Page 52 of Charming Villain

“Can I help you?” She asks.

I slap Gianna’s picture on the desk. “This woman. Is she here?”

She squints at the photo and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Yeah. She’s in room eight, at the far end on the left. Checked in a few hours ago.” My entire body seizes with relief. I’ve found her. I’m about to bolt for the door, but the woman continues, her voice cutting through my momentary euphoria. “Another guy came through asking about her a few minutes ago. Seemed in a hurry. Didn’t smile, didn’t chat. She’s a popular one tonight.” The relief drains from me, replaced by a cold, sinking suspicion in my gut.

Another guy. Giovanni? Or one of his men. Or Saverio. My worst fear is realized. Terror, rage, and desperation fuse into a single unstoppable momentum. I yank my gun from the waistband of my pants. The clerk gasps, stepping back.

“Hey. I don’t want no trouble,” she sputters.

I don’t even respond. I throw open the motel office door and sprint into the night. My heart booms in my ears like a war drum. My feet pound the ground as I rush to room eight, gun hot in my hand. Every second counts now. If Giovanni is here—if he so much as touches her—I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands.

The hall is lined with doors, paint peeling in wide strips like diseased skin. Room six…seven…eight. A low, persistent hum in my mind blocks out everything but the primal need to get inside. I sense movement behind the thin walls, muffled voices that make my blood run cold. My adrenaline spikes to a blinding peak.

I throw my shoulder into the door without hesitation. The cheap lock cracks with a satisfying snap, the wood splintering in protest as I burst inside. Time seems to slow to a crawl, each millisecond stretching into eternity. The bedside lamp is a sickly yellow, revealing a single bed with a faded floral bedspread askew. Gianna is on the mattress, curled in on herself like a wounded animal, eyes wide in terror and disbelief. Standing over her is Giovanni, his gun drawn and aimed at her head.

Chapter30

Gianna

Sleep is the only escape I have left—an oblivion that shields me from guilt, fear, and the horrible uncertainty of what my future holds.

But the peace doesn’t last long.

A soft knock at the door—once, maybe twice—breaks through my dreamless haze, and I blink blearily. For a moment, I have no idea where I am. A motel? My wedding suite? My father’s estate? Every place I’ve ever been blurs together in the first few seconds I’m conscious. My heart beats a dull, heavy thud as I try to place myself.

Then I remember: I ran away from my wedding. I hopped on a bus and traveled for hours and hours, only to wind up in this dingy motel room in western Kansas. No one should be knocking on my door. No one should know I’m here. The clerk barely looked at me when she gave me the key. I paid in cash like a fugitive; I used a fake last name. No one should be knocking.

I hold my breath, body tensing, my heart straining painfully against my ribs. Maybe it’s just a traveler who got the wrong room. Or the night manager checking if I need anything. But there’s something off, some unnamable dread creeping up my spine. The knock doesn’t come again.

Seconds tick by—too many. My hands go clammy. Maybe I dreamt it. Maybe my paranoia runs so deep that I’m inventing knocks in the middle of the night.

I’m about to sink back into bed, willing my pulse to calm down, when the door suddenly bursts inward. Wood splinters with a sickening crack, fragments spraying across the carpet. The flimsy chain slides loose with an ugly scrape of metal, the worthless security measure I’d foolishly trusted now dangling uselessly from the frame. I jolt upright, my body freezing between fight and flight as the night air rushes through the violated doorway.

My father stands framed in the weak light from the rising sun behind him. And he’s holding a gun.

My first wild thought is that he’s here to drag me home and scold me for fleeing. But that glimmer of hope flickers and dies the instant I meet his eyes. He’s not worried; he doesn’t look frantic—he’s calm and cold like ice creeping over a corpse. Slowly, he closes the door behind him, sealing us both inside the motel room like a tomb.

“Little runaway,” he says softly. His lips twist into a sneer. “Hiding in a rat-hole. Typical.”

I clutch the bedspread to give my hands something to do, twisting the cheap fabric between my fingers until my knuckles turn white. “F-Father,” I choke out, the word catching in my throat like a fish bone. “How... You can’t be here.” It’s a foolish statement, but I can’t form coherent thoughts. My mind is static, white noise drowning out reason. The sight of him is like waking up and realizing the nightmare you just fled from is your reality—that the monster you thought you’d escaped has followed you into the daylight and brought all your terrors with him.

“Unfortunately for you,” he says, taking a measured step forward, “Iamhere.”

My body refuses to move. “Why are you?—?”

His lips curl back, cutting me off. “To collect what’s mine, you might imagine?” Giovanni snorts dismissively. “I see that little flicker of hope in your eyes, that pathetic wonder if I’ve come to retrieve you and whisk you back home for a father-daughter reunion.” He leans in, his gaze darkening with contempt. “Rest assured, Gianna, I have no such intentions.”

A shiver runs through me so violently I nearly retch. “What do you want, then?”

He gives a humorless laugh. “Everyone at the wedding thought I’d be distraught. They comforted me because they felt sorry for me.” Giovanni takes another step closer. “But how could they know you never mattered to me? That you’ve been a worthless child since day one? Always sniveling, always too sensitive for this life.” His voice drops to a contemptuous whisper. “Your weakness disgusts me. Why your mother and I kept you around is a mystery. It’s one of the few mistakes I’ve made that I can’t justify.”

His words are like acid, each syllable burning away any last shred of hope I have. Part of me always knew he loathed me. But hearing him say it out loud is like having my chest cracked open.

“I did everything,” I whisper, my voice shaky. “I tried to be the daughter you wanted?—”

Giovanni cuts me off with an impatient flick of his wrist. “Stop.” His eyes flick over me, brimming with the same disgust I’ve seen since I was old enough to register emotion. “You think I cared about your attempts to be a good daughter? I’ve watched you fail from the moment you learned to crawl. Every stumble, every mistake, every disappointment—I cataloged them all.” He steps closer again. “You’re a stupid, useless jade. A piece of cheap glass masquerading as a daughter fit for the Lucatello family.”

He’s stepping forward with every hateful word, forcing me back until I’m almost falling off the other side of the bed. My mouth opens in soundless horror. The terror that floods my veins makes my mind scream:Run. Fight. Do something.But I’m frozen, pinned by his aura of absolute revulsion.

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