. Two of them at the far end watch me for a moment, then return to their conversation.

I catch my reflection in a smudged mirror behind the bar. My hair’s slightly damp from the rain, framing my face in dark waves. There’s a flush in my cheeks I’ve never seen before.I look alive.The thought sends a ripple of excitement through me.

The bartender slides over a pinkish-purple glass garnished with a sprig of lavender. “Here you go. That’ll be?—”

I fumble with my clutch, half expecting him to refuse my money or ask me for a membership card or something insane. But this isn’t my father’s world, with its mahogany-paneled country clubs and strict dress codes. People pay, people drink, people forget. That’s all. No secret handshakes or family connections required. I hand over the bills, careful not to show how little I actually know about bar etiquette, trying to mimic the casual confidence of the women around me. He takes the cash without question, already turning to the next customer.

“Thank you,” I murmur, lifting the glass to my lips. The first sip is cool, floral, and pleasantly fizzy. A quiet gasp escapes me—there’s a faint bitterness of gin beneath the flowery sweetness. It’sgood. Better than any wine I’ve sipped at Father’s formal dinners.

A woman bumps into my shoulder as she squeezes in to order, tossing an apologetic glance my way. I smile, sipping again.I’m here, I’m safe, and I’m free.My mind flickers to the note on my pillow—just a single line, “I’ll be back soon,” though I’m not sure if I mean it. Could I run away for good? The idea thrills and terrifies me. On one hand, I hope Father finds the note; on the other, I hope no one notices I’m gone.

I slip onto an empty stool, crossing one leg over the other, and let my senses drink in everything at once: the thud of music, the tang of spilled beer, the brush of a stranger’s sleeve against my arm. It’s overwhelming but in the best possible way. I half-wonder if my father has any idea what I’m doing. He’d be apoplectic.Oh, God, if he finds out…A shiver traces my spine. I force myself to swallow it down.Just one night.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I imagine a thousand possibilities. Maybe I’ll meet someone nice, someone who’ll take me to a motel for a few hours. Then I can return to my father’s house,“ruined.”No mafia man would want me then. I wouldn’t be a pure, virgin princess to dangle in some power exchange.That’s the plan,I remind myself.Give away the only thing Father cherishes—my virtue—so he can’t sell me off like livestock.It’s not exactly the romantic first time I’d dreamed about as a teenager, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, anything has to be better than being traded away like a prized breeding mare to cement some criminal alliance.

Still, my chest tightens. Is this really what I want? Just to be rid of the burden of my father’s demands, no matter the cost? My reflection in the mirror catches my eye again.Yes.I can’t deny the relief at the idea ofnotbelonging to whoever Father has chosen.

The fizz in my veins grows with each sip, bubbles dancing on my tongue and warming my blood—a little liquid courage to chase away the last of my doubts. I set the half-empty glass on the bar, fiddling with the lavender garnish as condensation drips down the side. My gaze flits over the crowd, seeking someone who looks interesting—someone with enough edge to excite but not enough to terrify. Safe enough, but nottoosafe. Desperate enough not to ask any questions about why a woman like me is here alone.

That’s when I notice him.

He stands near the far corner of the bar, broad-shouldered and clad in a dark jacket that clings to him like a second skin. He’s not chatting or smiling; instead, he’s hunched over a drink, his posture coiled and vibrating with tension. Even from here, I can feel something radiating off him—anger, heartbreak, barely concealed restraint. He downs a shot of whiskey, slamming the glass onto the counter with more force than necessary. He draws side-eyes from a couple next to him, but he doesn’t apologize or acknowledge them. He just rakes a hand through his dark hair, expression twisted as if he’s fighting off demons no one else can see.

My heart stutters and then trips into an uneven rhythm. There’s a danger about him, a crackling energy that raises the fine hairs on my arms. I should look away; I should pick someone else,anyone else, but I can’t tear my eyes away from him. There’s something about him that resonates with the hollow ache in my own chest, like recognizing a reflection in dark water. The same desperation, perhaps. The same need to escape. My gaze lingers on the line of his jaw, the flex of his fingers around his empty glass, the way his shoulders bunch beneath that fitted jacket. Everything about him screams trouble.

And yet, for some reason, I want to step into his storm and let his dangerous current pull me under.

Chapter3

Luciano

Idrain the last drop of whiskey in my glass, letting its bite scorch my throat, and motion for another without bothering to catch the bartender’s eye. The music in Finn’s pulses around me—a chaotic mix of bass and laughter. It’s exactly what I need. Somewhere loud enough to drown out the voice in my head telling me to do the smart thing and accept my fate. But I’m not in the mood for anything smart tonight.

I shift on the battered barstool, one elbow resting on the counter, and rake a hand through my hair. Anger, regret, and a hint of shame swirl in my gut, a cocktail far stronger than the cheap whiskey I’m trying to drown myself in. If I had any sense, I’d be halfway to Missouri by now. But I’m not sure if I’m staying because I actually think I can fight this or because I’m too stubborn to run. Either way, I came here to self-destruct, not to plan.

The bartender slides a fresh glass toward me, and I knock back half of it right away. The liquid sears my chest and pushes away the last vestiges of reason. I want oblivion or whatever feels closest to it.

That’s when I sense it—a shift in the air at my side. Even before I turn my head, I can feel someone watching me. Then she appears in my peripheral vision, standing close enough that I catch the faint scent of lavender. She’s tall, slender, and dark-haired, wearing a black dress that should be classy but somehow looks dangerous on her. She hesitates for a heartbeat, like she’s deciding if I’m worth the trouble, then slides onto the empty stool beside me.

I let my gaze flick to her face, taking in the angles of her cheekbones and the curve of her mouth. There’s tension there but also determination. She looks like she’s in the middle of her own storm, which is weirdly comforting. The darkness behind her eyes mirrors what I’m feeling—that same restless energy that makes you want to break things just to see them shatter. If I’d wanted a sweet distraction, I would’ve gone somewhere else. But here we are, two people looking for something that probably isn’t good for either of us.

“Is this seat taken?” she asks, her voice carrying over the music. Her knuckles are white against her glass, but she maintains a smooth composure.

“Depends,” I say, swirling the whiskey in my glass. “Are you looking for trouble?”

A flicker of a smile curves her lips, dangerous and promising all at once. “A little. Maybe.”

That earns a low huff of amusement from me. There’s a spark in her eyes that’s too bright for someone who’s just here to chat about the weather. “Then be my guest,” I say, gesturing to the stool she’s already claimed. I force myself not to stare at the way her dress clings to her body, focusing instead on the tension coiling in her posture.

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