Page 22 of Beautiful Villain
The car with blacked out windows glided through the cobblestone streets noiselessly.
Enzo drove with the calm confidence of a man who had never once questioned a speed limit, while Larry sat up front beside him, legs spread, elbow out the window like this was a road trip and not an errand to get me dressed.
I watched the world pass by in silence, the weight of it pressed too hard on my chest.
Gianni leaned back in his seat, expression unreadable.
Outside, Montalcino unfolded like a postcard someone had exaggerated for effect.
“I’ve never been to this part of Tuscany before,” I said.
Golden stone buildings climbed the hills in quiet defiance of gravity.Terracotta roofs baked under the sun, glowing warm and ancient.Vineyards stretched endlessly across rolling hills, rows so precise they looked deliberate—like chaos had been carefully edited out of the landscape.
Cypress trees stood tall and dark, lining the roads like solemn sentinels, while olive groves shimmered silver-green in the breeze.Everything smelled faintly of sun-warmed earth and something floral I didn’t have a word for but desperately wanted to bottle and keep beside me.
It was unfair, really.That a place could be this beautiful while my life was actively on fire.
The car slowed, then eased to a stop in front of a boutique so understated it practically dared you to underestimate it.It had a stone façade and tall windows.Mannequins were dressed in effortless, expensive attire.
Gianni glanced at it, then at me.“You said you wanted to choose.”
I swallowed, suddenly aware of the the borrowed shirt I was wearing, the bruises beneath it, and the fact that Gianni had never done anything to deserve being dragged into my mess.
“Well,” I said, opening the door as Enzo stepped out to assist, “if I’m going to be hunted by a Russian psychopath, I’d at least like to look appropriate for the occasion.”
A hint of amusement flickered across Gianni’s face
And for the first time since leaving the house, I felt almost—almost—like myself again.
No one could ever accuseGianni—last name still conspicuously absent—of being a cheapskate.
I, on the other hand, approached the situation like a woman who had spent most of her adult life comparing price tags and convincing herself she didn’tneedthings.I picked out a few pairs of sensible boyfriend jeans—nothing tight, and nothing that clung.Just structured enough to behave, forgiving enough not to announce my hips before I did.Then came the T-shirts.Plain.Neutral.Long enough to skim past my thighs, loose enough to blur the outline of my chest instead of advertising it.
I avoided mirrors while I worked.I knew what I’d see if I didn’t.Hips that felt too wide for narrow aisles and polite expectations.A chest that never seemed to fit the buttons it was given.Thighs that touched no matter how much space I tried to leave between them, like they refused to pretend otherwise.
Clothes, for me, had always been less about style and more about negotiation.What I could hide and soften.What I could pass off as…passable.
When I was done, I stepped back and surveyed the pile.Efficient.Minimal.Sensible.And I was proud of myself, because the items would let me move through the world without feeling like I took up more space than I was allowed.
Gianni responded by treating my restraint like a personal challenge.
While I headed to the change room to try my selected clothes on, he calmly dismantled my entire plan.He murmured requests to the saleslady—quiet, decisive, impossible to interrupt—and within minutes she’d opened a second change room, then a third, like she was preparing for an emergency evacuation.
By the time I emerged in my third outfit, the pile outside my door had grown into something that required structural support.
Jeans.Dresses.Shoes in boxes stacked like bricks.Boots I hadn’t asked for but secretly loved.Sets of underwear I absolutelyhadnot requested, and loungewear—plural—because I’d muttered something about liking comfort over style and he’d taken that as a mission statement.Handbags appeared next, chosen by Gianni with unsettling confidence, like he’d been accessorising women his entire life and this was merely a long hiatus.
I tried to argue.
Once.
“It’s too much,” I said, waving a helpless hand at the growing pile now threatening to block the exit.“I couldn’t wear this many clothes in a lifetime.Even if I made it my full-time job.”
He glanced at the stack.Then at me.Calm.Unmoved.Like this was basic math and I was the one struggling with it.
“No,” he said.“It isn’t.”
And that was the end of the discussion.
