Page 20 of Charming Villain
She lies there curled up, her breathing slow and steady, her dark hair spilling across the pillow. She looks almost peaceful—lips parted slightly, lashes resting against her cheeks. There’s an ache in my chest when I see her like this. Part of me bristles:She shouldn’t be this calm in my presence.Another part hisses:She’s not calm, you fool. She’s just exhausted.
I push myself upright, forcing the sheet aside. The scar on my chest twinges faintly, a phantom pain that reminds me of Giovanni Lucatello. It’s a memory I can’t erase, a reminder that I have vowed to exact my pound of flesh from the Lucatellos. Gianna is the perfect vantage point for that revenge. So why does looking at her make me uneasy?
I exhale, glancing again at her sleeping form.She’s still guilty by association.She’s a Lucatello, the blood of Giovanni himself.I won’t let her innocence fool me.Not again.
Slipping out of bed, I head for the bathroom. The house is cool, the early morning light painting long shadows on the hardwood floors. As I pass the mirror, I catch sight of my reflection—eyes shadowed, jaw set in a grim line.This is what vengeance looks like?
The shower sputters to life, steam swirling around the room as I step under the spray. I tilt my head back and let the hot water cascade down my neck and shoulders. I want to clear my mind, but Gianna’s face intrudes unbidden: the wary set of her eyes last night, the tremble in her arms as she hauled her suitcases all over the house. I didn’t offer to help. It was a small punishment, but a punishment nonetheless.
I clench my teeth.Why do I feel guilty?Giovanni never paid for what he did to me, for the nights I woke in a cold sweat, re-living the branding iron slicing into my chest. Shouldn’t I remind him that actions have consequences? That if he thought he could scar me and walk away unscathed, he was sorely mistaken?
But all that talk of revenge hasn’t quieted the conflict inside my head, especially when my target is a woman who had no part in that night’s cruelty beyond sharing Giovanni’s DNA. The rational part of me knows she’s innocent, just another pawn caught in the crossfire of her father’s sins. Yet here I am, letting her suffer, telling myself it’s justice when really it’s just spite wearing a thinner mask than usual.
I scrub shampoo through my hair, water sluicing over my body as steam fills the shower stall.Don’t overthink this, Lucky. Stick to the plan.I’ll keep her close, break her, and watch Giovanni squirm with helplessness as he realizes there’s nothing he can do to save his daughter. But... the threat feels hollow, especially after hearing the quiet acceptance in her voice last night when I told her she’d be sleeping on the floor. She didn’t argue. She didn’t even flare with indignation. Gianna just accepted her fate with a resignation that made something uncomfortable twist in my gut.
Shutting off the water, I towel myself dry. My mind churns. Gianna’s done nothing to mepersonally, but the Lucatello name is enough to damn her, right?She’s guilty by birth.The logic echoes in my head, but a pang of doubt tugs at me.
I can’t waver now.If I let my resolve slip, Giovanni wins. He’ll see me falter, see that the brand he left on me still bleeds into my spirit. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
The moment I open the bathroom door, my breath catches. Gianna stands with her back to me, rummaging through one of her suitcases. She’s wearing a pair of simple cotton panties. Morning light filters in through the window, casting her figure in soft relief. My pulse jolts at the elegant curve of her spine, the subtle dip at her waist, and the gentle slope of her hips.
Heat floods through me, a primal reaction I can’t quite ignore. A savage hunger coils in my gut—she’s mine.She’s supposed to be my revenge, my trophy, but right now, all I can think about is the glorious shape of her body and how her hair tumbles down her shoulders. I swallow hard. My cock stiffens, straining against the towel I wrapped around my waist. I hate how quickly my body reacts to her, how easily she stirs this need in me.
Before I can move or speak, she grabs a simple sundress from the suitcase and pulls it over her head, the fabric sliding down her slender frame until all that creamy skin disappears. I realize my hands are clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as if physically restraining myself from walking over and pressing her to the bed, from tasting every inch of the body I just glimpsed.
Get a grip.Clearing my throat, I step forward. The sound startles her. Gianna spins around, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise. For a split second, embarrassment flickers across her face. Then her expression locks down, composure snapping into place.
My voice comes out sharper than I intend, an attempt to hide my arousal. “Go make me coffee. This time with cream and sugar. Understood?” The words crack like a whip through the room.
She nods quickly, eyes lowering to the floor. “Yes.” Her cheeks still retain the faintest hint of color from being caught nearly naked, the delicate pink flush making her look even more alluring. I watch her slip past me, careful to maintain distance between our bodies. Still, the scent of her drifts through the air anyway—a light, feminine fragrance mixed with something uniquelyher.
I inhale, struggling to subdue the desire thrumming in my veins. Gianna is beautiful, yes, but that beauty is part of the weapon I can use—and also the weapon that can undo me. If I let lust cloud my judgment, I lose the war I’m waging.
Summoning every ounce of discipline, I force myself not to follow her. Instead, I get dressed for the day, frustrated that I have to coerce my hard member into uncomfortable jeans.
By the time I step into the kitchen, she has the coffee machine humming, carefully measuring sugar and creamer. My gaze skims the line of her shoulders, and I find my thoughts turning lewd.Focus.I lean against the counter and force a neutral expression onto my face.
She hands me the mug, our fingers brushing for the briefest moment. I take a sip and let the warmth steal away all my thoughts of her. It’s good—sweet without being cloying, the creamer swirling in gentle ribbons of light brown against the darker coffee. I nod appreciatively, setting it aside on the counter. Gianna stands there, uncertain, shifting her weight from one foot to the other like she’s waiting for more commands.
I let out a short sigh, rolling my eyes. “You can make your own coffee. Or tea. Or water. Whatever you want. I’m not chaining you to a radiator.”
She blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. I can almost hear her unspoken question:You’re giving me freedom?She’s used to living under stricter watch, I suppose. Her days were probably meticulously planned; every minute accounted for, every movement scrutinized and judged against some impossible standard of perfection. The thought sets my teeth on edge. I’ve seen enough of Giovanni’s handiwork to know how he operates.
I lift my chin, trying to mask the hint of frustration that rears when I think about Giovanni. “You’ll have more freedom here than you did with your father. When I go out, you’ll stay here—no bodyguards, no locks. I’ll expect you to manage the house. Clean up. Make dinner. Keep things in order. The usual.” Like a maid and a cook, I realize, and the thought sits uncomfortably in my stomach.
It occurs to me for a moment that she may want to do something else with her life, something more fulfilling. A career, maybe, or school—normal things that young women her age typically pursue. But I don’t know what those things would be. I don’t know if she has any skills beyond what her father deemed necessary for his perfect daughter to possess.We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.For now, this arrangement will have to do.
Gianna hesitates, hand fidgeting near the countertop. “You’re trusting me? Just like that?”
The wordtrusttastes bitter. “Don’t get it twisted. I’m not giving you permission to waltz out the front door and never come back. And I’ve got a security system in place. But I’m not Giovanni. I won’t keep you shackled to my side every second or busy with menial tasks.” Unless she upsets me…
Gratitude and relief muddle her features for a few moments; then, she schools her expression into nonchalance. She straightens her shoulders and lowers her eyes like a dutiful maid. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
I watch her for a beat, searching for any sign of deception. Gianna is good at hiding her emotions. But if she tries anything, if she attempts to run away, my security system will catch her. That’s the difference between Giovanni and me: I won’t rely on round-the-clock guards to force her into submission, but I’m no fool. She won’t disobey me because my freedom comes with strings.
“Why did you make me move in with you, then?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s a tremor of defiance in it. “You let me roam about the house freely, but you force me to sleep on the floor. Do you just enjoy inflicting pain on people?”
I feel a surge of anger but also something close to respect for her courage. She’s not cowering; she’s probing the edges of my control, testing me like a prisoner searching for weaknesses in their cell. “It’s not about enjoyment.”
