Page 54 of Charming Villain

Giovanni glances down at me. “Look at that fear in her eyes, Terlizzi. Do you see it? That’s what I want you to feel. That’s how I want you to break.” He leans toward me, his breath rancid as he hisses, “This is all you’ve ever been good for, Gianna.”

My eyes sting with tears, and I choke on a sob.I hate you,I want to scream. But the words won’t come. I’m too broken, too powerless. My father’s insult slices deep because it’s the final confirmation that he never cared about me, that he truly came here just to kill me as a means to an end.

Luciano’s snarl is a rumble from hell. “Take it out on me,” he says, voice cracking with raw emotion. “Don’t hurt her. If you have a problem with me, kill me. But leave Gianna out of this.”

Giovanni’s gaze drifts back to Luciano, a spark of twisted glee in his eyes. “So noble. Except you used my daughter as your pawn, too. You think I don’t know what you were trying to do? You’re no different from me. The only difference is you started to care about her.” He laughs, and the sound is grotesque and joyful. “That was your mistake, Terlizzi.”

A faint moan escapes my lips, a mixture of guilt and despair clawing at my insides. Luciano did use me—I was a tool in his revenge against my father—but things changed between us. I know they did. I felt it in every stolen moment, every lingering look, every reluctant gentleness he tried to hide beneath his hardened exterior. The way his walls crumbled when he thought I wouldn’t notice. And now, that beautiful, terrifying complexity has boiled down to this—a crude standoff at gunpoint, with the two men who have defined my existence locked in a deadly game where I’m still somehow the prize.

“Gianna,” Luciano says, his gaze briefly flicking to mine, heartbreak etched across his face. “I’m sorry.”

The apology tears at something inside me, and fresh sobs claw at my throat. I see regret swimming in the dark depths of his eyes, fury at himself for hurting me, for not protecting me. And I see something else there, too—desperate, clinging hope and love.

“Put the gun down,” Luciano orders, his voice quiet but steady and unwavering.

Giovanni scoffs. “You really want to risk me calling your bluff?” He cocks the hammer. The metallic click reverberates in my skull, sending a bolt of terror through every nerve in my body. My father’s smile is a predator’s grin. “I think not.”

Luciano’s hand tightens around his weapon. I see him weigh the odds, see the anguish in his eyes as he debates whether to fire. If he shoots, there’s a chance my father’s reflex will be to pull the trigger. If he doesn’t shoot, I’m dead anyway. My father’s set on it. Luciano’s gaze oscillates between my father and the barrel pressed against my forehead, calculations racing behind his expression.

I’m choking on sobs, tears blurring my vision until the room becomes nothing but smudges of gray and shadow. This is the end. The cold metal against my skin feels like the final period of a life sentence cut short. My father has me pinned. And unless a miracle happens in the next heartbeat, I’m about to die without knowing if I’m pregnant or if Luciano and I would’ve been able to build something real between us. My last thought will be of possibilities extinguished before they had a chance to ignite.

My father’s finger tightens. I see the tendon in his hand move. He’s going to pull the trigger.

Everything in me seizes. A silent scream thunders in my skull. I clench my eyes shut, bracing for death.

Then Luciano lunges. Time explodes. The lamp on the bedside table rattles and falls to the ground. I hear a roar—Luciano’s or mine, I’m not sure. The muzzle at my forehead jerks away. A shot detonates with a deafening crack, the sound reverberating through the small room and making my ears ring.

I’m blinded by panic and the flash of gunfire. My father’s weight crashes into the bed, and I scramble, half-falling off the mattress. A chunk of plaster breaks from the ceiling. Another shot blasts. I scream, curling into myself. The smell of burned gunpowder sears my nostrils.

Luciano is shouting something guttural and enraged. My vision spins, and for a second, all I see are silhouettes battling for control of the gun. The muzzle points wildly in different directions, threatening to kill either me or the men locked in that fight. My heart is in my throat; I can’t breathe. Red rains down on the bedspread, but I can’t tell who’s bleeding.

A third shot explodes, muffled like I’m underwater. I feel the hot rush of adrenaline flooding my veins, my limbs tingling. In the dimness, I see them grappling. Giovanni tries to elbow Luciano in the ribs, but Luciano ducks, smashing the butt of his gun against my father’s wrist. “You branded me like a fucking animal. You tried to tear my family apart. And now you tried to kill my wife?”

Giovanni just chuckles. “I’d do it again.”

I see Luciano’s jaw tighten. In his eyes, I see every shred of restraint fraying, the line between reason and revenge dissolving. My father’s glare dares him to pull the trigger.

Then there’s a flurry of motion—my father launches for his discarded gun or maybe for the door. Everything blurs, and a strangled cry escapes my throat. This is it, the final flashpoint. He’ll kill me, or Luciano will kill him, or we’ll all die here. The motel walls seem to close in, and I can’t breathe…

A shot rings out again.

I scream, covering my ears. The cord of the lamp snaps, and sparks dance across the floor. Fire begins to consume the carpet as the world stands still. No one moves, no one breathes. My entire body shakes, waiting to see who’s been hit, who’s alive, who’s dead, who’s injured.

I hear ragged breathing. Luciano stands, gun raised. My father is on the floor, unmoving. Blood seeps across the cheap carpet, a grotesque bloom of darkness. I can’t tear my eyes away from it. My head spins. My stomach lurches. Is he dead?

Luciano staggers backward, gasping for breath. I crawl off the bed, knees scraping the floor. My throat is so tight I can’t speak. My father’s hand twitches once, twice. A cough rattles from his chest—he’s alive but injured. Moaning, he tries to drag himself toward his gun. A whimper tears from my throat.

Luciano aims again. “Don’t move, Lucatello.”

Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder with every second. Someone must have heard the gunshots. The air vibrates with an oncoming storm of police lights and chaos. Panic claws at my chest. What do we do? How do we survive this?

But as the sirens close in, all I can think is that I’m alive. My father was inches from pulling the trigger, from murdering me for no other reason than to destroy Luciano. The horror of it, the heartbreak, tears my insides to shreds. I realize I’m sobbing so violently I can’t catch a full breath.

Luciano approaches, and his warm hand rests on my back, tentative but firm. I look up, and his expression is hollowed out by guilt, rage, and desperate relief. His lips part—maybe he wants to ask if I’m okay or say something to break the horror of this moment—but no words emerge. Then he pulls me in, cradling me against his chest, trembling almost as violently as I am.

Only when my cheek touches his shirt do I feel the sticky warmth spreading across his torso. My eyes flick down in shock—blood. A dark stain blossoms at his midsection, growing with each breath. My throat constricts, and panic seizes me all over again.

“You’re hurt,” I rasp, voice shredded. I press my palm uselessly against the wound, my fingers slipping on slick warmth. Luciano winces but doesn’t push me away. He just tightens his grip around my shoulders, his face pale and eyes heavy.

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