Page 1 of Rogue Villain

PROLOGUE

WREN

AGED 10

“Come with me,mia cara.”

My Uncle Anthony grips my elbow, steering me away from the graveside of my nonna and the handful of friends gathered to mourn her passing.

I glance back over my shoulder as my feet falter. My eyes easily find my mother’s pale blonde hair as she soundlessly echoes the words of the priest before Anthony’s body blocks her from my view.

“I told your mother the cemetery is no place for a child, but asalways, Sara does what she wants.”

Anthony rolls his eyes as he motions toward a scattering of daisies near the tree line at the farthest edge of the graveyard. His voice has softened considerably when he speaks again. “Why don’t you pick a bunch as your Nonna Julia’s parting gift while I bring the car closer to the gate?”

I nod softly, and then move off to kneel by the flowers. Before I’ve even plucked the first one from the ground, Anthony is marching directly toward our car parked outside the sprawling burial grounds in Brooklyn.

His actions are unsurprising. My uncle has hated funerals and public displays of emotion for as long as I can remember.

I’m surprised he came with me and Mom. I suppose he felt sorry that my nonna’s only son—my father, Lorenzo—isn’t here to mourn her passing like a good Italian son should.

My brows pucker at the thought.

It’s just not fair.

It’s not the first time those exact words have crossed my mind. Having never had a father due to a tragic accident my mother doesn’t speak of, I shouldn’t feel his loss as keenly as I do.

But Nonna Julia hadn’t let his memory die with him. She spoke of him often and usually in the same breath as her foster son, Vaughn, though Mom never joined in those conversations.

I smile gently, remembering the light on her face as she told me of the time that a clearly mischievous Vaughn had put chili oil in Dad’s underwear when he was going on his first date with Mom.

Mom had cracked a smile as Nonna relayed how he’d sat in an ice bath for hours afterward, even if it hadn’t found its way to her eyes.

Suddenly, movement to my left grabs my attention away from my handful of daisies.

I angle my neck to the side, where I spot a tall man dressed head to toe in black farther along the tree line, almost hidden from sight. He looks to be a part of the small group mourning the loss of my nonna, as his eyes are blatantly trained on each and every action by the graveside, his lips moving silently along with the other mourners, even with the distance between them.

He’s so involved in the priest’s homily that he doesn’t notice my approach until I’m almost beside him.

“What the f—” The deep cadence of his voice is the strangest accent I’ve ever heard.

It’s eerily soothing.

He draws back, surprise heavy on his features as I grin, delighted to have startled such an opposing man.

Now that I’m closer, I note that he’s easily the tallest man I’ve ever met. He towers over me, his black suit and shirt molded to his body as though painted onto him. His jet-black hair is slicked back from his face, the longer strands brushing the starched collar of his shirt with each movement he makes. His dark eyes are both haunted and homely, beckoning me to step closer despite the standoffishness emanating from his frame.

“Why are you over here?” My voice comes out more confident than I am, and I feel bolstered when one side of his mouth twitches before he catches himself.

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to speak to strangers?”

I purse my lips, my boldness soaring with my indignance. “Didn’t yours ever tell you if you’ve got nothing nice to say, then you should say nothing at all?”

The corners of his lips lift in a semblance of a smile before he tips his head. “Touché.”

I have no idea what he means by that, so I try again. “Why are you not with the other mourners?”

“Where elsewouldI be?” He quirks an inky brow in question.

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