Page 97 of Always A Villain
“Perfectly.”
Isaac nods. “Dismissed.”
I turn on my heel and stride out, the others moving with me. Our footsteps echo down the corridor as we head for the armory.
“We’re out in five,” I bark.
“I’ll get the plane ready,” Arsen says, already moving toward the elevators.
Griffen grabs gear, stuffing weapons and supplies into bags. More Sovereigns join us, silent in their loyalty. A nod here, a clenched fist there. This isn’t for me—this is Griff’s influence. I don’t go out of my way to make fucking friends.
Then I spot Spencer.
He has no fucking business here.
“Valentine,” I growl, pointing him out. “Get the fuck out.”
“Axe, just let me explain?—”
“I said,get out.”
Spencer steps closer, jaw twitching. “Listen to me. All these years, she’s tried to tell me who my father really is, and I didn’t believe her. I ignored every warning, every sign. When she needed me most, I did nothing. I just fucking sat there… If she dies out there...all she’ll remember is that I abandoned her. I can’t live with that. I won’t.”
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but something in his face stops me.
I know what he means to her. How much it wrecked her when he chose Conrad.
“Fine,” I grit out. “But you follow my orders, or I’ll fucking kill you myself.” I turn to Creed, voice like iron. “Both of you. Follow my lead.”
They nod, ready for bloodshed.
“Gear up. We’re moving.”
Kane is at my side, his hackles raised.
Arsen claps a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s get your girl.”
It’s been a week since I landed in Italy, though it feels like one hazy, endless day. Antonio’s been tight-lipped about details, but he did confirm one thing—the wedding’s soon. A pit forms in my chest, anger prickling at the edges of my grief. I shove the feeling down, holding on to one hope—Axe.
I tell myself he’s out there, that he’ll come. Hehasto come.
I’ve dreamed about Italy for years, but not like this, locked away in some sprawling villa high on a hillside. Fear bites at me, threatening to unravel what little composure I have left.
“Are you ready?” a tall, blonde woman in a maid’s uniform asks from the doorway.
“Ready for what?”
“Your hair appointment, Miss. Mr. DeLuca has arranged for a stylist to prepare you for tonight.” Her voice is soft, careful.
I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m assuming I don’t have a choice?”
“No, Miss. Please, come with me.”
With a sigh, I follow her through endless marble hallways and out into some gaudy bathroom that could be a movie set. A swarm of stylists waits for me, all with their tools and overdone smiles. I sink into the plush chair.
The head stylist rests a hand on my shoulder. “We’re here to make you look beautiful, Miss. Tonight is very important. We want you to feel perfect.”
“Important? For what?”
