Page 33 of Kissing the Villain

Luca’s grandfather had built the house during the Prohibition days and made a ton of money bootlegging. Given their current business dealings, I assumed there were secret passages and other ways out of this prison on the sea. And I needed to find them.

I looked up at Pops. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

“Because Luca doesn’t have a choice.”

Wheels rolled across the blacktop, and Pops spun around to look at Marcello and his father.

Arlo closed the distance between us. “Welcome back to Devil’s Creek, Alexandrea.”

He was a powerful man and not someone I wanted to mess with. Arlo had ruined more than a few political campaigns with his precious secrets. The Salvatores collected secrets like they were Pokemon cards. They would dangle your darkest fears over your head like a carrot and torment you until they got what they wanted. If I didn’t obey Arlo’s orders, he would use his influence and connections to destroy my family.

I offered my hand to Arlo, and he raised it to his mouth, giving my skin a light peck. Arlo was handsome for a man in his late fifties, and his sons were the spitting image of him. I could imagine Arlo breaking a few hearts in his day. His dark hair was short on top with a hint of gray on the sides. He was the sameheight as his son, except Marcello had broader shoulders and arms.

“Marcello will help you settle into your room,” Arlo said in a calm, deep tone. “If you need anything, ask him.” His gaze shifted to my grandfather. “Carl, it’s late. You should go. We can discuss the union in the morning.”

Pops bent down to kiss my cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We can talk more over dinner.”

He walked into the house with Arlo. Marcello rolled my suitcases, and I moved to his side.

“So, I’m your new roommate?”

He nodded.

Entering the house from the back entrance, we moved through the halls decorated with fine art. The paintings were modern and tasteless, the complete opposite of what had once adorned the walls of their home.

“Where is your mother’s art?”

“Didn’t take you long to notice.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Marcello stopped when we reached a Tuscan-style entryway with a massive crystal chandelier. My grandfather was a billionaire, but I didn’t grow up with money. After my grandfather had cut my mother off, my parents could hardly pay the bills.

Marcello rested his dress shoe on the bottom step of a wide staircase. He glared at me, gripping the iron banister that had an interesting design. “Stop asking questions.”

“Just tell me,” I demanded, a little annoyed with his constant attempts to avoid me. “What happened to her paintings?”

“They’re on loan to a gallery.”

I rolled my eyes at the jerk. “Was that so hard, Lonely Boy?”

“Don’t call me that. My brother has failed to keep your pretty ass in line, but you won’t get over on me. So don’t even try.”

Marcello lifted my suitcases and ascended the stairs. At least a dozen doors spanned the corridor. A row of sconces cast a soft glow on the floor, illuminating the beautiful Brazilian walnut. The thick panels of wainscoting made it feel like the walls were closing in on me, draining the air from my lungs with each step I took toward my new life.

My eyes widened as I entered a room five times the average size of a bedroom with high ceilings and an ensuite bathroom. A four-poster bed sat at the center of the room, decorated in shades of gray, white, and black.

Marcello stood between French doors overlooking a patio with the best bay view. I moved beside him as the water crashed against the rocks. His hands slid to his waist, pushing his jacket to the side. Another reminder he carried not one but two guns, just like his older brother. For a businessman, you had to wonder why Luca always needed to carry weapons.

“Get in bed,” Marcello ordered.

“Then get out. I need privacy.”

He shook his head. “And risk you running away? Not a chance.”

I glared at him with so much hatred my skin burned. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can try, but you won’t reach the front door.” He grabbed my shoulder and steered me into the room. “It’s time for bed, princess.”

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